A desolate, foreboding expanse where jagged, spear-like rocks thrust skyward from the earth like the spines of some colossal, long-dead beast. The air is thick with an eerie mist that clings to the sharp, obsidian-like spires, muffling sound and casting distorted shadows. The ground beneath is cracked and uneven, scattered with fragments of stone and patches of ashen soil. Little grows here save for clusters of twisted, thorny vines that cling to the base of the spires, their blackened roots seeming to drink from the valley’s sorrow.

The atmosphere is heavy and oppressive, and the faint, keening whistle of wind through the spires carries a mournful, ghostly tone, as though the valley itself laments its existence. Travelers speak of an unsettling stillness here, as if the valley watches them, waiting. Few dare to linger, for this is not just a place of gloom—it is a monument to despair and forgotten suffering.