The chamber was steeped in silence, thick with the acrid tang of spent magic and the iron scent of blood. The two remaining mages stood paralyzed, their gazes locked onto the lifeless body sprawled across the stone floor. Their comrade's severed head lay just inches away, his final expression frozen in a grotesque mask of disbelief. The reality of death had not yet fully dawned upon them, but the figure before them—the executioner cloaked in black—left no room for denial.
Orion stood with his sword lowered, his gaze cool and assessing. His onyx blade, slick with fresh blood, dripped onto the stone floor in slow, rhythmic drops. The two silver-core mages, still stunned by the swiftness of the kill, barely registered the growing dread that pooled in their guts. But panic was swift to follow.