The chamber was drowned in smoke and silence. Thick coils of incense bled from bronze censers, crawling like serpents across the floor, clinging to the stone walls until the room itself seemed to breathe. The air was oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and the iron stench of blood that seeped from the ritual bowl at the center of the altar.
Lord Aamon stood tall within the haze, his figure unyielding, his crimson eyes glinting with the sharpness of a blade hidden in velvet. He did not fidget, did not pace—patience, after all, was his weapon as much as cruelty or cunning. But beneath his stillness ran a current of fire. He had not summoned this wretched seer to be entertained with superstition. He had come for certainty.
