53

The night lay shrouded in impenetrable darkness, even the crickets in the forest had surrendered to slumber. Iroas stood sentinel by the cliff, his countenance etched with unwavering determination. A stark silence enveloped him, a stark contrast to the tempestuous turmoil raging within. Chaos reigned; he found himself ensnared in a labyrinth of despair. Despite his unyielding vigilance throughout the protracted warfare against a multitude of adversaries, he now stood witness to the ruins of his efforts. The foundation he had painstakingly laid crumbled before his eyes, leaving him adrift in a sea of incomprehension. Sleep had once more eluded him, the specters of night returning to torment his mind. In this moment, he was at his nadir.

A soft voice sliced through the stillness of the night, drawing his attention. His head snapped around, hand instinctively finding the hilt of his sword. "Who goes there?" he demanded, a growl tainting his tone.