The air in the passageway was thick with power and tension as seven figures moved with a silent, steady grace, their footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor. Each of them carried an aura so potent it seemed to distort the very atmosphere around them, a silent message that none but the strongest dared to approach. The group's collective presence was a force unto itself, a palpable charge that made the air hum.
Leading them was an elder shrouded in dark robes adorned with intricately embroidered patterns of gold and silver. His cloak bore a distinct emblem—a magic staff stabbed into the earth, with threads of power rippling outward. His long, white hair cascaded over his shoulders, framing a face deeply lined with age and wisdom. His eyes held depths of knowledge far beyond the others, with a gaze that could pierce through the illusions of the world itself.
"So Alogra decided not to come?" one of them asked, breaking the silence.
