In a different location, millions of kilometres away, hidden within a separate space, nine beings gathered. They sat around a large obsidian table. They were the Sinvairas, the very ones who had orchestrated the assault on Wuthenya.
Unlike before, when they conversed cheerfully and spoke of slaying a Wargrave as if it were a mundane Tuesday, they now said nothing. Not a single word. It was not that they chose silence, but rather that they couldn't speak, as though the very air had become too heavy to carry their voices.
They could all feel it deep within their bones. One of them was gone. He was dead. Permanently. No ability, no artifact, no matter how ancient or forbidden, could retrieve him from the clutches of oblivion.
