"The final phase begins now."
The voice echoed through stone corridors older than the city above. Deep beneath Armathor's foundation, in chambers that predated the Hunter Association by centuries, something shed its stolen skin.
Marcus Thorne's face melted like wax. The familiar features of the Association Commander dissolved into shadow and writhing flesh. What remained defied human description, a mass of borrowed identities that rippled and shifted with each breath.
The Skin Walker pressed bleeding palms against carved stone. Symbols blazed to life along the chamber walls. Each mark had been etched by forgotten civilizations, designed to anchor power that shouldn't exist in their reality.
"Master," it whispered to empty air. "The binding circles respond."
Dimensional energy crackled in reply. A presence that existed between worlds answered with approval that made mortal souls freeze.
