The chamber of war burned with shadow and gold.
In the center of the hall stood Atlas—the Prophet, the Guide, the one whom both angels and demons now followed. His eyes were half-shadowed by the crimson firelight, his expression unreadable.
Around him, the divided host of Hell had gathered.
To his right stood Aurora, her white hair veiled in smoke, her new made armor reflecting the dim glow of the sigils. To his left, the fallen archangels: Uriel, Gabriel, Sariel, and Raphael—their wings darkened, their celestial radiance muted but not extinguished. Behind them, a wall of lesser Fallens, faces marked by scars and flame.
And beyond, the demons—the Lords of the Lower Hordes, their forms vast and terrible. The demon kings the mighty Red Lion, Galiath, his mane a river of embers; The Elder, whose flesh was smooth and whose eyes were galaxies of sun; and the legions who knelt at their backs, claws scraping against obsidian, wings twitching with hunger.
