Far from the shattered throne of Hal-Kareth, beyond the reach of his silence and sorrow, something stirred beneath the crust of the earth.
Eyes opened—many, unblinking, layered over flesh that writhed like serpents nesting beneath a single robe.
The Cult of the Devourer had been watching.
Not through scrying pools or divine mirrors. No, theirs was an older art—gazing through echoes and impressions left behind by dying laws. Hal-Kareth's fall had not gone unnoticed.
From within a temple of bone deep in the Ashen Fold, one of the high acolytes knelt before an obsidian obelisk that pulsed with hunger.
"The Warden is gone," she said. Her voice was reverent. Fearful.
The flesh of the obelisk cracked, and from within, a voice emerged—a voice not spoken, but imposed.
"Then they walk the path of trespassers. Sovereign thieves."
