The mountains loomed like sleeping titans, their jagged peaks veiled in storm and silence. The world thinned here — the air sharper, thinner, tasting faintly of ash and ancient power. Damian's breath ghosted in the cold as he climbed, each step taking him farther from the mortal world and closer to the realm of gods and ghosts.
Days had blurred into nights, and nights into a single endless journey. His body healed faster than it should have — a cruel gift of his Alpha blood — but his spirit felt raw, stripped bare by grief and determination.
He stopped at the edge of a narrow ledge where the path split into two: one descending into shadow, the other rising toward a bridge of white stone that shimmered under the moonlight. Between the two stood an ancient figure draped in tattered silver robes. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but Damian could feel its gaze — cold and endless as the void.
