The mountainside was still. It was only a day after the titanic events that had threatened to turn the earth into a paradise, a haven for his kind. They had come so close, but the instrument had miscalculated. Now they faced battle without reprieve.
Asmodeus stood in the howling wind, his blonde hair whipping about his face. Above him, the rift to Hell had opened, and would never do so again, not in this place. He thrust his hand into the new-fallen snow and retrieved a knife, the conchoidal fractures of the glassy blade glinting in the daylight.
His raptor gaze scanned the horizon, and he tightened his grip on the hilt. “One day.”
