Valakar's voice came after a long silence. It was low and heavy, carrying through the air and sinking into the stone beneath their feet.
It didn't just shake the chamber; it moved through the marrow of the cultists crouched on the floor, as if his words had weight enough to bend their very bones.
"They will sing," he said. "And their song will not end until the last spark of their fire has been smothered into ash."
The words hung there, sharp and final, and then Drosirael's laughter carried over it, cruel and thin.
Together, the sound rolled across the hall, like two storms clashing above a ruined world. The cultists flattened themselves against the floor, hoping the stone might swallow them whole.
Their voices cracked with the effort of prayer, but their trembling bodies betrayed them; it was not faith but terror that kept them down there, and even their prayers sounded like fear trying to crawl out of their throats.
