The living room of Mourning Manor had been transformed into a theater of desolation. What was once an opulent space of velvet drapes and polished mahogany now stood silent, the air thick with the acrid scent of ozone and the bitter sting of dark magic. Gillian stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving as he stared down the intruder. The shaman, a twisted figure draped in shadow and bone, glided into the hall, his staff pulsing with a violet, rhythmic light that seemed to drain the very color from the surroundings. Every step the shaman took left a faint, charcoal-colored footprint on the pristine rug, a physical mark of the corruption he brought with him into the heart of the home.
"You have nowhere left to run, Executioner," the shaman hissed, his voice echoing in the rafters.
