The air within the Syndicate’s meeting hall was thick with the scent of old incense and the underlying metallic tang of fear. Shadows clung to the high, vaulted ceilings, dancing in the flickering orange glow of wall-mounted torches. Gillian stood motionless at the center of the obsidian floor, his body still aching from the previous night's c*****e. His breath was steady, but beneath his stoic exterior, a storm was brewing. Before him sat the elders of the Syndicate, their faces obscured by deep, velvet hoods. They were the architects of his misery, the ones who had bound his life to the ritualistic chains of service. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
"The executioner has returned," one of the elders spoke, the voice echoing like grinding stones. "You have performe
