The Chamber of Echoes lay buried beneath a mountain range that had no name on any mortal map. Its walls of polished obsidian reflected no light yet somehow showed everything—every flicker of movement, every tremor of fear on the faces of those gathered within. Thirteen thrones arranged in a perfect circle, each carved from materials not found in the mortal realm, each bearing the weight of figures whose true names had been forgotten even by history itself.
The Council of Shadows had not convened in full assembly for over three centuries. That they gathered now spoke volumes about the gravity of what was unfolding across the world.
"The sky bleeds crimson over the Fractured Plains," said Lady Morvaine, her voice like silk dragged across broken glass. Her form seemed to shift between that of a beautiful woman and something far more ancient. "The Netherlocks pulse with energies not felt since the Cataclysm. This is happening too quickly."
