The Graywood finally thinned, revealing a narrow path that wound toward the river delta. The air was damp, and a soft mist clung to the ground. Mira wiped sweat from her brow, grateful to be free of the forest's oppressive atmosphere.
Jace stretched his arms, grinning. "See? No problem. Just a few angry trees and some haunted vines. Easy."
Bram snorted. "You screamed when the roots grabbed your leg."
Jace glared. "That was a battle cry."
Kieran couldn't help but smirk, but his attention soon shifted to the old stone bridge ahead. Moss-covered and weathered, it looked ancient, its arches dipping low over the slow-moving river.
Rolan frowned, brushing his fingers against one of the carved runes on the bridge's edge. "This design... it's from the old kingdom. They used these as waypoints for travelers. The markings mean protection and safe passage."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Why would they bother protecting this bridge in the middle of nowhere?"
Rolan traced the rune thoughtfully. "Because this wasn't nowhere. Valenhold was once a thriving city—trade routes crisscrossed these lands. This bridge marked the border."
As they crossed, Kieran paused, catching sight of something half-buried in the mud—an old pendant, shaped like a falcon in flight. He picked it up, wiping away the grime. Mira glanced over his shoulder.
"An amulet of the Winged Guard," she whispered. "They protected Valenhold. If it's here... they might've made a last stand."
Jace looked uneasy. "We're not about to walk into a city crawling with those corrupted wardens, are we?"
Kieran pocketed the amulet. "We'll handle it. We're not turning back."
As they continued, the landscape opened up, revealing distant towers rising against the sky. Valenhold stood proud yet desolate, its walls cracked and overgrown with ivy. A sense of foreboding washed over them.
Bram murmured a quiet prayer, and Rolan adjusted his gear, face set with grim determination. Jace tried to keep up his usual bravado, but the haunted look in his eyes betrayed his nerves.
They approached the city gates cautiously, Rag sniffing the air and growling low. Kieran knelt beside him, whispering soothing words.
Mira glanced around. "We need to find a safe spot to set up camp before scouting the city. No sense rushing in."
Rolan pointed to an old watchtower just off the main road. "There. It should give us a good vantage point without being too exposed."
Once inside, they barricaded the door and took shifts keeping watch. As dusk settled, Kieran climbed the tower to survey the city. Flickers of pale light moved within the ruins—signs of movement, though distant.
Mira joined him, leaning against the crumbling stone. "Do you think anyone's left?"
Kieran shook his head. "If there are survivors, they're hiding deep. But if the cult's taken the city, we'll have to cut our way through."
She sighed. "Every step feels heavier. It's like fate's weaving something we can't see."
Kieran glanced at her. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together."
Down below, the others prepared a small meal, their banter quieter than usual. Tomorrow, they would enter Valenhold—and whatever waited inside would decide the fate of more than just themselves.