On the outskirts of the city stood a crumbling mansion, its once-proud walls sagging beneath the weight of ivy and decay. Windows hung shattered in their frames, and the iron gate, long rusted through, creaked endlessly in the wind.
To the casual passerby, it was nothing more than a relic of nobility fallen to ruin: abandoned, forgotten, and devoid of life. But appearances were deceiving.
Beneath its rotting timbers and dust-choked halls, the mansion concealed a secret darker than death. Within its dining chamber, the Apostles of the Demon Cult had gathered. Every one of them had varied expressions. Some were bored, some fatigued, and some were simply invested in the meeting.
At the table's head sat Kieran, the Prophet's second-in-command. The Prophet himself was focused on recovery, and so Kieran presided in his stead. His gaze swept across the assembled Apostles, cold and unyielding, as though measuring their worth in silence before a single word left his lips.
