The blood of the fallen trolls had barely soaked into the cursed soil of the Forest of Isla before Ragnar vanished into the shadows once more. The thick canopy above blotted out the sky, casting the entire forest in perpetual twilight. A light mist clung to the ground, swirling around the gnarled roots of ancient trees that seemed to whisper secrets long forgotten. The stench of decay hung in the air, carried by the faintest of breezes. Every step Ragnar took was deliberate, his senses heightened to every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind.
This place was alive with dark magic, and Ragnar knew he had only scratched the surface of the horrors that dwelled within. But the Sword of Anarchy had awakened something within him. It thrummed at his side, a constant presence, feeding him power—dangerous, seductive power that urged him forward into the unknown.
He stopped suddenly, his instincts flaring. Something was wrong.