As if in answer, the air ahead of them shimmered, and a dark, towering figure appeared, cloaked in shadows. Its form was vague, shifting like mist, but its eyes—two burning, crimson orbs—were unmistakably focused on them.
William felt the familiar weight of power, similar to Zalthor's but somehow colder, darker. This presence was not bound to the ruins. It was something older, more primal, that had been watching them all along.
The figure's voice echoed in their minds, deep and resonant, carrying a hint of ancient malice. "You have taken what is not yours…Those relics bound by blood and sacrifice. They belong to the First Masters, and none may wield them without judgment."
William tightened his grip on the Orb of Dominion, stepping forward. "We claimed them through trials. We fought the guardians and proved ourselves worthy."
