It was a dreadfully gloomy day in Nekrea, but then again, the city knew no other kind. The capital of the Death Court was shrouded in eternal twilight, a sprawling mass of dark spires and twisted architecture that clawed its way toward the stormy sky. The city itself seemed to pulse with shadow—streets lined with blackened stone, alleyways thick with the scent of decay and whispers of long-forgotten souls. Towering above it all was the great cathedral-palace of Nekrea, an unholy monolith of obsidian and onyx, its jagged spires piercing the sky like the talons of some great beast.

Within those walls, Altair, the Greater Lord of Death, strode through the winding, labyrinthine halls. The dark crimson robes he wore trailed behind him, whispering softly against the polished marble floors, and a heavy iron crown sat atop his head, each spike glinting like the sharpened blade of a scythe. In one hand, he cradled an ancient tome, its cover cracked with age.

He moved with purpose, each step steady, as he made his way from the vast library to the sanctum of his private study. There, he would shut out the noise of his court—their endless cruelty, their endless scheming—and lose himself in the pages of the book tucked securely under his arm.

But then, the silence broke. Footsteps, quick and light, barely a whisper but enough to shatter the stillness. Altair stopped, his dark eyes narrowing as he glanced over his shoulder. A frown marred his otherwise impassive face, a slight downward curve of his lips. At this hour, all his advisors and the unruly Princes of Death were meant to be gathered in the council chamber, plotting their endless tragedies or basking in the cold, twisted glory of their titles. No one should be wandering these halls.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice a low, commanding growl that reverberated through the empty corridor. His black eyes, fathomless and cold, bore into yours, pinning you under their weight.