Hell — The Third Layer: The Maw of Chains
The campaign began beneath a sky that bled iron.
Where the Ninth Rift burned wild and open, the Third Layer was a furnace made of law. Chains the width of mountains coiled from horizon to horizon, anchoring the very crust of the realm to a core of molten shadow. Every breath carried the metallic tang of rust and ancient blood. Here, motion itself was a sentence: the ground shifted like a living gear, every stone etched with bindings older than time.
The Fallen called it the Maw of Chains because nothing here moved freely. Even the wind scraped along the iron walls as though shackled.
Atlas stood at the front of his host on a black rise overlooking the chasm below. His armor still smoked from the last battle; the Key at his chest flickered between gold and crimson light, each pulse echoing like a heart that had forgotten which realm it belonged to.
