The Inner Sanctum awoke to screams. The echo of terror-filled cries filled the streets, cutting through the usual silence of the high walls. The people of the middle and inner rings, already consumed by fear of Plaga’s creeping vines, now turned their eyes inward. They whispered of something far darker—something that came not from the lower ring but from their own palace.
King Armand had risen.
Clad in his twisted armor of gold and shadow, the King marched through the gilded streets of the Inner Sanctum. His presence was oppressive, an aura of malice that seemed to sap the strength from those around him. The golden sunlight that once bathed the palace now dimmed in his wake, as if the city itself recoiled from his transformation.