Jessamyn stood at the tent's flap, her eyes scanning the gathering outside. The elders hovered in mid-air, their ancient, weathered faces lit by the eerie glow of the moon. They looked like ghostly sentinels of doom, their figures wrapped in shimmering cloaks of bright white, floating silently as if gravity had abandoned them.
She counted them one by one, her heart heavy with the knowledge that this would be the end. All elders were present, each of them embodying the very essence of the Council's dark power.
Moments later, more figures materialized out of the shadows, their arrival as quiet as the dead of night. They wore heavy purple hoods that hid their faces, but their sinister whispers floated on the wind, swirling through the air like an ominous chant. Each one held a single candle, its flame flickering as they chanted in a language older than time, their voices dissonant and harsh.
