One arm extended in casual command, fingers loosely curled as though holding the reins of a storm rather than a man's skull.
The gesture required no effort—his other hand dangled relaxed at his side, fingers twitching with idle power.
Void-black hair lashed and coiled around him like a living corona of midnight serpents, each strand questing independently, tasting the terror in the air, drinking the fear. His eyes—twin gravitational maelstroms rimmed in dying-star white—pulsed once, and the entire hall dimmed as though the universe itself had exhaled.
Around him raged a self-sustaining cataclysm.
Black void-lightning arced from every inch of his body—not outward in destruction, but inward in insatiable hunger, dragging light, heat, sound, and motion into spiraling graves of absolute nothing.
