Somewhere in an unknown location.
Deep beneath the earth, within a vast hall swallowed by darkness, silence reigned.
Ancient stone pillars stretched endlessly into the shadows, while dim lanterns cast only enough light to reveal the outline of a throne forged from twisted black thorns.
Seated upon it was a lone figure.
The man was completely concealed beneath a pitch-black robe that covered him from head to toe. Not a single part of his body was visible—not even his face.
Only an oppressive aura filled the chamber. Beside the throne stood an elderly man.
His dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and deep wrinkles marked his weathered face, revealing his age to be around sixty.
He waited respectfully with his head lowered.
After several moments the robed figure slowly opened his eyes beneath the hood.
The old man immediately spoke.
"My Lord... You've returned."
He hesitated before asking,
"What happened?...Is Alaric truly dead?"
