The sky outside was wan and bleached, the light that filtered through the lone, narrow window high in the tower laying a pale beam across the grey walls.
No door stood open, no wind stirred. The tower had been built for silence, for secrecy. No cry could escape it. No sound could enter. The chamber was a tomb,except its dead were not still.
Winter had come and gone, leaving only the cold echo of its passage, like a wound half-healed. Spring touched the world outside with warmth and bloom, but in this room, there was no season.
Only rot. Only foul ritual.
The Imperator lay on the slab, sweat pouring down his waxen face, snot slicking his upper lip. His cheeks were sunken, his skin the shade of corpse-linen. Bloodshot eyes, wide and feral, followed the slow pacing of the man draped in a wolf's pelt, his only chance at life, the shaman.
