He watched for the slither of phantasmal serpents, listened for the scurry of vermin. He waited, knowing he could never escape. They would come.
He smelled the copper tang of blood in the air, the ozone reek of dark magic. It was not imagination, but memory. The mark burned into his flesh, growing more painful with every hour he denied its summons. His death was at hand now. They were coming.
Finally, fatigue won out over fear and he slipped into fevered dreams. When Igor Karkaroff awoke, screaming, he found his nightmares had not been vivid enough.
They were here.