The Ridge of Hollow Eyes was quiet.
Too quiet.
The smoke from the ruined ritual site still lingered in the air, curling like the last breath of a dying thing. Beneath the charred trees and collapsed cave mouth, black veins of corruption pulsed faintly in the soil, though the forest tried to reclaim itself. Vines with green shoots crawled slowly over the stone, defiant.
But deep below the surface, in hidden tunnels untouched by River's healing light, the remnants of the Shadow Conclave gathered.
Four remained.
The Silent sat upon a throne of stone and ash, his cracked mask fused to the twisted flesh of his jaw. He had traded his voice long ago for power beyond comprehension. Now, he communicated through the raven perched on his shoulder—its feathers glimmering obsidian in the torchligh
