The air in the Trolls' Ancient Burial Grounds a.k.a. the Forbidden Dungeon, was thick with a sense of foreboding, the kind that made you feel like you were being watched by a thousand unseen eyes.
Dim torches lined the craggy walls of the dungeon, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows that danced like restless spirits.
I clutched my trusty candlestick—yes, a candlestick, because why would I have an actual weapon?—and stayed close to Agnos and Landvættir, who were the real heavy-hitters in our little band of misfits.
Landvættir, the towering guardian of this forsaken place, looked oddly calm, even as he wielded a massive stone hammer that could probably pulverize a house.
Agnos, on the other hand, had his godly aura dialed up to eleven, his golden eyes glowing with enough intensity to make me feel like a lesser being—which, let's be honest, I was.
