The God of Death's burning eye sockets swept across Jack's companions, taking in their various states of shock and awe.
His massive armored form radiated power that made the very air feel heavy, pressing down on mortal souls like a death trap closing in.
Rhys's legs had given entirely out. Only Father Caelen's supporting arm kept the elf prince from collapsing entirely onto the black stone platform.
His winter-ice eyes were wide with terror and disbelief, his mind struggling to process that he was standing in the actual presence of a deity—not a chosen one blessed by divine power, but an actual god.
"A... a god," Rhys stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "We're standing before an actual god. The real—"
"Yes, yes, actual divinity in the flesh, very impressive, try not to wet yourself," the God of Death interrupted with casual irreverence that somehow made the situation even more surreal.
