The blizzard pulled tight like a closing fist.
Wind spun sideways, howling across the mountain basin, but there was no whistle—only pressure. The kind that made lesser demons grip their weapons tighter and glance toward the horizon with dry mouths.
Then four figures emerged.
They didn't run. They didn't posture.
They cut through the storm as if it parted for them.
Scael moved like a shadow between snowflakes. His insectoid frame gleamed wetly in the cold, plated in smooth, obsidian armour that curved like a sculpted exoskeleton. His tail, long and whip-thin, swayed behind him like a conductor's baton, ending in a crystal stinger, humming with stored frost. He didn't walk so much as glide, his pincer-claws tucked together in front of his chest, forming a ritual pose as if already mourning his victims.
