The wind howled through the broken spires of Velrath, whispering tales of a forgotten kingdom swallowed by time and something darker still. Cracked statues stared with blind eyes, their faces eroded beyond recognition. Vines choked the buildings, nature's cruel reclaiming. But beneath the surface, Rael felt something unnatural… watching.
"This place reeks of death," Mira muttered, drawing her dagger.
Rael stepped forward, his boots crunching over bones too old to be from the missing scouts. "No… it's more than death. It's hunger."
Darius raised his axe. "Eyes open. Weapons ready. We're not alone."
They advanced through twisted streets and shattered halls, the stone blackened as if burned from within. As they reached what must've once been Velrath's central plaza, the air shifted.
The sky dimmed.
The sun—still shining just moments before—now looked… distant.
"Rael…" Mira's voice trembled.
He turned—and froze.
At the edge of the plaza stood a scout. At least, what was left of one.
The man's armor was fused to his flesh, eyes hollow, skin pale and veined with black tendrils. And he smiled—wide, too wide.
"They… said you'd come," the corpse rasped. "The Whispering One waits beneath…"
Before they could react, the earth cracked. Black ichor burst from the ground like a geyser, swallowing the scout in a shriek. From the rupture crawled something—its form fluid, tendrils lashing, eyes blinking across its skin.
Rael's mark burned.
The abyss within him stirred, eager.
He stepped forward, shadows coiling at his fingertips. "Then let it begin."