In the heart of the Demon Cult's accursed dominion, where sunlight was but a forgotten myth and the land itself trembled with dread, a towering obsidian citadel pierced the sky like a jagged tooth. At its core, deep beneath layers of cursed stone and ritual wards, lay the sanctum—a vast chamber sculpted from agony and shadow.
Here, the air was thick with the iron stench of blood and the weight of ancient, unforgiving magic. The silence was not peaceful; it was the silence of breath held in terror, of death waiting just beyond a heartbeat.
A man stood alone in the centre of it all—the Prophet.
Tall, graceful, unnervingly calm, he exuded both intelligence and menace. His robes shimmered like oil on water, pure white with embroidered symbols stitched in gold thread that seemed to pulse with a will of their own. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the sickly red glow of the summoning circle beneath his feet. His eyes—milky and depthless—held no spark of emotion.
