The heavy door creaked open, and Zythrax and Gwendolyn stepped into the cavernous underground factory. The dank air reeked of dark sorcery and death. Hunched, snarling figures toiled ceaselessly over bubbling cauldrons and arcane forges, fueling the production of profane horrors.
"Drink it in, my defiant brood," a guttural rumble echoed through the shadows.
A group of hunched laborers tended to a massive cauldron, its bubbling contents glowing with an eldritch green luminescence.
"Careful with the seventh rune inscription," a raspy voice barked. "The binding must be precise, lest the essence destabilize."
A wizened figure, face shrouded by a tattered cowl, hobbled forward, gnarled hands tracing intricate sigils along the cauldron's rim. Arcane runes flared to life, pulsing in tandem w
