The ritual chamber was dark, vast, and circular, hidden deep beneath the Palace of the Burning Fangs. No natural light ever penetrated it. Only blue flame torches and mana crystals embedded in the walls diffused a cold, surreal glow, creating a play of moving shadows that seemed almost alive.
Mordred stood motionless, aligned with the last survivors of the slaves trained to become weapons. They were only a handful left. All had become cold, precise killers, devoid of visible humanity. Yet, even among them, Mordred was different. Something in him was already dormant, simply waiting for the right moment to fully awaken.
Before them stood the dragon priests. Long black robes covered their reptilian silhouettes. Their faces, partially masked by hoods, revealed yellow, implacable, and icy gazes.
One of them, clearly the ritual leader, slowly stepped forward. In his hand, he held an obsidian cup engraved with runes, filled with a dark red liquid, almost black.
