The chamber was a vast, oppressive space, its walls carved from ancient stone and adorned with faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and death.
The air was thick with a malevolent energy, the very atmosphere pulsating with dark power. Shadows seemed to twist and writhe of their own accord, and the cold was so intense that Cruzer could see his breath in the dim light.
At the far end of the chamber, the Wraith King sat upon his throne, a towering figure clad in armor as black as the void.
The ancient metal gleamed faintly, etched with runes that pulsed with a sinister glow. These were no ordinary symbols; they were marks of dark magic, of a power long forgotten by the living.
The Wraith King's helm was a cruel, angular creation, obscuring the skeletal face beneath, save for the burning red eyes that pierced the darkness like malevolent stars.
