The cold air in the grand hall thickened as Eamon stepped forward, his dark silhouette looming in the dim light. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling glow, the malice behind them unmistakable. Henry's heart raced, and he instinctively took a step back, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He could feel the weight of the moment, the suffocating pressure of Eamon's presence, a tension that seemed to constrict the very air in the room.
Gandulf stepped in front of Henry, his body taut, every muscle ready for action. "Eamon," he said, his voice calm but laced with steel, "this isn't your victory yet."
A low chuckle escaped Eamon's lips. "Victory? You still don't get it, do you, Gandulf?" He spread his arms wide, his dark cloak billowing as mana crackled in the air around him. "This isn't a battle. It's an execution. I have acquired power beyond your understanding. Ghelgath has given me more than enough to call myself a god."
