The Void was not empty. It was filled with the screaming echoes of failure, a symphony of personalized hells designed to break the mind before the body ever felt a blow.
In the center of the illusory arena, the air was thick, suffocating, and tasted of old copper and grave dirt. The sky above was an endless, crushing black ceiling, devoid of stars, pressing down like a physical weight upon the souls trapped beneath it.
Dain Ragnor was on his knees. He wasn't the captain here. He wasn't the Shield. He was a small, frightened boy holding a piece of tin foil against a hurricane.
