The summit of the North Peak was a place where the wind didn't just blow; it screamed with the fury of a thousand restless ghosts. The air was so thin it felt like breathing shards of ice, and the ground was composed of ancient, white stone that seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic light.
In the center of the plateau sat the Altar of Purification, a massive ring of obsidian and quartz that felt older than the stars, a relic from an age before the High Council had ever dreamed of shackling the sun.
Gwen dragged Lucien toward the center of the ring, her fingers frozen into claws as she gripped his heavy tunic. He was barely conscious now, his physical form becoming less solid with every passing second. He was no longer just a man; he was a literal conduit for the screaming void.
