The chamber beneath Hollow Fang Fortress was carved from obsidian and bone, laced with veins of glimmering bloodstone that pulsed like a living thing. The air within the sanctum always felt thick, heavy—saturated with old oaths, forbidden rites, and magic pulled from death's breath itself.
But now, it trembled.
The sigils etched in the walls shimmered erratically. The candles—perpetually aflame in shades of violet and black—flickered, their flames turning gold for the briefest of moments.
Voryn rose from the throne of onyx at the chamber's heart, his black robe trailing smoke across the runes beneath his feet. His crimson eyes narrowed, flaring with unnatural light.
Something had shifted.
No—something had awakened.
He crossed to the mirror of bone glass that hung above the altar, carved from the ribcage of an ancient fallen god. Its surface, once smooth and dark, was fractured by golden cracks, spreading like veins of fire through obsidian.
"Impossible," he hissed.
