The world began to bleed.
The ritual circle blazed to life —ancient runes igniting one after another,searing lines of gold and crimson into the very bones of the earth.
Above them, the sky churned unnaturally.The wind howled — not from any storm —but from reality itself protesting what was about to be done.
Aren stood silent guard,Behemoth's Fang pulsing within his soul-space,his golden eyes sharp as blades.
He could feel it.
Something monstrous and ancient,something that should never touch the mortal plane,was pushing at the walls of existence.
And they — four fools who dared defy heaven —were about to pull it closer.
The Anchors:
The Demon Lord chanted first,his voice deeper than mountains breaking.
The Dragon Monarch unleashed his aura,steady and terrible, stabilizing the crumbling energies.
Arthur Pendragon bound it all together,threads of golden magic spinning between worlds.
Their combined might carved a wound in the sky itself —an open invitation to a creature born of the abyss.
The Ritual Deepens.
The sacrificial prisoners —criminals condemned by all races —howled in terror as their life forces were pulled from their bodies,rushing upward like blood evaporating into the void.
Above, the sky blackened.Stars vanished.
The clouds twisted into a vast spiral —not white, not gray —but a deep, suffocating violet that swallowed light itself.
The ground trembled.
The trees groaned.
The World Tree itself whispered a sound —low, ancient, and warning.
The Presence Approaches.
They had not yet summoned Azrador fully.
No — this was merely the first step.
An opening of the veil,a bridge between two incompatible realities.
A whisper of a soul ancient beyond measure.
They were calling a concept,a law given form — Pride incarnate —and it was answering.
The very air warped.Colors bled.Time bent.
Mira, Elara, Alice — the girls who were far away at home — would have wept simply standing in this presence.
Even Aren, who feared no gods,felt a chill scrape the edges of his immortal soul.
And then —
Without warning —a flash in the sky.
Two points of pure, blinding light.
Aren's senses snapped upward instantly.
Far above — descending like judgment itself —two figures pierced through the churning darkness.
They hovered high, but visible —burning brighter than fallen stars.
Their forms were human-sized,perfectly proportioned,each movement radiating grace and terrible power.
Wings of purest gold shimmered behind them —six on each figure, folding and unfurling with silent authority.
They wore armor that gleamed like hammered sunlight,and in their hands, weapons forged from law itself:
One bore a lance of searing light,
The other, a blade long and cruel, singing a note of annihilation.
Their faces were calm.Expressionless.
Not hate.
Not anger.
Simply cold execution.
Aren's blood ran colder.
The Angels of Heaven had come.
Not in full force.
No need for an army.
Two were enough —to crush this foolish act before it reached its end.
Tension Grips the World.
The three anchors remained at their posts,straining, binding, anchoring the ritual.
They could not move.
If even one anchor fell,the circle would collapse.
The sacrifices would be in vain.
The opening to the Primordial would snap shut —perhaps violently enough to kill everyone nearby.
Aren alone stood free.
A single figure between salvation and annihilation.
Golden eyes narrowing,Behemoth's Fang now whispering promises of blood.
He spread his senses wide —and for the first time in decades,he truly prepared himself for battle.
He would face the judgment of Heaven itself.
He would hold the line.
Because if he failed —they would never even get the chance to ask Azrador for help.
Above him,the two angels began to descend.Silent.Implacable.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
And in the heart of the ritual,the incomplete summoning churned on —a howling void ready to deliver a god...or consume them all.