The Shadow Conclave’s sanctum was lit by no flame. Instead, black glass torches flickered with cold violet light, casting long shadows on the cracked stone floor. The air was thick with damp rot and old magic, older than anything that still had a name. It smelled of burnt herbs and bitter incense, and the walls hummed faintly with power.
The raven came first as a whisper of wings, folding its dark feathers silently as it descended through the smoke-filled rafters. It landed without a sound on The Silent’s shoulder. The others, seated in a rough half-circle around the Mirror of Mourning, turned to face him.
The Silent, ever voiceless, gave a slow nod and walked toward the obsidian mirror—a towering shard framed in bone and bound with runes carved in forgotten tongues. With a gloved hand,
