The air was saturated with death and energy.
The sky—once golden with the reflection of the protective barrier—had now become a mosaic of gray and purple, where sunlight barely managed to penetrate the dense waves of dark mana.
Kael stood motionless on the broken roof of one of the houses on the edge of Azalith, his body still, his eyes fixed on the devastation below.
The streets, once vibrant, were now rivers of moving shadows—an endless tide of undead.
Spectral knights marched among reanimated ogres, skeletal mana beasts scaled walls, and floating specters patrolled the skies like black birds.
The wind carried the echo of the screams of creatures being torn apart—the sound of breaking bones, of blades striking ethereal flesh.
The city, alive in its death, trembled under his dominion.
Kael watched it all in silence.
There was no glory in his gaze. No satisfaction.
Only the pale reflection of the black flames that burned everywhere.
