The Aeldari Craftworld Golar.
In the heart of this immense world-ship, which drifted eternally through the void, the air usually carried the cool scent unique to wraithbone, mingled with ancient psychic energy and faint light, along with the carefully maintained elegance and aloofness of an Aeldari society weathered by the ages.
Yet now, within a secluded wraithbone chamber reserved for the most profound acts of divination, the atmosphere was as frozen as permafrost.
"Hah... hah..."
Heavy, ragged, agonized gasps broke the near-absolute silence. They came from behind the chamber's archway, carved with ancient motifs of sorrow.
Creak—
The heavy door, woven from living wraithbone and rare crystals, was laboriously pushed open a crack from within.
A figure staggered out, barely managing to move with the doorframe supporting him.
It was Farseer Isona.
He wore dark robes symbolizing foresight and sacrifice. The intricate patterns embroidered in mithril thread, representing the web of fate and its portents, now seemed to twist and ripple with his violent trembling.
His handsome face, unusually pale and gaunt from years spent gazing into the mists of the future, was now utterly bloodless, even taking on a sickly gray pallor.
Deep within his sunken sockets, the psychic eyes that could peer into the threads of fate were unfocused, their pupils dilated. Only boundless terror and lingering shock churned in their depths.
Beads of cold sweat kept sliding down his smooth forehead and high nose, soaking his collar.
His legs weakened, and his body pitched forward uncontrollably. He was about to collapse onto the cold, smooth wraithbone floor.
"Farseer!"
The two young attendants waiting outside the door were terrified by Isona's unprecedented state of weakness and distress!
But their long training took over. Almost instinctively, they rushed forward, one on either side, and only barely managed to support