Meanwhile, in a different part of the world, inside a dark room.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the kind of silence that came from peace, but the kind that came from something ancient holding its breath.
The walls were made of stone, old and cracked, carved with symbols no one remembered how to write.
There were no windows. Just flickering torches stuck between skull-shaped sconces that gave off a pale, greenish-blue flame.
The floor was cold. Carved runes lined every edge. Faintly glowing. Humming.
In the center of the room stood a figure.
Bent. Thin.
A man—but barely.
His robes were black, old, and stitched together with strange thread. His skin looked like dried paper stretched too tight over a fragile frame, and his mouth was twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile, but it showed far too many teeth.
He stood there, holding a holophone in his bony hand.
And he was laughing.
Softly at first.
Then louder.
Then more.
