Hell
The crimson plains of the Ninth Rift stretched endless under a torn black sky. The air was thick with brimstone and war cries. Rivers of molten iron carved through mountains of obsidian, carrying the scent of scorched bone and blood. The Citadel of Ash stood like a broken crown amid that infernal expanse — its towers half-collapsed, its gates torn open by centuries of siege.
And within its shadow, the Fallen had returned to war.
Uriel stood atop a ridge of blackened stone, her four wings spread wide, their once-white feathers now tipped in flame. Her sword — Seraph's End — gleamed red, dripping with the ichor of a hundred slain demons. Around her, the Fallen Choir roared and sang, their voices a chorus that shook the plain.
They had waited centuries for this — for fire to mean something again.
"Push them back!" Uriel's voice rang, both command and hymn. "In the name of the Almighty — and in the name of the Prophet!"
The name rolled like thunder through the horde.
Atlas.
