At the center of the vast chamber stood six coffins arranged in a perfect circle.
At the very heart of that formation loomed a seventh coffin—massive, towering over the rest like a silent monarch presiding over its subjects.
Each coffin was forged from an unknown material, neither stone nor metal, its surface smooth yet unnervingly organic.
Ancient runes were engraved deeply into their surfaces, etched with such precision that they appeared almost alive.
The runes pulsed faintly, rising and falling in a slow rhythm, as though the coffins themselves were breathing.
Without warning, the chamber trembled.
A low, grinding sound echoed through the cavernous space, reverberating off the walls and sinking into Thoren's bones.
Thoren stood frozen alongside his undead minions.
His breath hitched in his throat, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his gaze locked onto the seven coffins.
