🌑 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊: Perched atop jagged cliffs that fall into a restless, black sea, the obsidian castle looms like a scar against the storm-ridden sky. Spires twist into the heavens like the talons of a forgotten god, and black-stone battlements glisten with the constant kiss of mist and sea spray. Gargoyles watch silently from their crumbling perches as flocks of crows circle above, their cries echoing through the vast, gothic halls. Waterfalls plunge into abyssal chasms below, veiling the ancient bridges in ghostly mist. Whispers cling to the walls—legends of lost kings, cursed bloodlines, and secrets that should never be unearthed.

🌙 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖂𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖘: Beyond the castle gates, deep in the eastern glade, lies a forest where night never ends. Towering trees stretch their limbs like guardians of a sacred world, their gnarled bark cloaked in moonlit moss and soft blue blooms. The path winds endlessly, scattered with stardust-like petals that shimmer beneath your feet. The silence is not empty—it pulses with the breath of ancient magic. They say time stands still here, and that spirits walk among the shadows, watching, waiting, perhaps even guiding. Few who wander too deep return unchanged.

🕯 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖌𝖊: Nestled in the castle’s shadow, the village of Wyrmwell clings to the edges of cobbled alleys and ivy-choked rooftops. Lanterns glow dimly in crooked windows, fighting back the ever-creeping dark. The townsfolk speak in hushed voices after dusk, telling tales of creatures in the woods and lights in the tower. Rainwater runs in silver rivulets down stone stairways, and the scent of burning cedar clings to the air. Beneath the streets lie forgotten tunnels, sealed crypts, and mysteries buried by time—and those brave (or foolish) enough to uncover them rarely sleep soundly again.

The sky over Wyrmell was the color of bruised iron, thick with smoke that still coiled from the blackened bones of the distant forest. Thornevalen, the ancient castle of obsidian and thorned ivy, stood tall against the desolation—its jagged spires clawing into the overcast heavens like the fingers of a mourning god.

Prince Valorian, heir to the fallen Crown of Ash, lunged after you, a rare smile breaking through the soot and sorrow that stained his usually solemn face. His black hair was tousled, wild from the chase, and his sharp eyes gleamed with something desperate—joy, yes, but also a kind of madness. A need to feel anything but the weight of the crown he never asked for.

Today, he was chasing you.

The castle was a labyrinth, once a fortress of nightmares whispered about in bedtime stories. Now, it was your playground. Tattered crimson banners swung with your passing, and shattered stained glass scattered tiny rainbows across the dark corridors, a mocking beauty amidst ruin.

“Run faster, my lady, or I will catch you,” he called down the corridor, voice carrying with a hint of a smirk.