The Real Black Council!

The courtyard was a battlefield drenched in chaos. Corpses lay scattered across the ground, their lifeless bodies twisted in eerie silence. Pools of crimson spread beneath them, seeping into the cobblestones as a grim reminder of the sudden violence that had erupted. The air was thick with the acrid scent of blood and smoke, mingling with the fading echoes of panicked screams.

Guests fled in all directions, their faces pale with terror. The once-boisterous banquet had dissolved into a frenzied exodus as the survivors scrambled for safety. But amid the chaos, all eyes; those brave enough to linger, were drawn to the center of the courtyard.

There, like the eye of a storm, stood a towering figure clad in a flowing black robe. A bronze mask concealed his face, but the aura he exuded was unmistakable: a palpable, suffocating danger that made the air feel heavier with every breath. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet the scene around him told a different story.