Chapter 7: A Town That Refuses to Die
Rain.
The kind that didn't fall but bled from the sky. Thick, gray sheets poured endlessly as Raen and Lyra stepped through the warped iron gates of Darnhollow—a forgotten town nestled between cliffs carved by ancient violence and time.
It wasn't just cursed.
It reeked of something older than death.
The town was silent, save for the occasional groan of wood twisting against the wind and the distant screech of crows circling the broken bell tower. Black ichor streaked across the cobblestone like veins, pulsing faintly beneath their boots.
Raen stopped at the center of the square. His eyes scanned the buildings—shops boarded shut with talismans etched in godscript, homes bolted from the outside. The windows were dark, watching.
"This place... it's not abandoned," Lyra whispered, her fingers clutching the spellbound book she found two nights ago. Her other hand rested over her dagger, trembling slightly.
"It wants us here," Raen muttered. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Predatory.
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They explored cautiously, each building more broken than the last, more intentional. It was as if the town had folded in on itself, burying its own truths.
And then they found the bodies.