The sun was low in the sky as Arion, Lirael, and Thalric rode out of Lysander’s underground sanctum. The horses moved swiftly over the rough terrain, their hooves kicking up dust as they galloped along the old forest road. Silence hung over the group, broken only by the occasional rustling of wind through the trees and the distant calls of birds.

The weight of their mission pressed heavily on Arion’s shoulders. The rift at Darrow’s Reach wasn’t just another tear in reality—it was a gateway, deliberately crafted by the Shadow King. The implications were terrifying. This was no longer a matter of closing one rift after another. It was a war for control over the very fabric of the world.

Arion kept his gaze forward, his mind racing with thoughts of what awaited them. He could feel the Blade of Ra’zien pulsing faintly at his side, as if the sword itself knew the danger ahead.

Lirael rode beside him, her eyes scanning the horizon for signs of trouble. She was always calm, always composed, but Arion had spent enough time with her to know that she, too, felt the gravity of their mission.

Thalric led the group, his eyes occasionally flicking back to check on them. His old, battle-hardened face was unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes. He knew what they were heading into. They all did.

After several hours of riding, they reached a narrow pass between two towering cliffs, the jagged rocks casting long shadows across the path. The road beyond the pass would lead them directly toward Darrow’s Reach, but Arion could already feel the air growing heavier with the taint of magic. They were getting close.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Thalric said, slowing his horse and dismounting. “We need to conserve our strength. The journey ahead will be difficult.”

Arion and Lirael followed suit, tying their horses to a nearby tree and setting up a small camp beneath the cliffs. The sun had almost set, and the sky was a deep shade of purple, the stars just beginning to twinkle above them.

As they gathered around a small fire, Lirael broke the silence. “The closer we get to the rift, the more dangerous it’ll be. The creatures coming through will sense us, especially if they know we’re trying to destroy the gateway.”

Thalric nodded, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “The Shadow King’s forces are not mindless beasts. They’re organized, intelligent, and ruthless. We’ll need to be prepared for anything.”

Arion glanced at the Blade of Ra’zien, its dark surface gleaming faintly in the firelight. He had felt its power growing stronger as they approached the rift, almost as if it were drawn to the dark magic emanating from the gateway.

“What exactly do we know about the anchor?” Arion asked, breaking his silence. “If it’s the key to destroying the rift, we need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Thalric’s brow furrowed as he stared into the fire. “The anchor is a conduit—a physical manifestation of the magic that binds the rift to this world. It could be anything: a stone, a crystal, a relic from the Abyss. The Shadow King would have placed it at the heart of the rift to keep the gateway open.”

“And it’ll be guarded,” Lirael added. “He won’t leave something that important unprotected.”

Arion’s mind raced as he tried to picture what the anchor might look like. Whatever it was, it had to be destroyed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than just breaking an object. The Shadow King was too cunning to rely on something so simple.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Thalric said, his tone reassuring. “For now, we rest. We’ll need all our strength for what’s to come.”

Arion nodded, though rest felt like a distant luxury. He lay down near the fire, staring up at the stars as they flickered against the vast, dark sky. His thoughts drifted to the village he had left behind, to the people who had been lost to the rifts. Every day, more lives were being torn apart by the chaos. And now, the Shadow King’s hand was behind it all.

As the fire crackled softly and the cool night air settled around them, Arion closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But his dreams were filled with darkness.

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The morning came too quickly, and with it, a tense sense of anticipation. They broke camp at first light, mounting their horses and continuing their journey toward Darrow’s Reach. The forest thinned as they rode, and soon the jagged cliffs and rocky terrain gave way to rolling hills. In the distance, the silhouette of Darrow’s Reach appeared, its once-great towers now crumbling and overgrown.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, and Arion could feel the rift’s magic like a physical weight pressing down on him. The ground beneath them felt unstable, as if reality itself was warping and shifting with every step they took.

As they approached the outskirts of the city, they dismounted, tying their horses to a tree hidden behind a hill. The ruins of Darrow’s Reach loomed before them, silent and foreboding. The buildings were crumbling, their walls cracked and covered in vines. But there was no mistaking the dark energy pulsing from the center of the city.

“The rift is close,” Lirael said, her voice low as she surveyed the desolate landscape. “We should move on foot from here. Stay low, stay quiet.”

Arion gripped the hilt of the Blade of Ra’zien, feeling the dark power within it hum to life. They moved swiftly and silently through the ruins, their eyes scanning for any signs of movement. The streets were eerily empty, the once-bustling city now nothing more than a ghostly remnant of its former self.

As they approached the city’s center, the ground began to tremble. A low, guttural growl echoed through the air, sending a shiver down Arion’s spine.

“They know we’re here,” Thalric whispered.

Lirael motioned for them to stop. They crouched behind a collapsed wall, peering out at the city square ahead of them. There, in the center of the square, was the rift—a swirling vortex of dark energy, crackling with power. The air around it shimmered with distortion, warping the buildings and trees that stood too close.

And standing between them and the rift was an army.

Dozens of creatures emerged from the shadows—hulking, twisted beasts with glowing red eyes and dark, leathery skin. Their snarls echoed through the square as they prowled around the rift, their eyes scanning the ruins.

At the heart of the rift, barely visible through the swirling magic, was a stone pedestal. And on that pedestal, glowing with an eerie light, was the anchor.

“There it is,” Lirael whispered. “The anchor.”

Arion’s heart raced as he studied the scene before them. There were too many creatures to fight head-on, and the rift’s magic was distorting reality, making it difficult to focus. But they had no choice. The anchor had to be destroyed.

“How do we get to it?” Arion asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thalric narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the creatures. “We’ll need a distraction. If we can draw some of them away from the rift, you might have a chance to get close.”

Arion nodded, his hand tightening around the hilt of the blade. “I’ll take care of the anchor. You just keep them off me.”

Lirael placed a hand on his shoulder, her eyes serious. “Be careful, Arion. Once you’re in there, the rift’s magic will make it difficult to get out. We don’t know what’ll happen when the anchor is destroyed.”

“I know,” Arion said, meeting her gaze. “But we don’t have a choice.”

With a deep breath, he drew the Blade of Ra’zien. The runes along its surface flared to life, pulsing with dark energy. He could feel the power coursing through him, mingling with his own magic, and for a moment, the weight of the Abyss seemed almost bearable.

Thalric and Lirael nodded, their expressions steeling for the battle ahead.

It was time to face the Shadow King’s forces.