The winds of Vranholm carried the scent of decay. Once a jewel of the eastern realms, the city had become a graveyard of hollowed stone and crumbling towers. Darkness hung in the air, a palpable force that made every breath feel heavy with despair.
Aleron stood on the ridge overlooking the ruined kingdom, his eyes scanning the desolation below. His jaw clenched as he took in the sight of the great gates—broken and rusted, with the banners of old kings torn and flapping like dying embers in the breeze.
"This place… it feels wrong," Kael murmured, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. The sigil on his palm pulsed faintly, reacting to the Void's presence that clung to the very stones of the earth.
"Vranholm was consumed by its own ambition," Seraphina said, her voice somber. "A kingdom built on power without restraint. Its rulers sought immortality in the wrong places."
Aidan, ever the pragmatist, tightened the strap on his quiver. "And now we're walking into its graveyard. Fantastic."
Jareth smirked, spinning his dagger between his fingers. "Think of it this way—there's no one left to betray us. Just shadows and corpses."
As they descended into the ruins, the temperature seemed to drop with each step. The streets, once paved with marble, were now cracked and overgrown with blackened roots. Statues of forgotten kings lay shattered, their faces eroded by time and neglect.
Kael felt his chest tighten with unease. The darkness here was different—thicker, alive with intent. He could feel it watching, waiting.
"This place reeks of the Void," he muttered.
"That's because it's still here," Aleron said grimly, drawing his sword. "Stay close. We don't know what's waiting."
They moved cautiously through the ruins, every sound magnified in the silence. The creak of leather, the scrape of boots on stone—it all seemed to echo as though the city itself were whispering secrets.
Suddenly, a low growl reverberated from the shadows.
Aidan raised his bow, an arrow nocked and ready. "Something's here."
From the darkness, figures began to emerge—wraiths of the Void, their forms half-shadow, half-corpse. Their eyes burned with crimson light, and their clawed hands dripped with dark energy.
"They're protecting something," Aleron said, his voice calm but firm.
"The fragment," Kael whispered, feeling the sigil burn hotter on his palm.
Without another word, the wraiths attacked.