"WE'RE CLOSE," Lucson said, his voice strained. "The altar is just beyond the next ridge."
The ridge was a steep, rocky climb that felt like ascending the spine of some sleeping beast. As they reached the summit, the Ashford manor finally came into view. Below it, the altar sat like a massive stone stage, surrounded by hundreds of guests whose eyes glowed like embers in the dark. The King himself was there, a silent, terrifying figure of shadow sitting in frozen majesty.
But between the Ashfords and their goal lay a final, impossible obstacle.
The red line of fire they had crossed at the start of the game hadn't just grown; it had transformed. The flames had turned a haunting, ethereal shimmering white, so bright it hurt to look at. It didn't flicker like a normal fire; it flowed like a liquid wall of light.
Standing in front of it was a figure in gold-and-black armor—the King's elite guard.
