The Citadel breathed in the quiet.
Vorath sat unmoving upon his throne, his eyes closed, his thoughts far beyond the cold chamber. The skulls that adorned the Citadel's walls glimmered faintly, their sockets filling with a pale blue glow.
Their whispers rose, soft at first, like the rustle of wind over graves. Then louder, weaving into one another, forming a chorus just beyond comprehension.
"…She binds him still… the one he could not save…"
"…Chains of grief… chains of love… stronger than death…"
A faint crackling, as if bones shifting beneath the floor.
"…Two souls bearing light… drawn by fate… to the Throne of Night…"
One skull, its jaw hanging slightly ajar, whispered louder than the others:
"…When they come, the shadow will falter… but not fall…"
Another hissed in reply:
"…And when the chains break… the world will burn anew…"
Vorath did not stir. Whether he heard or not, none could tell. His expression remained still, carved in cold resolve, his breathing steady as if the whispers were nothing more than wind.
But deep in the shadows, Nox Obscura hummed faintly, its sound low, alive — almost pleased.
The Citadel's flames flickered higher for a moment, then dimmed again.
The whispers faded.
The silence returned.