The wind in the Dagger Vale did not howl—it whispered.
It whispered in the voice of a thousand dead kings, carried through crooked trees and jagged stones, telling tales that should never be heard by living ears. Men did not go into the Vale willingly, not even for gold. But gold was not what Liora sought.
She came for the crown.
Wrapped in a threadbare cloak and armed only with a rusted dagger, Liora pressed deeper into the blighted forest. Her boots sank into the wet loam, black and slick with rot. Every step squelched like a mouth opening to speak, only to choke on ash.
Behind her, the world she knew faded. Ahead, the ruins of the Hollow Court waited—its broken throne said to still hold the power of a cursed line.
The wind caressed her ear again, and she could swear it murmured her name.