The violet sky of the Demon Realm didn't hold a sun, but it pulsed with a rhythmic, bruising light that mirrored the heartbeat of the abyss. For the first time in years, the air in the Obsidian Citadel felt right, thick with the scent of ozone, dust, and the underlying metallic tang of impending slaughter.
Eryx stood upon the battlements of the North Tower, his human skin discarded like a poorly fitted garment. Here, he was towering, his physical presence distorting the very space around him. His armor was forged from the collapsed stars of a dying dimension, blacker than any shadow and etched with runes that bled a faint, hellish crimson. His eyes were no longer the warm amber that had comforted a human family; they were twin pits of incandescent fire, burning with the cold authority of
