The air inside the palace corridors was stagnant, tasting of damp stone and centuries of accumulated dust. Zeven walked with a measured, heavy gait, his footsteps sounding like dull thuds against the flagstones. The darkness was nearly absolute, save for the faint, flickering illumination cast by the glowing, ethereal energy that still clung to his skin like a second shadow. He had left the altar and the fallen body of the Second Elder behind, yet the echoes of those final, chilling words continued to reverberate through his mind. He was not just a host; he was a container.
"A god, they said," Zeven whispered to the empty, stifling dark.
His voice did not sound like his own. It carried a resonance that seemed to belong to the mountain itself, a low, guttural vibration that made the very
