The Howling Throne
The oppressive weight of something unseen pressed upon them.
“No,” Elior muttered, realization dawning. “That’s not possible.”
Then came the whisper, soft at first, like the rustling of dead leaves, but growing, shaping into something more. A voice, familiar and terrible, drifted through the ruins.
“You thought you could kill me?”
The shadows churned violently, and from the depths of the wreckage, a hand emerged. Not flesh and bone, but something darker, wreathed in mist and glistening with an unnatural sheen. Then, slowly, she rose.
Bab Populer