The temple echoed with the profane chants of the cultists. The central chamber was filled with dark smoke rising from the altar, where priests whispered words in a forgotten language while marking the floor with the warm blood of prisoners still alive. The roots of the dead tree pulsed in the center of the chamber as if drinking from that suffering. The air was saturated with rotten magic.
Then a breath broke the silence.
A gust of cutting wind came from above, an invisible force sweeping through the temple with a deafening howl. In less than a second, it crossed the air between the columns and severed the head of one of the tallest cultists—one of the arcane members of the ritual circle.
The head fell with a dull thud, rolling across the bloodstained stones, its eyes still wide open. The body fell to its knees and collapsed on its side.
A scream of terror echoed through the room.
