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The floor, a mosaic cursed to writhe, pulsed with a dull, malevolent light. Each tile shifted and contorted, whispering of forgotten sins and ancient atrocities. A massive table, crafted from petrified bone, dominated the center of the chamber.

High-backed chairs, their crimson cushions stained a hideous black, stood sentinel around it, each a promise of lingering agony. The interplay of sickly light and suffocating darkness did little to alleviate the stifling atmosphere. Instead, it painted this room as a canvas of unyielding dread.

Fear, a cold, clammy hand, squeezed his heart until it hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The air itself seemed to thicken with a sinister energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy on his shoulders.

Every creak of the ancient floorboards, every rustle of unseen leaves outside the window, sent shivers down his spine. This wasn't his opulent De Gor estate, a place of polished floors and predictable routines. This was the lair of the Fingers, the puppet masters who lurked in the shadows, pulling the strings of Aethelwarin's underworld.

Here, the air hummed with secrets whispered in dark corners, and the promise of violence hung thick enough to taste. Gareth, a man who'd always revelled in the carefully constructed order of his life, felt utterly lost in this chaotic den of power.