The room was the antithesis of the golden chamber before it—utterly black, as though the walls themselves devoured light and sound alike.
A round table stood at its center, vast and ancient, its surface carved with symbols that shifted and pulsed like something alive. Around it sat eight thrones, each occupied by a figure whose very being refused to stay constant.
Their forms bled and warped with every heartbeat—one moment elven grace, the next demonic horns, then human eyes or beastman claws. Shadows clung to them like a second skin, and even the air around their chairs seemed afraid to move.
The only light came from a screen embedded in the center of the table.
On it flickered a face young, handsome, and infuriatingly calm.
Short black hair, golden eyes that burned like twin suns.
Sebastian Nekros.
For a long time, no one spoke. The silence was not peace, it was reverence, it was fear, it was the pause before an unholy prayer.
Then a voice broke the quiet.
