She was the wife of Gorathdin the half-elf — a close companion of Master Drobal — both once foes of Erwight of Entorbis.
His thoughts reeled, seeking a path.
His breath grew shallow.
He rubbed his hands in agitation.
His gaze fixed on the flames of the ritual fire.
The heat called back to him the suffering of his people — the hunger they could no longer name.
He exhaled slowly and nodded.
“So be it.”
The air in the hall began to stir.
It twisted, thickened, pulsed as Xaroth took form.
The ground quaked. Cracks split the stone. Flames licked toward the ceiling.
The veil to the soul-realm trembled — then tore.
A hum rose through the chamber — low, swelling, impossible.
And then, a sound like thunder split the world.
Gorzod fell to his knees, gasping.
With a sharp crack, the ritual fire collapsed inward.
Only the shadow remained — lodged deep in his chest.
And a terrible certainty followed:
Something had left with part of him.