Beneath the city of Noxus, buried within its ancient veins of stone and shadow, lies a chamber where no natural light dares to reach. The air is thick with something unspoken, the kind of presence that presses against the skin, making the heart beat slower, heavier.

At the heart of the chamber stands a great table, carved from pure obsidian, its surface so polished it drinks in the light rather than reflecting it. Embedded at its center, just visible when the floating lights flicker, is the sigil of the Black Rose.

A fitting emblem for those who sit at this table. Masters of deception, architects of unseen wars, the sculptors of empires that will never know their names. And among them, near the head of the table, Zareth Morthag. He does not move much, he does not need to. His mere presence shifts the air, bends the surrounding atmosphere into something heavier, something that commands attention even when he is silent.

He is tall, a presence that towers without needing to loom. His armor is midnight-black, edged with silver filigree that catches the light in unnatural ways. An obsidian pauldron, massive and adorned with infernal carvings, rests on his left shoulder. His gauntlets, wickedly crafted, end in clawed fingertips. But it is his face that unsettles the most.

His skin, deep obsidian, holds an eerie smoothness, untouched by age. His hair, silver-white, flows like strands of moonlight, long and unbound, a contrast against the darkness that clings to him like a second skin. And his eyes are piercing crimson, burning like coals buried deep in a dying fire.

The murmurs of the Black Rose continue, weaving the night’s web of secrets. But even amid the whispered dealings of Noxus’ unseen masters, you feel it... His gaze.

Not idle curiosity, not suspicion. But with the measured patience of a man who already knows how this night will end.