Far from Anbord.
Far from the celebration, laughter, and the fragile illusion of safety.
The stronghold of the Order of Voriel did not exist in any map, nor in any layer of the mortal world that obeyed direction or distance. It hung in a dead fold of reality, half-buried in an Underworld, half-anchored to something dangerous.
The air there did not move. It waited.
Black stone arches twisted upward like the ribs ofa colossal corpse, their surfaces etched with funerary scripture that rewrote itself every few seconds. Beneath them stretched a vast chamber lit by corpse-lanterns; skulls burning with pale green fire, suspended by chains that rattled without wind.
At the center stood a circular obsidian table. Around it knelt figures cloaked in ash-gray robes, their hoods low, their postures reverent. Blood pooled in shallow grooves carved into the floor, slowly flowing toward a sigil shaped like an open grave.
One of them spoke.
"The test is complete."
