A chamber was hidden deep within a mountain range that no map showed, accessible only to those who knew the precise combination of spells and rituals required to enter. Torches burned with blue flame, casting long shadows across ancient stone walls carved with scenes of destruction and grief.
Seven figures stood in a circle, their faces illuminated by the flickering light.
"Dagon is awake," the first figure said. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with silver hair cropped close to his scalp and a scar running from temple to jaw. His name was Kaelen, and among them he was called the Shield. Not because he carried one, but because he had spent centuries perfecting defensive magic that could stop almost anything. His eyes were grey and hard, like winter sky before a storm.
