Azazel's composure faltered. His hands trembled ever so slightly, his mind struggling to process what had just unfolded before him. Only moments ago, the difference in numbers had been ten to five—an overwhelming advantage for the Imperium of Time. Now, in an instant, that advantage had collapsed. Ten to nine.
"Hmph," Legion snarled, his voice rumbling like a nightmare given sound. "None of those ants can compare to me."
Though Legion was a grotesque amalgamation of malice, darkness, and the festering thoughts of long-dead gods, he was no fool. He knew that morale could sway battles as surely as strength. His words, dripping with arrogance, rippled through the Imperium's forces. The grim scowls on their faces shifted into cruel, confident smiles.
