Far from the ashes of the Ghost Village and the storm of fury surrounding Morgan, a suffocating silence settled over a forgotten part of the world—a rift of time and space, sealed in shadow.
Within this void walked the hooded figure.
His cloak dragged behind him like black mist. The dim violet sky overhead seemed to pulse with energy—like a living thing that watched him, breathing in unison with every one of his quiet, measured steps.
He came to a stop before an ancient altar carved out of what looked like molten obsidian. The stones around it whispered with voices long dead, and a spectral glow lined the edges of the ancient platform. The hooded man bowed low, pressing one gloved hand to his chest.
Then came the sound. A low thrum, like thunder locked within the earth.
