The stone bridge trembled faintly beneath Riven's boots.
Far below, a boiling sea of magma violently spat out molten bubbles the size of human heads. The blistering heat slapped him across the face, scorching his throat with every breath he took. A pungent stench of sulfur choked the air, mingling with the black smoke billowing from the jagged crevices.
Riven marched forward without a shred of hesitation. The bandages on his left arm—concealing the deep gouges of a Wyvern's claw—were soaked in sweat, but he couldn't care less. His cold gray eyes were deadlocked on a single point across the chasm: the gates of Grendel's Fortress.
The obsidian walls loomed in the dark, reflecting the crimson glow of the runic veins pulsing across their surface. A massive gateway of black steel plates stood firm, flanked by two towering watchtowers that pierced sharply into the sulfur-choked sky.
