Far below the roots of the mortal realm, where ash smothered the skies and rivers ran like molten hate, the throne halls of Dark stirred.
This was one.
Hal'Zirath — the realm of devils, forged in the shadow of the First Fire.
Here, beneath dead stars and skies of boiling black, seven thrones circled an endless pit — the Void. It did not open. It was always open.
They gathered.
Not summoned — drawn.
The Demon Lords.
Each different. Each wrong.
The Mother of Masks arrived first, her thousand faces flickering like candlelight. Then came the Wound-Tongue, dragging a scroll of skin inked with the screams of martyrs.
The Weaver of Ash floated next, woven from smoke and sorrow. The Howling Thorn slithered in silence, wrapped in crimson briars that bled.
And then…
Velgrin.
He did not walk. He did not breathe. He simply was.
Draped in robes stitched from mouths, Velgrin the Silent One took his place with no greeting, no motion.
A void made flesh.
The last to arrive was the one the others lowered their eyes for.
Azareth.
No fanfare. No flame. Just a step — and he was there.
Composed. Controlled. Calm.
And yet, everything in Hal'Zirath bent slightly when he spoke.
> "The spark has returned."
The others stilled.
> "A flicker, west of the Vale. Suppressed quickly. But the core… answered."
The Weaver's many eyes shimmered. "Then the vessel lives."
Azareth nodded once. "And the demon stirs."
Silence followed.
Not of peace.
Of awe.
Fear.
> "It has a name still," Azareth said softly. "And names do not die."
He raised one pale finger.
The Void below responded.
A flame rose — black and red, spiraling up, writhing as if it remembered pain. Symbols scorched into the air.
And then a whisper. Ancient. Alive.
> "Ravh'Zereth."
The name echoed.
The void shuddered.
Even the Howling Thorn flinched.
Velgrin tilted his head. One mouth in his robe smiled.
> "The key is waking," Azareth said. "We will not stop it. But we will guide it."
The Mother of Masks tilted her ever-changing head. "And if he resists?"
Azareth turned.
His voice sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
> "Then we unmake the world again."
The flame sank. The Void quieted.
But something else rose — unseen by the others.
A revolt from Velgrin.
Behind his stillness, deep within his veil of silence… another glyph pulsed.
It did not match the others.
It did not belong.
It was new.
And it burned with one word:
Ascension.
---
Somewhere far above, beneath sheets of steel and flickering lights, Sid Arkwood's eyes snapped open.
His breath caught.
His chest burned.
He did not know the name.
But he felt it.
A whisper. A flame.
Ravh'Zereth.
It didn't say "soon."
It said, "Now."