The barbarian pressed onward beneath the steaming vault of the jungle, where monstrous trees knotted together like the ribs of some primeval beast and the air clung to him with the weight of ancient malice, until through curtains of vine and rot-hewn foliage he beheld a citadel of black stone rising from the earth as if clawed upward by forgotten gods; its towers leaned in sullen defiance of time, etched with worn sigils that whispered of blood rites and sorceries older than the tribes of men, and as he stood there—muscles coiled, blade ready—he felt the silence thicken, for no bird dared cry and no beast crept near, and he knew with the iron certainty of a born slayer that this place was not abandoned but merely patient, harboring some lurking evil that watched him from the shadows and weighed his soul as one might judge a sacrifice before the knife fell.
