The memory should not have existed. Albedo's fingers remained pressed lightly against the cultist's temple, his Amethyst-threaded consciousness sliding through the fractured corridors of a dying mind.
Images flickered.
Stone walls slick with condensation.
A chamber far beneath bedrock.
A sigil carved into obsidian, its geometry not chaotic like common Abyssal cult marks, but structured.
And before it was Alexander Graves, kneeling before a figure veiled in abyssal distortion, crowned in shadows that seemed to drip downward like liquid smoke.
Two hollow eyes burning faint violet.
Albedo's breath stalled. He knew that silhouette. He knew that presence. He had seen it in the middle arcs of the Novel, during the period when the world began collapsing inward under layered Abyssal incursions.
When dungeons began appearing unnaturally. When entire adventuring parties vanished. When rumors spread of spirits screaming in the night.
Nazghul -- The Soul-Drinker.
