Behind them, deeper in the cavern, the council huddled. The last of the human leadership, generals stripped of their armies, nobles stripped of their titles, priests stripped of their gods. They argued still, voices raw with fear.
"We must flee deeper—"
"There is nowhere deeper—"
"We should negotiate—"
"With what?" Darius spat, backhanding a mutant across the snout. "You would offer them your bones for supper?"
The council's words died as the ceiling split above them.
Dust rained. Beams groaned. And then, silence.
Not peace. Not safety. Silence like the pause before a knife slides in.
And through the crack in the stone, a pale figure dropped.
Maeven landed soundlessly, as though the earth bent to cradle him. His white hair caught the torchlight, glimmering faintly. His eyes swept the cavern, not with hunger, not with fury. With indifference.
The mutants froze mid-slaughter, trembling, awaiting his word.
