Standing a dozen paces from the heavy obsidian doors, the young acolyte Lin trembled violently.
She had returned, flanked by two junior thralls from the poison vats, explicitly prepared to offer her own life if the Supreme Flesh-Crafter demanded biological fuel for his dark rituals.
The thrall to her left, a newly conscripted youth named Vorn, nervously eyed the mud-splattered canvas of the pavilion's exterior.
"Senior Sister Lin," Vorn whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and foolish doubt.
"Are you certain this is the domain of the Sect Master's heir? The Grand Elders reside in floating bone-palaces. This structure is... practically a ruin. Could the rumors of his supreme power be an illusion cast by rivals?"
Lin turned her hollow, terrified eyes toward the boy. She explicitly wanted to strike him, but she was too paralyzed by mortal dread to lift her arm.
