The Obsidian Maw loomed in the distance, no longer just a rumor carved into old maps or whispered in campfire tales. It had shape now. Form. Intent. Not merely a canyon, but a wound carved through the flesh of the world itself—wide and jagged, its edges torn raw. Black spires jutted skyward like the teeth of some ancient, carnivorous god, half-shrouded in mist that slithered unnaturally against the current of the wind. The fog pulsed with an inner rhythm, like breath. Like something sleeping. Or something waking.
Even at this distance, they could feel it—the vibration low in the earth, humming beneath their boots, creeping up their spines. A subsonic pulse that mimicked a heartbeat but never quite became one. It was off. Wrong. Too slow, too deep. Less the rhythm of a living thing and more the mechanical pulse of a machine designed to devour souls.
