After escaping the Tanglewood Forest, the group pressed onward, their journey taking them into the heart of a land known for its treacherous beauty—the Wailing Cliffs. They first heard the cliffs before they saw them.
A deep, sorrowful howl carried on the wind, rolling over the plains like a ghostly lament. It was not the sound of the ocean crashing against stone, nor the call of any living creature. It was something else—something ancient.
"This place is cursed," Gorim grumbled, gripping his hammer tightly.
Khaltar spat onto the rocky ground. "Sounds like the dead aren't resting."
Jhon felt it too. There was a weight in the air, like the very stones beneath their feet held memories of suffering. Yet, this was the only path to the coast—the only way to Sol-Minora.
As they crested the final ridge, the cliffs revealed themselves. A sheer drop stretched thousands of feet down, where jagged rocks jutted from the mist-covered sea below. The cliffs themselves were not barren—they were carved. Faces, twisted in agony, lined the stone walls, their mouths open in eternal screams. Some were faded with age, others as sharp as if they had been carved yesterday.
Arianne shivered. "Who did this?"
Rahotep, ever the storyteller, gazed upon the cliffs with reverence. "Not who… what."
He pointed to the highest peak, where a single, enormous face loomed over the rest—a woman's face, her stone eyes hollow, her lips parted as if caught mid-scream.
"This is the Lady of Sorrows," Rahotep explained. "The old stories say she was once a goddess, weeping for the fallen warriors of the world. Her grief was so great, the cliffs themselves took her likeness. And so, the wind still carries her sorrow."
Nadra folded her arms. "Sounds poetic. But what if it's not just a story?"
The wind wailed again, rising and falling like a chorus of voices. Sayf frowned. "We should keep moving."
Traversing the Wailing Cliffs was no easy task. The path was narrow, winding along the precipice, where one misstep meant a sheer drop to the merciless sea below.
The wind only grew stronger as they moved, tearing at their cloaks, pushing them toward the edge. It did not feel like mere weather—it felt like hands, unseen but very real. "Something doesn't want us here," Varnic muttered.
They pressed on, the whispers of the cliffs growing clearer. At first, it was only the howling wind, but soon, words began to take shape in the gusts.
"Turn back…"
"The sea is not kind…"
"Death walks beside you…"
Jhon clenched his jaw. He would not be frightened by phantoms. Then the ground shifted beneath them. A deep rumble echoed through the cliffs. The path cracked. "Move!" Jhon shouted.
They ran as the stone beneath them began to crumble, pieces tumbling into the abyss below. Nadra barely leaped across a widening gap, Khaltar grabbing her arm and pulling her forward.
Then came a scream—Arianne's. She had slipped. Her fingers clung desperately to the crumbling ledge, her legs dangling over the void.
"Hold on!" Rahotep was already reaching for her. The wind howled louder, as if trying to pull her away. Jhon dove forward, catching Arianne's wrist just as her grip gave out. He gritted his teeth, pulling with everything he had. Sayf grabbed his other arm, then Khaltar, until finally, they hauled her back onto solid ground.
Panting, Arianne collapsed into Jhon's chest. "That wasn't just wind," she gasped.
He looked up at the towering Lady of Sorrows, her stone face unchanged, yet watching. "No," he murmured. "It wasn't."
The cliffs were not done with them. As night fell, they made camp in a hollow where the wind could not reach. But sleep did not come easily. Jhon woke to a whisper. Not the wind. Something closer. He opened his eyes—and saw them.
Figures stood at the edge of their camp—pale, translucent, their hollow eyes filled with sorrow. Warriors in ancient armor, their blades broken, their bodies still bearing the wounds of their final battles. Ghosts of the fallen.
Varnic bolted upright. "Spirits," he choked. "They're real."
The ghosts did not attack. They watched. Waiting.
Jhon swallowed hard. "What do you want?"
One of the specters stepped forward—a woman clad in rusted chainmail, her face frozen in anguish. When she spoke, her voice was the wind itself.
"Remember us."
Then, as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. The wind carried one final whisper—not a warning, but a plea.
"Do not forget."
At dawn, the group did not speak of what they saw. Some things were better left unspoken.
The cliffs still loomed over them, but the wind had softened. The path became more stable, leading downward toward the coast beneath the cliffs. And then—finally—they saw it.
Beyond a natural stone archway carved by the tides, lay before them.
A bustling seaside haven, its golden lights flickered against the rising sun, ships docked in the harbor, and the distant smell of salt and spices filled the air.
The Wailing Cliffs had tried to turn them back—but they had made it. As they walked through the stone gate into the town, Jhon exhaled deeply. The dead would not be forgotten. But the living had a journey to finish.
Leaving the haunting Wailing Cliffs and the bustling coastal town behind, the journey to the Grey Mountains took Jhon and his companions into a land where the earth itself seemed alive with fury—the Burning Steppes.
From the moment they crossed the threshold into this forsaken land, the air grew thick with heat and smoke. The once-blue sky turned into a haze of sulfurous clouds, the sun reduced to a smoldering red orb, barely visible through the toxic mist.
"This is madness," Arianne muttered, shielding her face with a scarf. "How does anything survive here?"
Rahotep, the seasoned captain, narrowed his eyes. "It doesn't."
The ground beneath them cracked with every step, revealing veins of molten rock glowing like the blood of the earth. Pillars of black smoke spiraled into the sky, and geysers of scalding steam hissed unpredictably from hidden fissures. Yet, this was the only way forward.
Their path took them through a vast, charred wasteland, where jagged obsidian formations rose like the bones of a long-dead god. The heat was suffocating, waves of it distorting the horizon.
Jhon wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling as if the sun itself was pressing down upon him. "Water rations," he ordered. "Drink, but sparingly."
Gorim, the old dwarf, took a deep swig from his flask before scowling at the land around them. "This place reminds me of the forges back home—if someone left 'em burning for a thousand years."
"Only a thousand?" Varnic smirked. "You're being generous."
As they moved deeper into the steppes, the ground became unstable. Every step had to be tested carefully, for beneath the hardened crust, lava flowed freely, waiting for an excuse to break through.
Nadra, nimble as ever, darted ahead, her keen eyes searching for a safe route. "Step where I step," she called back. "Or you'll be swallowed whole."
Arianne grimaced. "That's reassuring."
It was not long before they realized they were not alone. High above them, dark silhouettes moved through the smoke-filled sky—ash drakes, small but vicious winged creatures, circling like vultures. Their scorched black scales blended with the ashen clouds, but their glowing eyes and the occasional flash of their ember-lined wings betrayed them.
Khaltar unsheathed his blade. "They're waiting."
"For what?" Sayf asked, already reaching for his daggers.
"To see if we die on our own," Khaltar replied grimly.
But it wasn't just the sky that hid dangers. The ground itself trembled. Jhon slowed his steps, scanning the landscape. "Something's moving beneath us."
Then, the ground split open. From the fissures emerged creatures of pure fire and stone, their forms shifting as molten rock dripped from their bodies. Their eyes burned like embers in the dark, and when they opened their mouths, it was not to roar—but to spew liquid fire.
Before anyone could react, the ash drakes above dove down, shrieking, and the Flameborn surged forward, their molten limbs leaving trails of fire in their wake. "We're surrounded!" Varnic roared.
The fight erupted in chaos. Sayf vanished into the shadows, reappearing behind one of the Flameborn to plunge his daggers into its molten core—only for the creature to burst apart, nearly incinerating him.
"Damn it!" Sayf cursed, rolling away as another swung its fiery limbs toward him.
Gorim and Varnic stood back to back, the old dwarf's warhammer smashing through the creatures while Varnic parried their strikes, his blade glowing red-hot from the sheer heat.
Khaltar met an ash drake in mid-air, leaping onto its back and driving his axe through its skull, sending it crashing into the lava below.
Arianne unleashed a torrent of wind magic, trying to keep the creatures at bay, but the heat twisted the currents, making it difficult to control.
Meanwhile, Nadra—ever the strategist—had already spotted their escape. "Over there!" she shouted, pointing to a ridge of blackened stone, higher ground where the creatures couldn't follow easily.
Jhon made a split-second decision. "Everyone, move! Now!"
Through the chaos, they fought their way toward the ridge. Rahotep held the rear, his curved blade slashing through the heat-blurred enemies, ensuring no one was left behind.
As they reached the higher ground, the creatures hesitated, their molten bodies struggling to climb the solid rock. The ash drakes shrieked in frustration, circling above—but they did not pursue.
Jhon exhaled. "We need to keep moving before they change their minds."
The further they traveled, the more the landscape transformed. The once jagged wasteland gave way to massive rivers of lava, some flowing slowly like thick honey, others exploding violently as pockets of pressure erupted.
They reached a narrow stone bridge—the only crossing over a chasm of roiling magma.
Rahotep went first, his experienced steps steady. One by one, the others followed, until only Jhon remained.
As he stepped onto the bridge, a thunderous roar split the air. The lava churned violently, and from its depths rose something ancient.
A titanic beast of obsidian and fire, its body pulsing with molten veins, claws the size of warships scraping against the rock as it hauled itself free from its slumber.
Jhon had heard many legends. He wished this was one of them. "A lava guardian," Arianne breathed. "We need to run—now!"
The bridge cracked beneath them as the guardian swung one massive claw, its impact sending shards of burning rock flying.
Jhon didn't hesitate. He sprinted across the bridge just as the beast's massive tail slammed down, shattering the path behind him.
They barely made it to the other side as the guardian roared in frustration, its fiery form sinking back into the magma.
At last, the wasteland ended. Before them stood two colossal pillars of obsidian, carved with ancient runes, marking the exit from the Burning Steppes. Beyond them, the land began to shift—from fire and ash to the cold, unforgiving heights of the Grey Mountains.
"This is it," Gorim said, exhaling deeply.
The group took one final look back at the Burning Steppes, where the fires still raged, where the ghosts of forgotten wars still walked, and where the land itself fought to keep them out.