The Monarch's corpse steamed in the night sky .
Its enormous body lay slumped like a toppled fortress, ichor seeping into the cracked ravine floor. The night was quiet again. Atheon stood with blood drying on his jaw, Soul Force flickering weakly across his skin.
Behind him, what remained of his squad spread out, shaky and pale. Half of them were vomiting. Three sat with backs against stone, bleeding from ears or nose. Two were praying. All were staring at the dead Monarch like it might rise again.
The Cavendish Adepts stood atop the corpse—three silhouettes carved in moonlight.
The large one wiped the blood from his plated gauntlet.
The glaive-woman twirled her blade once and let its hum fade.
The sigil-Adept knelt calmly, placing two fingers along one of the creature's broken ribs as if reading currents only he could sense.
Atheon exhaled— not in relief, but at the simple fact that they had survived that walking, thinking doomsday.
