Silence.
Deep within Azarel's soul, the void widened. A sky stretched above—two moons shattered and bleeding pale light across the abyss. No stars lived there. Only the broken fragments of light that clung desperately to the dead heavens.
Kalel stood in the emptiness, his eerie grin curling.
"Hm? This boy's mind… more interesting than I thought. Where am I?"
Then the air changed. Ancient. Twisted. A weight pressed upon him. Kalel turned, unease twitching across his form.
Across the distance—far, far away—stood a figure.
A field of skulls stretched out endlessly, chained together with rune-bound links of flesh. From that ocean of death, a single being rose. Its body was drenched in blood, its face hidden beneath a fog of shadows, shifting and seething as though reality itself refused to hold it.
For a moment, the void was silent.
Then it spoke.
A voice. Not one, not two—but the voices of a hundred dying throats, shrieking together, twisted into one unholy sound:
"Why… have you touched my son?"
The moons above cracked further, bleeding more pale light. Kalel froze—his grin faltering, his shadow rippling like flame in a storm. For the first time, his amusement was gone.
He whispered under his breath, voice sharp with caution:
"…Impossible…"
The chained skulls began to rattle, flesh tearing, runes breaking. The void trembled as the figure took a single step forward.