The torchlight flickered across damp walls, casting a sickly yellow gleam over the catacombs’ jagged stone. Ronan led the strike team deeper, each step weighed down by the choking stench of rotting flesh and sour magic. The corridors twisted in unnatural patterns, as though the earth itself had warped under the unholy might of the Crimson Eclipse.
A ragged snarl drew everyone’s attention. Ronan nodded to the nearest warrior, who lifted a torch high. Its glow revealed a nightmarish scene: half-dead werewolves sprawled against the walls, limbs grotesquely fused with arcane runes etched into the stone. Their bodies twitched in agony, patches of fur sloughing off to reveal raw muscle. Blood pooled beneath them, congealing into foul-smelling puddles.
“Gods above,” one of Ronan’s team whispere
