The air in the gallery was no longer something meant for mortal lungs. It had become a thick, gelatinous soup of conflicting energies, the ozone-sharp sting of Aldenar kinetic force clashing against the stagnant, oily rot of Malakor's dark magic.
"You think a few Northern parlor tricks can stop the inevitable?" Malakor's voice didn't come from his throat, it erupted from the very shadows themselves, echoing with a dissonant, mocking vibrato.
Malakor raised his arms, and the shadows rise. The dozen fallen shadow-soldiers melted into the floor, swirling toward the center of the room like ink in a whirlpool, rising again as a singular, towering monstrosity of darkness that brushed the vaulted ceiling. It had no face, only a vertical slit of fire where a heart should be.
