The road to the Lich King’s domain was a path etched in dread and whispered legend. Our journey had begun under the pale light of a crescent moon, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant howls of creatures that prowled the moors. Each step brought us nearer to the accursed stronghold, a fortress wrought of blackened stone and the bones of those who had dared to challenge its master. The Lich King, it was said, could sense the approach of any living soul, his awareness a shroud of sinister mystery woven from necromantic arts beyond mortal ken. By what dark sorcery he discerned our coming, I could not fathom; perhaps it was the pulse of our beating hearts, or the scent of warm blood upon the wind.
As we drew closer, the land grew barren and lifeless. The trees, once tall
