The silence of their pact lingered in the air like a heavy and sharp shadow that refused to leave, but it did not last forever.
The hall seemed alive, as if the walls of bone and stone had grown used to breathing with the weight of the two figures inside.
Every surface felt stretched thin with memory, as though the screams that had once filled this chamber were etched deep into the marrow of the walls, waiting to echo again if anyone dared to listen closely enough.
Valakar remained motionless upon his throne, his massive frame carved against the jagged spire of fused bone as if he were grown out of it.
The faint veins of corrupted red crawling through the throne pulsed slower now, steady, patient, the rhythm of a predator lying at rest with no need to chase when it already knew its prey would come.
Drosirael stood not far from him, near the base of the throne, and his cloak of shadows was restless in a way that reminded one of knives testing their edge.
