Right.
One blink and Malik was falling, spat out to the Gate below.
His body hurled downward, fire trailing behind him as he slowed his descent and softly landed on the ground.
On the Third Gate.
Where fire didn't burn.
...Where nothing burned.
Because everything here was already dead.
Malik stood, steam rising off his back as he looked around.
Void winds circled above, but the ground was salt flat, dark red, littered with rusted chains and scattered limbs that looked like they'd been here since the beginning of decay.
This was Saqar.
If one knew the meaning of the word, they'd expect this Gate to have the hottest flames, but no, fire wasn't the problem anymore.
Here... it was the Corruption.
It seeped from what replaced air.
From the ground and the sky.
It ate beyond flesh and soul.
Identity itself.
And it did that by...
"MALIK..."
Whispering.
"MALIK..."
At first, it was soft.
"MALIK..."
A breath without lungs.
"MALIK IBN AL-AS—"
Barely there, yet so loud.
