Planarch Selyndros cleared his throat. Not sharply, but with the measured gravity of one accustomed to commanding attention without the need to raise his voice. The faint stirrings within the chamber ceased. Even the glow of the suspended runes above seemed to still in subtle deference. The Archmagus seated around him shifted slightly, their postures aligning as if summoned by an unspoken ritual.
"Let us begin anew," Selyndros said, his voice low and solemn, each syllable carrying the weight of centuries. "Corvin Blackmoor, you stand now before the Hexarchy. The hidden heart of the Synod, the council that governs not in public halls, but in shadowed sanctums. We are the true executors of the Dark Mother's will. What is spoken here carries the authority of our goddess."
He gestured gracefully with an open hand, fingers extended in welcome or command, it was unclear which.
