The days that followed the battle at the Abyssal Spire were spent in quiet, contemplative travel. The group had left the Spire far behind, the ruins now just another shadow in the past. Their journey led them across barren landscapes, through dense forests, and over rugged hills. The road ahead was not easy, and they knew that the fight was far from over. The cultists may have been defeated, but the forces of darkness still lurked in the corners of the world.
But for Caelum, the battle was not only external. It was internal, a constant war within himself between the man he once was and the dark power he was becoming. Every step he took seemed to lead him further down a path he didn't want to walk. The sword, that damnable weapon, never left his side. It pulsed with a life of its own, its magic thrumming like a heartbeat, and Caelum could feel its call deep in his bones.
Lyra and Alara kept their distance, though they were never far. They gave him space, understanding the weight of the struggle he faced. But they couldn't hide their concern, especially as the days wore on, and the curse seemed to sink deeper into Caelum's soul. His movements were sharper, more mechanical. His eyes seemed darker. The man they had known was fading, replaced by something colder.
It was in the dead of night, while the others slept, that Caelum could no longer ignore the sword's pull. He wandered away from their camp, drawn toward the mountains on the horizon. It was there, at the edge of the world, that he hoped to find answers.