The air in the chamber was not merely old; it was ancient, thick with the dust of forgotten millennia and the weight of decisions that had shaped the course of human history. It existed in a pocket dimension, a bubble of reality anchored to a stone circle in the Scottish Highlands, but feeling as vast as the cosmos. The walls, if they could be called that, swirled with nebulae and the cold, distant light of dying stars.
At the center of this celestial map sat thirteen figures. They were the Enforcers, beings who had walked the Earth when empires were but dreams in the minds of mud-covered farmers. And at their head sat Lysander Ravencroft, his form as still and perfect as a marble statue, his dark eyes holding the cold patience of a glacier.
