Fatigue clawed at him, a leaden weight that dragged his limbs. We can't keep this up, he thought and despair flickered in his chest.
Immediately through the haze, he saw it, a faint, pulsing glow in the distance that is like a heartbeat in the dark. The den. "There!" he yelled, pointing with his staff. "We are almost there!"
The promise of the end ignited something in them. With a collective roar, they surged forward, cutting through the remaining zombies in a desperate charge.
Xerion's flames blazed brighter, Salaris's strikes grew sharper, and Rhoam's momentum became unstoppable. The undead fell, their bodies collapsed into the mud, until the path cleared and the den loomed before them.
The Den's Threshold...
The den was a wound in the earth, a cavernous stomach that is framed by twisted roots that pulsed with dark veins. The air thrummed with violent energy that is thick with the stench of death and decay.
