The cavern breathed like a living thing, a slow, damp exhale that carried the scent of iron and rot.
At the center of that gloom sat a throne made of layered bone and rusted metal.
The Shadow Disciple lounged on it as if the seat were his right, though its crooked crown was a mockery: small, cracked, and suited only to a weak lord.
He rose now with an impatient snap.
"My beloved strong ones… please, come in," he said, and the words slid through the cavern like oil.
He swept his hand in a swift motion.
The motion cut through the stale air and the shadows answered — not as loose whispers but as deliberate ripples, summoning those who had been waiting beyond the veil.
Five figures stepped through the dark like five different storms.
They moved from the shadows as if emerging from a mirror: human in shape, but not human in presence.
