As the robed watchers drifted closer, their crackling threads of runes illuminating the oppressive gloom with their crimson glow, a subtle shift occurred beneath David. The shadows, previously inert, stretched unnaturally, elongating like living things, deepening into liquid pools of night. They pulsed with a hidden vitality, a silent current of immense power that seemed to anticipate David's every unvoiced command.
From the deepest part of these expanding shadows, a figure calmly stepped forth. It was Death. Her form, cloaked in robes of swirling midnight, was a stark contrast to the oppressive gold and shadow of the throne room. Her movements were fluid, effortless, utterly devoid of fear or hesitation. She moved with the quiet grace of inevitability itself, her presence a silent promise of destruction to any who dared to oppose her master.
