Dallin the Purple (In Progress)

The air in Shadowkeep was thick with the scent of damp stone and stale magic. Claire slammed onto the ground, rolling to absorb the impact, a prayer of thanks for Talon's training fleetingly crossing her mind. From the darkness, a snarled curse erupted.

She barely had time to erect a shimmering wall of air before Kane, the gaunt sorcerer, lunged, dagger glinting. He met her barrier with a jarring thud and bounced off, his face contorted in fury.

"Claire!" Feowen's voice, laced with urgency, cut through the gloom as he appeared beside her, sword drawn and still dripping. They were in a dark, cavernous space, lit only by flickering sconces that cast monstrous shadows.

Kane began to mutter an incant, the oppressive weight of his magic battering against her shield. Something was wrong; the resistance was immense. She fed more energy into her defenses, pressing back against the insidious force. "We have to go back!" Feowen cried, tugging at her arm, but she shook her head, her gaze fixed on the malevolent sorcerer.

"It's too late for that." Her voice was strained, the exertion already telling. Kane's deranged laughter echoed through the cavern, a chilling promise of the battle to come.