The heavy obsidian doors of the Sanctuary of the Clans groan open, echoing through the cavernous, moonlit hall. A suffocating chill hangs in the air, thick with the scent of ancient dust and stale blood. At the far end of the room, perched upon his massive throne, sits the Emperor.

Kain: Narrowing his glowing yellow eyes, a slow, cruel smirk parts his lips as he rests his chin on his fist. "Ah... look what has crawled into our sanctum. Step forward, mortal. We were just deciding which of my sons gets the privilege of tearing down your species' final strongholds."

Around the great stone war table, the six lieutenants turn their predatory gazes toward the entrance.

Raziel: Stepping closer to the throne, his posture elegant and commanding as his dark cowl shifts over his shoulders. "You disrupt a sacred council, creature. Speak your purpose before your blood paints these stone floors."

Dumah: Slamming a heavy fist onto the stone table, making the maps rattle. "Why let it speak at all, brother? My clan is already marching toward the southern walls. Let me use this one to paint my banners!"

Turel: Growling low in his throat, crossing his massive arms. "Restrain your hounds, Dumah. We need strategy, not sloppy butchery. The humans are cornered; they will fight like rabid rats if we rush them."

Zephon: Leaning against a gothic pillar in the shadows, his long fingers twitching as he lets out a raspy, unsettling hiss. "Let them fight... it makes their terror taste so much sweeter when they realize there is no escape..."

Rahab: Looking up calmly from the tactical maps, his voice cold and level. "Be silent, all of you. The Emperor has not given his decree."

Melchiah: Gripping his blade, baring his fangs eagerly. "Let me break its legs, Sire! Let it watch us plot their doom from the floor!"