The Umbral Court was not a place of fire. Fire was a mortal concept, a thing of heat, light, and passion. This place was the opposite. It was a realm of absolute cold, an endless, obsidian-floored expanse under a sky of roiling, starless, light-devouring void.
Here, sound did not echo; it died, swallowed by the oppressive, ancient silence.
At the center of this nothingness, Lord Malakor sat upon the Dark Throne. The throne itself was not carved from bone or rock, but from the solidified, conceptual absence of light. He was a being of impossible scale, his form a mountainous silhouette of shadow and fractured armor, his true shape hidden within the darkness he commanded. The only light in the entire court came from his two eyes, which burned with the dull, crimson, undying embers of a trillion consumed souls.
He was not raging. He was not gloating. He was... listening.
