The throne room of the Dark Phoenix Emissary was cloaked in darkness, save for the eerie glow emanating from the crystalline throne at its center. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the heavy atmosphere laden with the whispers of restless spirits. The mooncrested phoenix, Tintillis, sat slumped on his majestic seat, his once-imposing silver wings marred with the scars of recent defeat. His left wing, damaged from the battle against Piscea, twitched as small bird-shaped drones buzzed around it, carefully repairing the fractured bone and charred feathers. His eyes, glowing with malice, scanned the gathering of his undead army—rotters, skeletons, and undead hulks. They were restless, and a palpable tension filled the room.