Kingdom of Ash

the fly’s remarkable sense of smell. He’d
passed the door so many times now on his
fruitless hunting, deeming it a mere supply
closet—until chance had intervened today.
Dorian rounded the last turn of the spiral
stairs, and nearly tumbled from the air as the
smell fully hit him. A thousand times worse in
this form, with these senses.
A reek of death, of rot, of hate and despair.
The scent that only the Valg could summon.
He’d never forget it. Had never quite left it
behind.
Turn back. The warning was a whisper
through his mind. Turn back.
The lower hall was lit with only a few
torches in rusted iron brackets. No guards
were posted along its length, or by the lone
iron door at its far end.
The reek pulsed along the corridor,
emanating from that door. Beckoning.