The air rippled again—burning red, darkening to a void hue—as Aesmirius shifted the scene around them. The fires of Azareth twisted like smoke before reforming into a clearer vision: endless black plains stretching under an infernal sky, where crimson lightning cracked in silence. Aesmirius stood beside Liam, his arms folded behind his back, his expression calm but his voice carrying the quiet chill of memory.
"Even after setting foot here," he began, his tone low and measured, "I knew… instinctively… that this was a place I should not linger in. Everything about Azareth screamed danger—its air, its silence, even its pulse. The realm itself watched me." He let out a slow breath, golden eyes reflecting the molten rivers below them. "But then again—where was there that I could not go? Nowhere. Who among the living or divine could deny me entry? No one."
