The relentless rain of Cedar Pass soaked the weary traveler's crimson cloak, but he no longer felt the cold. For years, he had wandered through the purgatory of these haunted woods, guided only by the faint, golden glow of the brass compass in his outstretched palm and the protective weight of the rune-carved shield on his arm. To his left and right, restless spirits emerged from the muddy earth—one bearing a tarnished offering bowl, the other reaching out with hollow longing—but they dared not cross the protective threshold of the path. Above, beneath the shadow of a distant, lonely cross, the storm raged, as if the heavens themselves were trying to bar his way. Yet, the promised path had finally revealed itself. A winding staircase of ancient stone, entwined by twisted, blood-red vines, ascended toward a blinding, holy light that tore through the midnight storm. Clutching his shield tighter, the wanderer stepped onto the first stair, feeling the oppressive weight of the world finally fall away. They had braved the revival of ancient horrors and the endless whispers of the dead, but the promise held true. As he crossed the threshold into the warm glow of the portal, the rain ceased, and a voice seemed to echo from the light: We came at last.