Drukhari — Octokuro

It hung from the ceiling of Vhane’s trophy chamber, a nightmare of polished bone and liquid darkness. Eight opal lenses, each the size of a human skull, ringed a central maw of razor-claws. No sound escaped it. No breath. Only a slow, geometric rotation of its eyes, tracking everything.

From that slit stepped copies . Eight of them. Each a perfect mimic of Vhane himself, but wrong—eyes inverted, mouths sewn shut, movements a half-second behind the real Archon’s will. They drew splinter pistols that hadn’t existed a moment before. octokuro drukhari

She reached out and touched the Archon’s cheek. He tried to move. Could not. Octokuro’s gaze held him frozen. It hung from the ceiling of Vhane’s trophy