The Dark Lord’s Sacrifice

The cave was drenched in shadows, the air thick with the rancid stench of blood and decay. Torches burned dimly along the walls, their flames flickering in the gusts of wind that spiraled through the narrow passages. Dark magic surged like a black tide, pulsating through the earth and stone. In the heart of it all stood the Dark Lord, his towering form cloaked in tattered robes of black and crimson. His eyes, cold as winter's death, gleamed with malevolent purpose as he stepped into the ritual's circle.

The witches surrounding him chanted in unison, their voices a cacophony of eerie whispers and guttural screams. Their faces were hollow and sunken, bodies gaunt and covered in ritualistic scars that glowed faintly under the dark energy swirling around them. They moved in a feverish trance, their limbs twisting unnaturally as they called upon the ancient forces that would soon be unleashed.