Severen’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind it changed. It sharpened. Curled.
He didn’t answer.
The air around him began to ripple.
At first, it was only a shimmer—heat-bending light. But then the shadows at his feet thickened, spreading like oil spilled over stone. They climbed up his legs, winding together, pulsing as if they carried blood instead of darkness.
Then they moved.
The shapes twisted, splitting, writhing—until serpents poured forth, hundreds of them, as slick and black as ink. They hissed in unison, the sound thin and cruel, like laughter under breath.
The crowd erupted—gasps, shouts, men stumbling back, chains clattering.
The serpents slithered toward the man who had spoken. He froze, trembling, eyes wide as the coils reached him. The first one brushed his leg; he screamed. Another wrapped around his throat. Another his arms. Soon he vanished beneath the mass—strangled, swallowed in silence.
The noise died.
All that remained was the rasp of the snakes shifting across stone.
My pulse echoed in my throat. I couldn’t look away.
They didn’t move with chaos.
They moved withpurpose.
It was beautiful in a way that made my skin crawl—terrible, elegant, inevitable.
And then Severen spoke again.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Each word was measured, deliberate, spoken with the stillness of someone who knew the world bent when he spoke.
“A Shadow Lord,” he said, “is invincible. A Shadow Lord is untouchable.”
The serpents froze mid-motion, their black coils turning toward him as though listening. Their heads lifted, waiting for command.
He smiled—slow, and cruel.
“A Shadow Lord,” he murmured, “is power beyond comprehension.”
He raised one hand. The movement was graceful—almost reverent—and snapped his fingers.
The shadows obeyed.
The serpents melted into the stone, their bodies dissolving into black mist that slithered back toward his feet. They vanished without a sound.
Only the man remained.
He knelt in the dirt, trembling, his breath ragged, his eyes glassy with terror. Not a mark on him. No blood. No bite.
Just the haunted gaze of someone who’d looked directly into hell and been sent back.
Severen regarded him with mild curiosity, as if measuring the weight of what he’d left behind.
Then his attention turned to the rest of us.
“The trials,” he said, his voice carrying through the cavern like a plague wind, “are six in number. Six ordeals, each designed to strip away the weak and mold what remains into something new.”
The torches flickered as he spoke, their light painting his face in gold and shadow.
