The heat inside the Ember Summit struck like a wall of breath from some ancient god.
Darin stepped through the gate and immediately felt the change, not just temperature, but atmosphere. Magic ran thick here. The stone itself pulsed with residual enchantments. The air carried the tang of sulfur, mana, and old blood. Everything about this place whispered power.
It wasn't a castle or a fortress.
It was a statement.
The long halls were carved into the black rock of the mountain itself, lined with veins of glowing crimson ore that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the molten rivers below. Intricate carvings told tales of ancient battles—some that even the Overlord in Darin's head hadn't recognized.
"I forgot how gaudy these places can be," the Overlord muttered in Darin's mind. "Carve a few runes into lava rock and suddenly everyone thinks they're immortal."
