"Not dead yet?" Damien muttered, his voice steady despite the exhaustion etched into his bones. His spear gleamed once more, the tip humming with power drawn from realms no sane man would name. "If the First Circle of Hell isn't enough… then maybe the Second will be."
He raised his hand slowly, the motion calm, almost reverent. His fingers curled in a spiral of invocation, knuckles glowing faintly with the lingering residue of time-twisted deathlight.
The space behind him darkened, the very air drawing back as though aware of what was coming, something older, crueler, something that bled sorrow like the sky bled thunder.
"Descend into Madness," Damien whispered.
And the world listened.
The blackened core at the center of Fluffy's, no, Vel'kharn's—chest twisted violently, the seal from the First Circle cracking open again as new glyphs, etched in the quiet language of despair, spread outward across his ribs.
