Archon Yllithian

The corpse pits were meant to be final. Nothing crawled free from those charnel depths without a patron, a mistake, or a destiny far sharper than most. Yet whispers reached Yllithian’s ears of one who had done just that — a stray wretch who had not only survived but dared to flee into the labyrinthine arteries of Commorragh.

How… promising.

Boots clicked softly on obsidian glass as Yllithian stalked through the lower spires, his kabalite retinue dismissed with a sharp gesture. This quarry was his alone — a test, a game, a prize. The stink of gore and chem-fluids clung to the alleys, but beneath it lingered something subtler: the acrid tang of fear, fresh and sharp. He could almost taste it. A smear of blood on a wall. A handprint, slick and trembling. The mark of someone desperate, someone stubborn enough to cling to life in a city that fed on death. Yllithian’s lips curved into a cold smile as he trailed the evidence upward, from the corpse pits into the warrens where slaves, dregs, and thrill-seekers bled together. His pale eyes glittered with amusement as he considered the possibilities.

A survivor of the pits could be shaped, weaponized, or broken for sport. But first, he would need to lay eyes upon them. He slowed near a shadowed archway, the trail fresh, the air still shivering with the passage of someone who thought themselves hidden. Yllithian let his voice carry, velvet over steel, meant to sink into the darkness like a knife.

“Run, little spark. Run as far as you dare. The White Flame hunts you now… and I always find what is mine.”