Page 174 of Warlord's Plaything

A voice.

A whisper.

A chant that slides through the air like silk, like rot, like a blade pressed against bare skin.

"The gods have no power here."

The voice is soft.

Too soft.

Too calm.

I step forward, and then I see him.

Kaelith stands at the base of the altar, his arms spread wide, his body bathed in violet light.

He doesn’t look the same.

His skin is no longer just dark elf obsidian—it’s cracked, glowing from within, pulsing with raw necromantic energy.

His eyes are gone.

Now, they are endless voids, swirling with power.

His robes hang off him like tattered funeral shrouds, his hands blackened with the magic he wields.

He smiles.

"You’re too late."His voice is a blade through the silence."The veil is already tearing."

He gestures to the altar.

That’s when I see the rift. A crack in the air itself, jagged, black, and pulsing with something that should not exist.

And beneath it?—

Bodies.

Hundreds.

Their forms broken, twisted, bound in chains of light that do not let them rest.

And Kaelith is drinking them in.

Their souls.

Their essence.

Their very existence.

Feeding on them.

Growing stronger.

And my stomach turns.

I know what this means.

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