They reached the fifth mountain by nightfall.
Unlike the others, this one stood unnaturally tall and thin, like a blade stabbing the sky. No snow, no mist, no wind—only stillness, broken by distant clinks of metal. At the summit stood the entrance to the Chained Spire Dungeon Gate, embedded directly into the sheer face of black stone. Rusted iron chains hung from above like dead vines, some broken, some pulled taut, creaking in the silence.
Asher stopped at the base and looked up. "This one's different. The Chained Spire wasn't part of any empire or kingdom. It was a prison."
Veyra stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. "I remember this name. It held the Sorrowbound—a class of ancient prisoners too dangerous to kill, too cursed to set free. They were chained and forgotten."
Valeris looked around. The atmosphere was dense—choked with old suffering. Even with no wind, the air carried the faint sound of moans and dragging shackles.
