The sky above Veilwood had torn open.
A massive vortex of purple energy swirled above the central tower, its edges crackling with lightning that struck the ground in jagged, angry bolts. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and decay, and the wind howled like a wounded beast.
At the heart of the vortex, a dark, gaping maw was beginning to open—a rift between the world of the living and the realm of the dead.
Lilith’s phantom stood at the base of the tower, her form more solid than before. The veil that covered her face was translucent now, revealing the outline of a woman who had once been beautiful—before grief and rage had twisted her into something monstrous.
“You cannot stop me, Saint,” she hissed, her voice reverberating through the stone walls. “The rift is opening. The dead
