The next morning, the thin walls of the motel could not muffle the noise of the demon city outside. Growls, metallic scraping, and the low hum of a thousand voices wove together like a strange symphony. From the window, they could see the jagged rooftops that made up the heart of the underworld’s capital. Smoke curled from blackstone chimneys, while crimson banners fluttered in the hot, sulfur-tinged breeze. The air itself tasted sharp, tinged with iron and ash, so different from the crisp forests of the elven lands or the clean winds of the werewolves’ mountains.
Inside, the Guardians prepared in silence, their disguises holding steady—their forms still cloaked in the guise of Zerith demons. But though their faces were hidden, their emotions were not. Lydia especially carried herself lik
