The light of the dying sun poured through stained glass windows, casting warped shapes of crimson and gold across the stone floor. Dust floated like ash in the air, turning slowly in the silence.
The chamber was not a cathedral—but it wanted to be. High ceilings, vaulted arches, glass mosaics depicting nothing holy. There were no saints here. Only symbols, and the silence of something watching.
At the center of the room, beneath the full weight of that fractured light, stood Kaelith Drosen.
His hands were folded behind his back. His silver hair was tied neatly, his black coat pressed, spotless despite the tension clinging to his frame. He didn't speak.
Above him, seated on a ring of elevated stone thrones carved into the circular wall, were six figures, each wrapped in a dark cloak, each marked with the same sigil burned in red across the face of their hood—a stylized eye split by a claw-shaped curve. The mark of the Heirs of the Void.
