The world was burning beneath him. The duchy's skyline — once proud with spires and silver domes — was nothing more than a wasteland of red smoke and molten rubble. The air itself seemed alive, breathing in pain, choking on the ash of its own ruin.
Jorghan hovered above the destruction, his four infernal wings unfurled in full glory. Alaera Excidii — Wings of Destruction — beat once, and the pressure wave alone sent dust spiraling to the heavens. Below, the crimson orbs he'd summoned hung suspended, slow and deliberate, like judgment itself descending from the gods.
Screams filled the streets.
Fathers clutching their sons. Mothers dragging their daughters. The nobles fled first — of course they did — and their servants trampled behind, desperate to live one more miserable breath.
He didn't feel pity. He didn't feel rage anymore, either. Just silence.
Only the faint hum of mana in his veins and the faint whisper of her voice — the goddess who promised him eternity.
