The mountain loomed ahead like a slumbering giant, shrouded in perpetual mist. Jagged peaks rose into the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast, and nestled deep within—hidden from mortal sight—was the fortress of the Sovereign.
Aeron stood at the edge of a narrow cliffside path, wind slicing against his cloak as he surveyed the treacherous terrain below. Behind him, the strike force waited in silence—elite warriors, mages, and scouts handpicked for this one mission. They knew what was at stake. If they failed here, the rebellion might never recover.
Lyria tightened the straps on her armor. "The outer barriers are laced with spells. We'll need stealth, not force."
Aeron nodded. "No mistakes. We move like shadows."
With that, the team descended into the mountain's grasp.
The path twisted through deep ravines and frostbitten tunnels. Ancient wards shimmered faintly on the stone walls—old magic, etched by the Pantheon themselves. One wrong step could trigger death.
Kael, the group's quietest scout, moved ahead, disabling traps with nimble fingers. Whispered incantations and subtle gestures kept them invisible to the wards, but the air grew heavier the deeper they traveled.
Hours passed like days until they reached the heart of the mountain: a vast chamber lit by unnatural light, and at its center stood the fortress—a towering monolith of black stone, pulsing with dark energy.
"This is it," Lyria whispered.
Aeron stared at the structure. The Sovereign's presence radiated from within, cold and oppressive, like a thousand voices whispering in unison.
They breached the fortress silently. Inside, the halls were unnaturally quiet. Tapestries woven with forbidden symbols lined the walls. The further they moved, the more twisted the space became—hallways warped, gravity shifted, and time seemed to stutter.
They encountered resistance—spectral guardians formed of shadow and flame. Aeron led the charge, his blade igniting with divine fire, cutting through the corruption like sunlight banishing night.
His power flared brighter than ever before, and even the darkest spirits recoiled from his presence.
Finally, at the core of the fortress, they found a towering throne room. The ceiling arched into infinity, and the very air trembled.
Seated upon the throne was the Sovereign.
Clad in robes of molten obsidian, his face hidden behind a mask shaped like a dying star, the Sovereign rose.
"So… the fallen one comes to slay a god."
Aeron stepped forward. "You're no god. You're a coward cloaked in delusion."
The Sovereign laughed—a sound that echoed through realms. "And yet, here you are, chosen by fate to die."
As the room erupted into chaos, Aeron drew his blade—and history held its breath.