Iron Maiden

A black iron sarcophagus looms in the Great Hall’s shadows, its hinged doors grooved with archaic runes of judgment. The chamber’s stone floor absorbs the echoes of screams as the Master is sealed inside, the device’s mechanism groaning like a living thing. The air reeks of rusted metal and ozone as temporal energies tear the Master from the timeline, his muffled protests cut short by the sealing embrace. Its presence radiates menace—no ornamentation, only functional brutality, serving as an immediate sentence of erasure. Even the torch sconces recoil from its dark purpose, their flickering light straining against its void-like hunger. The court watches from a distance, their faces betraying anticipation and dread alike.