Tower of Hollow Whispers – Midnight. Wind tore through the shattered teeth of the tower's spires, whispering secrets only the dead could understand. Beneath the moonless sky, the Tower of Hollow Whispers stood crooked and breathing like a wounded beast. Inside its highest chamber, shadows clung to every wall, and the very air tasted of rust and magic.
Chantelle, the Duchess of Darkness, sat cross-legged within a runic circle etched in obsidian and dried blood. Her long silver hair, dirtied by weeks of incantations and ritual bloodletting, stuck to her face and neck. Bruises still marred her porcelain skin—remnants of the brutal clash with Chatan and Lori, the guardians of the in-between realm. Their assault had nearly unraveled her body, but the Duchess had always been hard to kill.
She dipped a finger into a chalice of dark liquid—her own blood—and whispered.
"Come, Raka."
