Each rite I perform, each word of power — it leaves me thinner. As if something feeds. Quietly. Persistently.”
Raynarus and Elvoran joined him.
“I too have heard whispers,” said Raynarus. “Some seers speak of dreams they cannot shake. Others of visions they dare not share. I have spoken with more than one. And the name Gorzod Greyswings has passed between them — and the word pact.”
He closed his eyes a moment, as if steadying himself.
“I’ve seen the world shift. In some places, beasts flee lands they once called home. Birds fly in circles, without course — as if they’ve lost the sky. And the winds carry a whisper — something dark, as though from another realm. Even the elements themselves seem unbound.”
A hush settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the firebowl.
Master Drobal rose slowly. The shadows of his cloak flickered in the firelight, as if moved by a will of their own. He stepped toward one of the shelves, his gaze drifting across the spines. On the fourth row from the bottom, his hand slid along the bindings — then stopped, suddenly, as if compelled.
He drew forth a book, carefully leafed through the pages, and at last returned to the table, where he laid it down with deliberate weight.
“The Libratus Daemonae,” he said softly — and began to read:
“Xaroth, commander of the First Legion of Darkness.