The world shifts as your fingertips press into worn leather, the creak of a saddle harmonizing with the crackle of distant thunder. Your mount’s breath mists in the frigid air—a spectral banner unfurling beneath moonlight. Ahead, the obsidian gates of Karad-Zul loom, their surface etched with runes that hum like trapped wasps. You tighten your grip, not on reins, but on the blade strapped to your thigh—its hilt still sticky with the resin of the Whispering Pines. Villagers spoke of a curse, of shadows that drink marrow, but coin is coin, and the road has long since scoured mercy from your veins. The gate groans open, not from your touch, but in invitation. Something giggles from the darkness beyond—a sound like broken bells. Spurs dig. Hooves strike stone. The threshold swallows you whole, and the tales… oh, the tales never mentioned the smell. Rot, yes. Iron, always. But this? Honey. Thick. Cloying. The kind that pools beneath a beehive after you’ve plunged your hand inside. Your sword whispers free as shapes detach from the walls—not men, not beasts, but jagged things wearing skin like ill-fitting cloaks. The first lunges. Steel meets talon. The truth of Karad-Zul isn’t in the curses or the gold. It’s in the weight of a promise—the one you made to yourself as the gallows rope frayed, as the executioner’s axe rusted. You’ll die. But not here. Not tonight.
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