Slowly, steadily, the liquid began to eat through the stone of the low wall around it.
Little by little, day by day, the fluid chipped at the stone, finding infinitely small cracks and dissolving the edges of the fissures until a seam opened up. When the seam tunnelled through to the wall's outer edge, a single droplet of black liquid spilled out and onto the floor of the chamber with a hiss.
More time passed, and the steady steam of droplets became a trickle. The eating away of the wall now increased rapidly as the fluid hungrily found the path of escape, burrowing like a creature in the dirt, increasing the size of the opening with each moment that passed.
A watcher would have seen the level of the liquid decrease at a noticeable pace.
The liquid ran down the floor and found the spiral stairs. As it flowed down it ate into the soft stone of the stairs, until the stairway was gone, and the fluid ran down from above like a small waterfall.
And then the pool was dry.
The three seals on the portal went first. They worked by draining the power from the pool; with no power left to drain, the seals ceased to function.
The shimmering silver surface of the portal shifted to burnt gold as it came to life.
The beacon sounded, shrill and overwhelming, rising and falling with each peal of its call.
The portal was open for a long instant before its innate power faded. In that brief window in time, a figure stepped out.
The portal closed behind him. The beacon stilled.
The man looked around the chamber.
He was tall and clad in rich black velvet, with diamonds set in silver on the cuffs of his long sleeves and a pendant of shining white crystal on a silver chain around his neck. His features were fine, almost delicate, and his eyes were a shade of intense blue, as light as the sky yet dead as the grave.
His lips were set with resolve and the lines of his forehead were cruel, while around his mouth there were only the marks of displeasure. This was not a man who smiled often.
His hair was severely pulled back from his forehead and it was a unique colour, blood-red, with the occasional lines of black at his temples.
Sentar Scythran, Lord of the Night, stood on the pedestal and turned, frowning and looking back at the portal behind him. Its colour had shifted to silver to indicate it was no longer powered.
He took three steps down until he stood on the floor of what had once been a pool filled with essence. Squatting down, the Lord of the Night ran his fingertips over the dry floor and sighed. He straightened and looked around the chamber, remembering when he had last been in this place, on the day of his defeat.
He had always known he would one day return. The humans were weak, no doubt fighting amongst themselves as always, and ready to welcome him home.
The Lord of the Night inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of a world he had left behind an eon ago. He was pleased to have returned, but the homecoming was tinged with sadness, for the way was now closed to his brothers.
A great weight had been placed on his shoulders. He would need an army, he knew, if he wanted to once more fill this pool with essence and open the way for his brothers. He would need to bring many of the humans under his dominion.
He walked forward, stepping over the low stone wall that rimmed the basin, now eaten away, until he stood at the summit of the opening where once there had been a stairway. The Lord of the Night knelt down again and touched his finger to a glistening spot, where the last trace of wetness remained.
He smiled. Essence.
A moment later Sentar Scythran, the Lord of the Night, floated down the empty stairwell.
He soon stood triumphantly in the open air, beside the great statue, gazing up at the stars, wondering on which one of the worlds above his brothers waited expectantly.
The Lord of the Night had returned.