Radeon knew his disciples would not be protagonists this time. There were too many bodies.
Too many moving parts. The operation was too large for any one face to carry.
He stood apart and let Myridion Seersight sink into the ground.
His golden eye burned brighter, and the world peeled open. Streets became veins. Cellars became cavities.
Under the stone, cut deliberately deep, narrow routes threaded through abandoned shafts.
Mine carts flew along them, wheels giving a soft shriek on the rails as men tried to escape with whatever they could carry.
Radeon watched. He memorized. He did not speak. He did not tell the cultists those routes existed.
That knowledge was for Radeon Terraces. For his first shrine in this crumbling world.
A shrine needed arteries. A shrine needed hidden doors. Then the ghosts moved.
On the far side of the underground, wraiths already waited. They did not chatter. They did not bargain. They collected.
