Kelvin moved along the narrow path with his boots sinking into the damp shale, each step was a jolt of pain that passed through his bruised ribs.
His staff was held tightly in his trembling hand which pulsed faintly with fire runes and their glow was dimmed by exhaustion.
The flame-carved pendant around his neck was a symbol of their triumphs at Shadowfen, Crags, Wastes, Hollow, and now the Peaks' rift, but the cloaked figure's glowing runes and silent acknowledgment gnawed at him, a cold dread that twisted like a knife in his chest.
The Veil's whispers lingered faintly but it was persistent, promising failure, sowing seeds of doubt that rooted deeper with every step.
Xerion, the End-Tyrant, was moving beside him, his massive serpentine form was a cascade of crimson and gold scales that shimmered weakly in the fading light.
