The silver mist clung to the ancient stones of Dinas Bran, swirling like forgotten spirits. Below, the dark, still surface of Llyn Cymru reflected a sky the color of bruised plums, where the 'black sun' was just beginning its descent. Morgan, a scholar of old tales, traced the weathered carvings on a moss-covered lintel, the chill seeping into their fingertips.

Whispers of 'Dark Ilion' had drawn them here, a place spoken of only in hushed tones, a burial ground for forgotten kings and unheard songs. The air was heavy with unspoken histories, a silent lament for a past that refused to stay buried. Morgan adjusted the satchel on their shoulder, the weight of the ancient texts within a familiar comfort against the rising tide of unease.

The last rays of light stretched like crimson shadows across the valley, painting the ruins in hues of blood and despair. It was said that on nights like these, the Seven Stars would sing, and the spirit of Emrys, long drowned, would stir. Morgan shivered, not from cold, but from the prickle of anticipation. This was it. The threshold.