The journey to the southern swamps was fraught with danger. The roads were littered with signs of war—burned-out villages, refugees fleeing the growing darkness, and cultists spreading terror wherever they went.
As they approached the swamp, the air grew thick and oppressive, the ground turning to sludge beneath their boots. A strange mist clung to the landscape, muffling sounds and distorting shapes.
"This place gives me the creeps," Lyra muttered, her dagger drawn.
Caelum scanned the area, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The blade pulsed faintly, its whispers blending with the eerie hum of the swamp. "Stay alert. We don't know what's out here."
As they ventured deeper, they encountered strange creatures—shadowed wolves with glowing eyes, serpents that slithered through the mist, and will-o'-the-wisps that seemed to lure them off their path.
But the true danger came at night.
While they camped on a patch of dry ground, the whispers in the sword grew louder, more insistent. Caelum found himself drawn to the blade, unable to sleep as its voice filled his mind.
"You can end this suffering," the sword hissed. "The shard is close, but you will never claim it without me. Use my power—unleash the darkness, and the light will bow to you."
"Shut up," Caelum muttered, gripping his head.
Lyra stirred, noticing his distress. "You okay?"
Caelum hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just the sword… it's getting louder."
Lyra frowned. "You're not going to let it control you, are you?"
"No," Caelum said firmly, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself.