The Tower of Hell loomed in the distance like a wound carved into the world. It rose impossibly high, a spire of black stone scarred with intricate glyphs and serpentine patterns that seemed to shift and writhe if stared at too long. The tower's shadow spilled far beyond its base, stretching across the scorched earth as if the structure itself refused to let light trespass near.
Around it churned a wide moat of molten lava, its heat spilling up in choking waves, casting red illumination across the dark surface of the tower. The smell of lava and scorched stone clung to the air, thick and biting.
Asher descended from the sky, the beat of his landing stirring up cinders at the edge of the moat. He landed behind Duncan, the old man's dark silver cloak whispering faintly in the heat. His eyes narrowed at the sight, a thousand suspicions boiling in his chest.
His voice came out sharp.
