The first of the abyssal beasts dragged itself through the wound.
Its body was not one thing but many—an amalgam of claws and wings stitched together by black-gold ligaments of script. Its head split open into three jaws, each dripping a language no mortal tongue could form. Every syllable it breathed was a decree older than the Thrones themselves, a ruinous command that sought to overwrite existence.
Roselia met it head-on. Her emberblade carved upward in a single arc, flames spilling across the beast's chest. The wound glowed for an instant before trying to seal with runes, but she pressed forward, forcing her fire deeper, her voice a battle-cry: "Burn until nothing rewrites!"
The beast shrieked, the sound shattering three more steps of the stair.
