The path from Jyotivar to the Shadowlands was cloaked in a thick mist that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. The land itself felt wrong — twisted trees bent unnaturally, their branches like claws scraping the heavy, gray sky.
Aarav tightened his grip on the Rings, feeling their warmth against the creeping chill. Each step forward was met with silence, save for the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath their feet.
Ishira whispered a mantra for protection, her voice steady but low, weaving a fragile barrier around the group.
As they ventured deeper, shadows flickered at the edges of vision—whispering doubts and fears that clawed at their minds.
Suddenly, a figure stepped from the gloom — tall, cloaked in black mist, eyes glowing faintly red.
"You carry the Rings," the figure hissed, voice like shards of ice. "But you cannot escape the Voidborn's grasp."
Aarav stepped forward, unafraid. "We will stop the darkness. No matter the cost."
The figure smiled, a cruel curve. "Then come. Face the truth in the heart of the Shadowlands."
With a wave of a spectral hand, the mist thickened, and the world twisted into a nightmarish maze of shifting shadows.
The trial had begun.