In the depths of a fortress carved out of black rock, far below the surface, bathed in a dark red light pulsing like a sick heart, silence reigned. Not a whisper. Not a cry. Just the constant breath of an ancient, unhealthy power, alive within the very walls of this Cyclopean cavern.
There were seven of them. Gathered together.
The Lords of the Apocalypse.
Their slender, sinister figures, draped in black cloth and runic plaques, towered over a vast obsidian table engraved with shifting glyphs. Each of them - dark elves from a forgotten lineage - carried in their aura an oppression so dense that a mortal could not have stood for more than a minute in their presence.
A woman's soft, cold voice broke the silence:
- Vollua is still standing.
