The throne room was a canyon of bone and shadow, so vast the ceiling was lost in a haze of crimson smoke. The air tasted of blood and old, old pain.
They didn't march in. They flowed—a tide of gods and giants, titans and spirits, finally reaching the heart of the enemy. The ground trembled under the weight of them. On one side, the polished armor of Olympus stood beside the wild, earthy magic of the Vanir. The silent, focused power of the Shinto kami hovered near the fierce, multi-armed forms of Hindu asuras. It was every story, every prayer, gathered in one damned place.
And facing them, the Lords of Hell stood waiting. They didn't look worried. They looked… interested.
Moloch was a slab of muscle and scar tissue, his armor fused to his skin by what looked like eternal heat. He cracked his neck, the sound like grinding boulders.
Beside him, Belial looked like a fallen aristocrat, leaning on a thin, cruel sword. He offered a mocking little smile to the entire army.
