The group broke camp under a bruised sky, the Abyssal Spire's jagged silhouette cutting through the false dawn like a broken tooth. Liam adjusted the strap of his pack, feeling the pendant from Citra warm against his collarbone. Ti stood beside him, staff planted like a banner, her silver hair catching stray motes of purifying light. The thirty defenders formed up in tight formation—Grom at the rear with his earth hammer, Vael coordinating the scouts with quiet elf gestures. No one spoke much. The air itself pressed down, heavy with the promise of the trials ahead.
"Veil Piercer is screaming," Liam muttered, rubbing his temple. The skill throbbed behind his eyes, peeling back layers of illusion that clung to the spire's base like cobwebs. What appeared as a narrow fissure entrance writhed with hidden wards—red threads snaking through the stone, feeding on latent sacrifices.
Ti squeezed his hand once. "Then we listen. Together."
