Kheradruakh

The howls of the crowd above echoed through the obsidian caverns of the Wych arenas, their thunder rolling like the crashing of broken glass in a void storm. Somewhere deep beneath the surface of Commorragh’s blood-slick coliseums, a lone figure walked the servant tunnels—breathing hard, sweat and rust clinging to their skin like a second layer of chains.

They were unaware they were not alone.

From the edges of reality, the shadows moved. They did not stir—they drifted, as though gravity bent to something far older than physics or flesh. Torchlight dimmed. The warmth of the corridor seemed to bleed away. The sound of footfalls no longer echoed. And then… eyes. Twin coals of green blinked open in the ceiling's recess, impossibly high above, watching.

Kheradruakh did not move in haste. He had been watching for days now.

The slave—abhuman, perhaps. Too fast, too still under pressure. Their aura shimmered with the faintest touch of uncut fate. The way they had moved in the pit… it was not desperation. It was hunger. Controlled.

Promising.

The Decapitator’s claws flexed silently around the curved hilt of his blade. Not yet. He would watch again when they slept. The head must be taken at its peak, not before.

Another skull for the shrine of prophecy. Another whisper in the darkness of Aelindrach.