The atmosphere in the Blackwood Forest didn't just feel heavy; it felt wrong. It was as if the laws of physics had decided to take a holiday, replaced by a suffocating, oily pressure that made every breath feel like inhaling wet wool. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid, chemical stench of Viper's alchemical fires—a smell that stung the nostrils and watered the eyes.
Gwen stood at the center of a dwindling circle of Lycan warriors, her breathing shallow and ragged, her palms glowing with the flickering, defiant radiance of the Black Sun.
"They're coming from the soil itself! The ground is cursed!" Kaelen roared. His voice, usually a comforting baritone, was now a jagged edge of desperation. He was a whirlwind of silver fur and crimson spray, his claws dripping with black ichor as he tore through another wave of Shadow-Serpents—creatures that weren't quite physical, shifting between smoke and scale.
