The clearing was no longer a battlefield, it felt more like a slaughterhouse that had already decided its outcome.
The ground was slick with too much blood. Wolves lay scattered in every direction, some unmoving, and others twitching weakly where they had fallen. The vines quickly took advantage of every weakness, wrapping around the dead and the fallen who struggled against it.
Cain stood at the centre of it all, his chest rising steadily. His tux was streaked with blood that was not his own, and silver burns already healed over as though they had never been there. His red eyes scanned the clearing with mild curiosity, evaluating a puzzle already solved.
Even the West's fractured fate could only do so much now. The ripples of their blood magic sputtered and cracked against the pressure rolling out from Cain and the demon beside him, bending instead of breaking what they were meant to disrupt.
