The lair was nestled deep in the craggy underbelly of the Ironfang Mountains, a structure that seemed unimpressive at first glance—a small, shadowed cave hidden by jagged rocks. But to those who dared to approach uninvited, it revealed its true nature: a fortress of deadly traps, enchanted wards, and secrets that could strip the soul.
Inside, in a dimly lit chamber, Drystan paced impatiently. The sparse furnishings—an intricately carved chair, a heavy oak table, and a wine goblet perched precariously on the edge—spoke more to his utilitarian nature than a lack of resources. The lair was his refuge, but its walls felt especially close tonight.
A soft shuffle of boots broke the silence. Drystan turned toward the entrance, his sharp gaze catching the figure of a man stepping out of the shadows.
