The morning sun struggled to break through the thick veil of clouds hanging over the cursed lands. Arawn and the knights stood at the edge of a desolate valley, where the air was thick with the oppressive weight of malevolent energy. The journey to this point had been gruelling, and the terrain ahead promised no reprieve.
Arawn adjusted the straps of his armour, his fingers trembling as he gripped the hilt of his sword. His mana control exercises from training still felt like a shallow understanding of a deep, untamed power within him. Even wind magic, the only element he could reliably use, had betrayed him on several occasions due to his unstable focus.
The knights murmured among themselves as they surveyed the valley. At its centre stood an ancient, crumbling gate, its surface etched with intricate runes that seemed to shift and writhe as if alive. The gate exuded a dark energy that made the air feel heavy and difficult to breathe.