Third Gate of Hell
The air in the Third Gate of Hell was thick with despair. Rusted chains dragged across the cracked obsidian floor, their clanging echoing like a funeral bell in the silence. Damned souls wandered aimlessly, their hollow eyes staring into nothing, their shackles burning faintly with infernal fire as they stumbled forward in eternal torment.
Xaltheon stood tall among them, his dark cloak rippling with an unseen wind. His piercing gaze followed the movements of the chained souls, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between cold apathy and grim contemplation.
Then—FWOOOSH!
Flames erupted into the air, twisting violently before condensing into a humanoid form. Aron stepped out from the infernal blaze, dropping to one knee. His voice carried urgency.
"My lord… Lord Veymar is here."
Xaltheon's golden eyes narrowed slightly. He let out a quiet sigh, heavy with annoyance.
