Lords of the Abyss

The room was steeped in expectation, the air thick with salt and tension. Arthur stood tall, his massive wyrmfolk frame casting long shadows under the dim glow of the blue lanterns. His white scales gleamed like polished pearl, his cyan slit eyes unreadable. The weight of his presence pressed against the gathered men like the tide before a storm.

The realization settled like a stone dropped into deep waters. Bovras's fingers drummed once against the table, a subtle motion, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. Admiral Heron's narrowed eyes flicked to the runed beastcore at the center, then to the blue lantern casting its ghostly glow.

The invitation had seemed like an honor, a mere discussion of trade and strategy, yet now, with Arthur standing before them, his presence towering and unyielding, they both knew better. They had stepped willingly into a den where the walls were not of stone, but of intent, carefully woven and inescapable.