COUNT BACK AGAIN! Shadows Over the High Bastion and Whispers of Midnight Wings

For three consecutive nights, a low, rhythmic hum has stirred the quiet air of the lower valley. Those dwelling in the shadow of the eastern crags report that the great ruined tower—long abandoned to the mountain crows—has once again begun to cast a heavy, living shadow across the gorges.

Locals steadfastly claim that the master of the fortress never truly departed. Woodcutters returning at twilight speak of a tall silhouette standing motionless upon the highest battlement, silhouetted against the bloated autumn moon. Whenever the mountain wind rises to a howl, clusters of black wings burst from the upper arrow slits, descending upon the pine slopes before melting into the mist.

The Imperial gendarmerie has dismissed the sightings as mere atmospheric fever, yet patrols along the northern road have doubled their lantern fuel and refuse to cross the stone bridge after vespers. An undeniable tension grips every tavern hearth: the ancient ruler of the ramparts has stirred, and all who wander the mountain labyrinth by night walk in the presence of an unsleeping gaze.