The fragile, explosive standoff lasted for exactly twelve seconds. It was broken not by a grand declaration or a strategic maneuver, but by a single, greedy act. The leader of the Iron Vultures, a hulking brute with a scarred face and more muscle than sense, decided he had waited long enough. With a bellowing, avaricious roar of "For the glory of the Vultures!", he charged, his massive great-axe raised, his eyes fixed solely on the pulsating Heart of the Abyss.
His charge was the spark that ignited the powder keg.
The chamber erupted into a chaotic, swirling vortex of violence. The carefully arrayed battle lines of the Inquisition and The Unchained dissolved instantly as the other factions surged forward in a mad, disorganized scramble for the prize. Alliances, truces, and old rivalries became a meaningless blur. There was only one rule in the chamber now: the man standing next to you was an obstacle.
