The marsh was a world of mist and silence. Reed-stalks swayed in a ghostly rhythm, and each step sank into mud that smelled of rot.
Edran led cautiously, his staff glowing faintly to ward off spirits. Mira kept close behind, watching every ripple in the black water.
Aric trailed them, uneasy. His dreams had been restless—whispers of a crown of broken glass, voices chanting his name. When he woke, his hands were burning.
At the heart of the marsh, they found a circle of standing stones, older than Caelthorn itself. Strange runes wound around them, glowing faintly blue.
Edran touched the stone with reverence. "The Circle of Veynar… a place of binding. Here, boy, we can begin."
"Begin what?" Aric asked, voice low.
"Your war against yourself."