The freezing winter wind howled across the deep, jagged ravines of the Black Gorge, rustling the heavy black-iron banners fluttering from the high watchtowers of the Howling Abyss fortress.
Inside the vast, obsidian-paved Main Hall, the air was dense with the quiet, oppressive weight of a top-tier regional power. Rows of high-ranking elders stood like statues along the dark stone pillars, their hands tucked deep inside wide sleeves, watching the heavy oak entrance in hushed anticipation.
At the head of the chamber, upon a dark basalt throne carved with the jagged, sweeping contours of a ravenous beast, sat Zia Han.
His youthful features and slender frame were cloaked in midnight robes that stirred lightly in the cold draft. He rested one elbow upon the armrest, his fingers lightly tapping the cold stone, while his dark eyes carried that signature, unshakeable calm that had anchored his sect through years of bloodshed.
CLACK. CLACK.
