Then, he stepped forward.
With a slow, measured, almost ritual pace, he descended from his stone pedestal, each movement imbued with a gravity that compelled silence.
His cape slid behind him like a liquid shadow, and the air seemed to tighten around his silhouette, suspended on each of his gestures.
He did not need to speak, nor even raise his hand; his mere advance was enough to make the weight of his authority press down upon us.
His voice resounded, deep, vibrant, heavy with an almost supernatural gravity.
It seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth, as if it emerged from an ancient chasm, carved in molten rock and charged with the forgotten echoes of vanished worlds.
Each word vibrated in the air, embedding itself in the stone, in our flesh, imposing silence and attention without any violence being necessary.
It was a voice shaped to command, to be heard without ever being contested.
