They stood in a circle—robed, masked, cloaked in silence.
A hundred strong, their breathless stillness made the air itself seem to shiver. At the center of the vast underground chamber yawned a pit, its rim ringed with jagged obsidian spikes, each one etched with runes that pulsed with a dull, infernal red. Smoke curled from the glyphs, carrying a stench of scorched copper and ash.
Within the pit lay a mound of bodies—men, women, and children. Some still twitched, caught between death and the final breath. Most did not. Blood soaked the stone floor, tracing ancient symbols that hummed with energy older than empires.
Nia stood at the edge, her boots soaked crimson. She stared into the pit with glassy, fervent eyes. Around her, the other high-ranking Shadows chanted in a low, rhythmic hum. It was not a song, nor a language—it was a vibration of will, a frequency meant to cut through the veil of the world.
"Bring him," Nia said.
"Bring him," Nia said again.
