The atmosphere in the air had thickened—congealed—pressing in on them with a weight that felt almost tangible, as though the very air sought to crush them beneath its intangible mass.
A suffocating aura, heavier and more malignant than anything they had ever encountered, pervaded the dungeon like a choking fog.
Draque'sill was only halfway through the chant, but already, the effects were unmistakable. The torches lining the walls flared violently, vomiting forth brilliant columns of flame that stretched high and lashed at the ceilings.
Their crackling grew louder, deeper, until it resembled a roar, as if the fire itself had been angered.
Blue turned to white—no longer fire, but holy incandescence—burning with purifying intensity, a light that seemed determined to scour away all remnants of corruption.
Then came the voice. No—voices. Every prisoner trapped within the room opened their mouths, and sound poured from them in perfect synchrony.
