In the heart of the enemy's domain lay a chamber steeped in silence, its stillness broken only by the faint hiss of oil lamps hung along the stone walls.
Their dim glow threw long, flickering shadows across the ground, making the place resemble a graveyard carved out of darkness itself.
Twelve graves lined the floor in an ordered circle, each mound marked not with care or reverence but with power.
Around them were etched runes that pulsed faintly with a sickly light, their glow feeding into staffs planted firmly in the earth.
Atop those staffs rested skulls — cracked, yellowed things — and other ritual trinkets meant to bind the spirits of the fallen to this place.
This was the graveyard of Amon's clan, the unholy anchor where their dead did not rest but instead clawed their way back to the world.
Here, death was less a conclusion and more a delay.
