What had once been a realm of unending screams was now a cathedral of ruin — its silence heavier than the weight of its mountains. The rivers that once boiled with demonic essence ran black and sluggish, reflecting firelight like veins of molten glass.
Towers, broken at their bases, leaned like the spines of ancient beasts long since slain.
And high above it all, upon the shattered citadel that once bore Dagon's banner, stood Atlas, the Prophet of Light — the one whom demons now called Guide, and favllens, their prophet.
His armor was still streaked with the soot of battle. The wind howled through the fractures of the balcony, carrying with it the scent of burnt iron and the dying mana of fallen kings.
Around him, faint motes of white light pulsed — the remnants of his divine resonance, still untamed, still trembling from the erasure he had unleashed.
