A necromancer commands the veil itself, arms raised as spectral hands claw upward from smoke and silence. Cold jade and corpse-blue light bleed softly into charcoal shadow, their glow restrained, deliberate, unholy. Sacred sigils burn faintly behind him, etched in frost-worn geometry and half-forgotten rites. The palette is hushed and funereal — muted teal, ash-grey vapour, and ink-black depth — giving the design a slow, ritual gravity. This is not chaos, but mastery. Power drawn patiently from the dead and held without mercy, worn like an oath whispered to the grave.
