Shadowveil stood as the last major bastion against the encroaching abyss—a sprawling fortress-city built atop the ruins of Seraphiel’s ancient temple complex. Its towering spires, reinforced with glowing wards, had become the rallying point for survivors from Eldhaven and beyond. After the new rift’s violent opening, Riven and Liora had led the desperate march here, arriving mere hours before the storm broke.
The air hummed with tension. The eclipse hung heavy overhead, a blood-red corona framing the sun’s dying light. Riven paced the battlements, his demonic senses screaming warnings. Liora stood beside him, her hand resting on the hilt of a newly forged blade infused with stabilized curse energy. The dark veins on her arms had faded but never fully vanished—a permanent mark of the price
