Ebon

When Veylan invokes Crown of Dread, his right eye ignites into a deep, hellish red as reality fractures like glass under a titan’s step. The right half of his body erupts into demonic form—obsidian flesh split by molten veins, a spiraled horn blasting from his skull in a spray of bone and gore. His voice becomes a psychic scream, fifty thousand damned souls funneled through torn vocal cords. The air thickens into rot and iron, lungs sear into blood-slick sacs. Victims collapse into madness—eyes bursting, fingers clawing through their own skulls, mouths frothing with laughter and blood. Some mutilate themselves with ritualistic glee; others shatter bone against stone or gorge on their own flesh. It doesn’t kill. It breaks. Survivors are husks—mindless, whimpering creatures twitching in pools of bile, whispering nursery rhymes in voices that don’t belong to them. This isn’t fear. It’s contamination. The Black Crown speaks—and the mind splits.