The jagged silhouette of the Spire of Decay loomed closer as Grendolf, Sylvara, and Lioness trekked through the Blighted Lands’ twisted ravines. The air was thick with ash, the ground scarred with claw marks and brittle bones. Starclaw pulsed unevenly in Grendolf’s paw, its azure glow flickering as if sensing a hidden threat. Sylvara moved like a shadow, her crimson Bloodfang casting a faint light, her green eyes darting to every rustle. Lioness strode ahead, her golden fur gleaming, Sunfang’s radiant glow cutting through the gloom. Yet something in her stride—too deliberate, too calm—set Grendolf’s fur on edge.

They paused at the edge of a blackened gorge, the Spire’s entrance visible below, a yawning maw guarded by crude stone totems etched with glowing runes. Tiro’s rescue had bolstered their resolve, but Grendolf’s thoughts remained fixed on his familia—his mother, father, and sister, trapped somewhere within the Spire’s depths. The amulet from Aeloria hung heavy at his belt, its star-shaped carving warm against his fur. Starclaw hummed, a vision flashing: a golden blade clashing with his own, a shadowed figure laughing. Grendolf shook it off, his ears twitching. The vision felt wrong, too close.

“We strike at dusk,” Lioness said, her voice steady, her emerald eyes scanning the gorge. “The Mutated Ones are weaker in twilight. Gorath will be deep inside, guarding Duskfang.”

Sylvara’s tail flicked, her skepticism sharp. “You know a lot about Gorath’s habits. Been tracking him long?”

Lioness’s ears flicked, but her expression remained impassive. “Long enough. His stolen blade corrupted my kin. I owe him a debt of blood.”

Grendolf nodded, though unease gnawed at him. Lioness’s legend was unmatched, but her sudden return after years of absence felt too convenient. He gripped Starclaw tighter, its glow steadying his resolve. “Let’s move. My familia’s in there, and so is Gorath.”

They descended into the gorge, navigating a path of jagged rocks. The totems pulsed, their runes casting an eerie light. Sylvara’s speed kept her ahead, scouting for ambushes, while Lioness’s powerful strides covered their rear. As they neared the Spire’s entrance, a low growl echoed from the shadows. Grendolf’s ears pinned back, and Starclaw flared. A pack of Mutated Ones lunged from the darkness, their twisted forms snarling, claws dripping with ichor.

Sylvara spun, Bloodfang a crimson blur, slicing through one creature’s throat. Grendolf met another, Starclaw cutting through flesh with precision, guided by a vision of the attack’s trajectory. Lioness roared, Sunfang blazing as she cleaved a Mutated One in half, its body collapsing in a spray of black blood. The fight was swift, the pack dispatched in moments, but Grendolf noticed Lioness’s strikes—calculated, almost performative, as if holding back.

Inside the Spire, the air grew colder, the walls slick with a pulsating, organic film. Tunnels branched in every direction, a labyrinth of darkness. Lioness pointed to a central passage, her voice firm. “This leads to Gorath’s chamber. He’ll have your familia there, Grendolf.”

Sylvara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re certain. How?”

Lioness’s tail flicked, a flash of irritation. “I’ve scouted this place before. Trust me.”

Grendolf’s vision flickered again—Sunfang raised, not against Gorath, but him. His heart sank, but he said nothing, following Lioness deeper. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its center dominated by a crude throne of bones. Gorath sat there, a hulking Mutated One, his hairless skin scarred, his eyes glowing with malice. In his claw rested Duskfang, its black glow twisting the air around it. Behind him, in cages of twisted metal, were Grendolf’s familia—Lirien, Torren, and Myra, their fur dull but alive.

“Grendolf the Great,” Gorath rasped, his voice like grinding stone. “You brought Starclaw. And you…” His gaze shifted to Lioness, a twisted smile forming. “You kept your promise.”

Grendolf froze. Sylvara hissed, Bloodfang raised. “What promise?”

Lioness stepped back, Sunfang’s glow dimming. Her eyes were cold, her voice steady. “Gorath offered me my kin’s freedom if I delivered Starclaw. I had no choice.”

Grendolf’s claws flexed, betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. “You led us here. For him.”

Lioness’s ears flattened, but her stance was unyielding. “My kin suffered because of Duskfang. I’d do anything to save them. Even this.”

Sylvara snarled, lunging at Lioness, but Gorath’s laugh echoed, and a horde of Mutated Ones poured from the shadows. Grendolf’s vision surged—a clash of blades, his familia’s cries, and Lioness’s golden fur stained with blood. He dodged a claw, Starclaw flaring as he cut down a Mutated One. “Sylvara, protect my familia!” he roared, turning to Lioness.

“You were a legend,” he growled, Starclaw meeting Sunfang in a burst of light. “Now you’re a traitor.”

Lioness parried, her strength overwhelming, but Grendolf’s visions guided his strikes. Behind him, Sylvara darted through the horde, her speed unmatched, slicing toward the cages. Gorath rose, Duskfang pulsing, his grin wide. The chamber erupted in chaos, blades clashing, and Grendolf’s heart burned with fury and loss. For his familia, for Felaria, he would fight—against Gorath, against Lioness, against the shadows of betrayal.