Azazel prepared himself for every possible attack. He steeled his spirit against curses, braced his mind for spells that could rip through soul and mind alike. Whatever came, he swore he would endure it and return it in kind. Any force that struck him would strike the Primarch of Conquest Leviathan as well. That much he was certain of.
But what came was not an attack.
It was something far more horrifying.
"I am tired… so tired…"
The words were not spoken aloud. They resonated in Azazel's mind, and with them came a wave of exhaustion so profound that even stringing a single coherent thought together felt impossible. His spirit weighed upon itself, as though chains of lead were coiled around his mind.
Then came the panic. A gnawing apprehension that made his eyes dart in every direction, searching desperately for enemies, shadows, even phantoms. Fear surged until it became an ocean, drowning reason, strangling breath.
And then loneliness.
