The black fortress loomed above the Guardians, its spires clawing at the darkened sky. A heavy fog encircled the structure, swirling with dark magic, and the oppressive weight of unseen eyes bore down on them. Every step toward the entrance was a battle against the dread crawling up their spines.
Elara, at the front of the group, paused as they neared the massive iron gate. A feeling like ice ran through her veins. "No turning back now," she murmured, gripping her sword tighter. Her breath was shallow, but her determination remained unshaken.
Henry stood to her right, his bow drawn and arrow nocked. "I hate fortresses," he muttered under his breath. His sharp eyes scanned the walls for any movement, but all he could see was the thickening mist.