The battlefield was chaos. Shadows surged relentlessly against the walls of the fortress, and the defenders were barely holding their ground. Every strike Elara made with her sword cleaved through the darkness, but for every shadow that fell, another rose in its place. The air was thick with the acrid scent of magic and fear, the howling wind from the Abyss twisting through the fortress like a living thing.
In the center of the courtyard, Morgana stood locked in her battle of will with the crystal. Her arms trembled as she fought to control the chaotic surge of power within it, but it was clear she was weakening. The crystal pulsed with an eerie light, growing darker with each pulse, as if it was drawing strength from the Abyss itself.