The air here is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp tang of preservation chemicals. The chambers are meticulously organized: laboratories filled with surgical instruments, cells lined with restraints, and a central altar chamber gleaming with polished bone. The faint hum of magic resonates through the walls, mingling with the soft drip of water from the caverns beyond.
To the west, natural tunnels lead into a burial pit where the bodies of countless failed experiments were discarded — their forms twisted by magic and rot. To the east lies the heart of the Vault, where a gilded sarcophagus rests under flickering torches. Few dare to touch it.
Some whisper that the Deathhead Vault was not merely a place of study but the cradle of a dark transformation — where the line between priest, scientist, and corpse finally dissolved. Those who linger too long among its shadows often hear whispers in the dark — promises of eternal perfection, if only they surrender their soul.
