The patriarch of the draconic elves appeared in a strange place, his feet stepping on damp ground, the sound of splashing water reaching his ears.
He was not in front of the gate through which he had entered, no.
He was miles below the earth, in a chamber so deep and narrow that not even he or his father knew exactly where it was.
All they knew was that this gate led to that chamber.
He took a step forward, observing a long corridor that stretched to an even larger chamber. Its ceiling rose miles above the floor, its length extending as far as the eye could see.
At the end of that chamber was the heart of Karlan.
The patriarch's pupils focused as he saw a group of figures, twelve in total.
They were the draconic priests and guardians of the remains of fallen heroes.
His most trusted advisors and, above all, the beings responsible for the ritual that would help RedDeath receive the power of Karlan's dragon.
