The inner sanctum of the fortress was a cathedral of blasphemy. The walls were lined with glass tubes, each holding half-formed monsters suspended in green fluid. Arcs of unstable magic crackled between runes etched deep into the mountain's heart. At the far end, an altar stood, carved with serpentine sigils — the mark of Ourouboros.
Azariah entered. His boots echoed softly against the bloodstained floor. Behind him, nothing but silence. Before him, the air warped.
A pressure unlike the previous commanders descended. The temperature shifted. The very air itself bent into whirling spirals, each breath slicing like a blade. The storm of Law of Wind filled the sanctum.
A tall figure stepped from the shadows.
