The dawn came gray and muted, as though even the sun hesitated to look upon the battlefield. Mist clung low to the ridges, curling around armor and cloaks like ghostly hands. The vanguard rose without cheer, every motion deliberate, the exhaustion of yesterday's breakthrough still carved into their faces.
Valen Drazmir was the first to stand at the edge of camp, his cloak gathered around him like a mantle of shadow. He watched the horizon, where the black spires of the Devil King's palace jutted from the earth like spears, closer now than ever before.
By midmorning, the march resumed. Their formation was tighter than the day before, smaller but sharper, like a blade honed against stone. Hiro and his friends walked near the forward squads, every sense straining under the weight of the palace's presence. Even from a distance, its looming gates radiated dread, as though the fortress itself hungered for their blood.
The devils were waiting.
