Located miles beneath the floating islands, shielded by ancient wards that dampened magical signatures, it was a place where light dared not tread.
In a chamber hewn from obsidian, a heavy stone table dominated the center. Seven chairs surrounded it, each occupied by a figure cloaked in shadows that were not natural, but magically woven to obscure identity.
The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. The air smelled of ozone and suppressed rage.
"THUMP."
A gloved fist slammed onto the obsidian table.
"Explain!," a voice hissed from the head of the table. It was Voice One...cold, authoritative, and dripping with malice.
"How does a planned regional suppression operation turn into a catastrophic failure? We lost Malagor. We lost the Sanctum. And, most importantly, we lost the Avatar!."
"The variable was... unexpected," Voice Three replied, his voice quavering slightly.
