The first thing that changed was the air.
It went from the thick, choking heat of blood and sulfur to something sharp and clean. It was the smell of a sky after a lightning strike, of stone after a waterfall. It was a scent that didn't belong in Hell.
Then, the sky tore open.
It wasn't a gentle parting. It was a violent rip, as if a giant hand had simply clawed a hole in the fabric of reality. Through that tear poured a light so pure and severe it was like a physical blow. The red gloom of Pandemonium was scorched away, replaced by a blinding, silent whiteness.
Every single being on the battlefield flinched. The maddened gods, locked in their own private wars, stumbled to a halt, shielding their eyes. The demons shrieked and scrambled for shadows that were no longer there. Even Azazel, a statue of calm corruption, went perfectly still, his head tilting up toward the intrusion.
