Bloodied and broken, the Son of Death stood with trembling legs atop a jagged, black boulder. His sword dragged slowly against the cold stone, each subtle scrape echoing his exhaustion and pain.
Beneath him spread a sea of silver flames, vast and unending, illuminating the darkened forest like ghostly candles. Amidst this blazing ocean sat Pollux, the prideful wolf—the Great Divine Star Spirit Emperor. His posture was regal and absolute, head raised proudly, eyes gazing downward with cold disdain.
At Azriel's right stood the grotesque figure of the Skinwalker, engulfed entirely by the divine flames, its featureless face turned toward Pollux, empty of pain or fear, utterly indifferent to the fire that should have reduced it to ashes. The creature's mere presence drained life from everything around it; trees and plants withered and crumbled into dust at its feet.
How many loops had Azriel endured already? He had long since lost count.
