The doors of the manor blasted open inwardly, not merely swinging but ripping, old rusted hinges screaming as the massive twin panels slammed against the inner walls. A gust of cold air surged in, one that smelled of crushed bone, ancient dust, and the sweet rot of flowers that never bloomed under a real sun.
And through the jagged threshold ahead—
They saw it.
The manor's once-forgotten gardens—what remained of them—had turned into a cathedral of the damned.
Hundreds of Reavers lined the shattered courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, each with head bowed, wings tucked in reverence. They were prostrating. Kneeling not in fear, but in awe. A macabre congregation. Their bodies twitched faintly, barely resisting the instinct to scream. They were not idle. They were waiting.
And at the center of their worship, a being stepped forward.
No, not stepped—moved, as if the world itself shifted beneath it to make way.
The Moonflayed King had arrived.
