The caravan rumbled onward, the heavy, iron-reinforced wheels of the ten wagons groaning as they navigated the winding, dusty path. They had left the bustling trade post of Serpent's Gate behind and were now entering the oppressive embrace of the mountain pass itself.
Towering cliffs of dark, unforgiving rock rose on either side, their jagged peaks clawing at the sky and blotting out a significant portion of the sun. The path narrowed, and the world became a claustrophobic corridor of stone and shadow. The air grew cooler, carrying a faint, damp chill that seemed to seep into the bones.
The sounds of the caravan—the lowing of the horned oxen, the creak of wood and leather, the clank of the mercenaries' armor—echoed strangely, bouncing off the sheer cliff faces, creating a disquieting cacophony that seemed to mock the profound silence of the mountains.
