On either side of the central path rose two living columns: elite guards, perfectly motionless, in full armor forged from dark, smoking metals.
They were of the same species as the other demons of Zagnaroth — those humanoids with dark, cracked skin streaked with glowing fissures — but their presence radiated absolute discipline, a contained force.
Each held a halberd of fire, planted in the black floor, gaze fixed straight ahead.
I walked slowly, my steps echoing on the obsidian tiles. Sweat beaded at my nape. I wasn't exactly afraid… but tense. A heartbeat too fast in my chest, a heightened awareness of every movement.
To my right, Lysara advanced without a word, straight, calm. She observed, but did not react. Her breathing was slow, perfectly measured, almost out of sync with the intensity of the place.
And then I looked up.
At the far end of the hall, on a massive platform forged from the very heart of metal, rose the throne.
