Derek darted forward again, light trailing him like a storm given flesh.
Vel'taroth's singular eye narrowed, the swirling ichor within it pulsing like a heart buried too deep to die. The chamber dimmed around him, as if light itself recoiled. "You force my hand," he intoned, voice smooth and empty, like clean silk drawn over a corpse's face. "Then let the Lord's blessing flow."
His arms rose skyward—unhurried, ceremonial. A sound followed, brittle and grotesque, like ancient bones cracking under divine strain. His body convulsed once, spine snapping into unnatural alignment. Then it began.
From beneath his stitched robe burst veins the color of scorched ink, growing like vines possessed. They wove into a cocoon of twitching threads, slithering over his body with the reverence of worshippers dressing a corpse. Runes on his flesh ignited, one by one, in searing red fire—sigils that bled mana like open wounds, each flare a scripture of madness and obedience.
