A portal shimmered open at the base of the staircase, its edges fraying against the howling winds. Three figures stepped through—Nusayel, Harken, and the silver-haired youth—their winter coats dusted with snow before they'd taken a single step.
"Fog's already enveloped the lower keep," Harken muttered, adjusting his glasses as they fogged instantly. "But at least we can still see."
Nusayel nodded grimly. "Barely."
Visibility stretched just thirty meters ahead—a luxury granted only by their enhanced resonator sight. An ordinary person would be blind beyond ten.
"Move quickly," the baron ordered, leading them forward through the swirling white. The stone corridors here were narrower, the air thicker with the scent of iron and damp stone. "The anchor rooms are ahead. And you need to understand what we're dealing with."
As they walked, he explained, voice cutting through the storm's roar:
