The abyss was never silent.
Even when no voices spoke, the realm of Hal'Zirath breathed with a low, endless hum a vibration in the bones, a reminder that it was alive and waiting. Black stone spires twisted into the void like roots searching for stars, and rivers of molten shadow cut across the landscape, their fumes rising in shapes that almost resembled faces.
Azareth stood upon one of those spires, his cloak rippling in the otherworldly wind. The crown of horn and flame on his head burned faintly, but his eyes burned brighter — not with fire, but with intent. Around him, space bent and split. One by one, they arrived.
The Seven Demon Lords.
First came Veyla of the Thousand Tongues, her body a serpent's coil draped in human skins, whispering in a chorus of voices that argued with themselves.
Next, Drakovar the Beast-Father, horned and colossal, his fangs dripping venom that melted the stone beneath his feet.
Then Irethiel the Widow Queen, draped in webs of crimson light, carrying her swarm like a living veil.
Others followed — hulking warlords, eerie scholars, twisted kings — until seven thrones of obsidian flame circled the spire.
And in the final seat, leaned casually, was Velgrin. Untouched, unreadable, as though he did not belong to this gathering at all.
The air grew heavier as the circle closed.
Irethiel's voice was the first to rise, sharp as broken glass.
"You dare summon us, Azareth? You — who claim loyalty to no banner, who crawled out of exile with whispers of prophecy? Why should the Lords listen to you?"
Her swarm hissed in agreement.
Azareth lifted his hand, and the abyss fell quiet. The weight of his presence pressed down on them like a second gravity.
"Because the gods are coming," he said simply.
The words lingered. Some of the Lords laughed, others spat curses. Drakovar slammed a clawed fist into the ground, sending cracks racing through the spire.
"The gods have been gone for an age," Drakovar growled. "Sealed, banished, dead — what does it matter? This world belongs to us now."
Azareth's smile was thin and sharp. "And yet…"
He raised his other hand. Flames erupted into the air, but these were not demon flames. They shimmered in pure, blinding radiance Aureon's eternal light. The gathered demons recoiled, snarling, covering their eyes.
The vision did not burn Azareth. Instead, it wove itself into images above the spire: armies of golden figures descending through broken skies, divine spears cutting mountains in half, voices like thunder declaring judgment.
The vision vanished, leaving only the taste of ash.
Azareth's voice was steady.
"You feel it already, don't you? The world breaking. The Veil thinning. The gods will not remain sealed. They will descend. And when they do, they will not offer you battle… they will offer you chains."
Silence stretched.
Veyla's thousand mouths whispered and hissed, finally forming one question.
"What do you propose?"
Azareth turned slowly, his cloak sweeping like a storm. "Unity."
The word seemed almost ridiculous in this place, among these beings. Demons did not unite. They tore, devoured, betrayed. Yet none of them moved to leave.
"Hal'Zirath's Gate," Azareth continued, his tone reverent now, "has slept too long. If it opens fully, his power will pour through. No god, no mortal, no pretender can stand against it. If we do not open the Gate, the gods will descend and unmake everything we've built. Our only chance is to bleed the world first — on our terms."
Drakovar snarled. "You speak treason."
"I speak survival." Azareth's eyes blazed. "Do you think the gods will spare you, Beast-Father? You who fed on their temples? Widow Queen, do you think your webs can bind their light? Veyla, your tongues will be silenced in their holy fire. All of you will fall. Unless we open the Gate together."
A low, nervous murmur spread through the circle.
Finally, Velgrin spoke.
His voice was calm, too calm, as if none of this mattered. "You speak of opening the Gate. But the Gate is not a door. It is a wound. And wounds are not opened — they are torn."
All eyes turned to him.
Azareth's smile widened, as though he had been waiting for Velgrin to speak. "Then you understand. With the Nightroot Fragments, with the Spire complete, the tear widens. Already the gods and demons gnaw at the same barrier. We are on the edge of Ascension."
Velgrin's fingers traced the arm of his throne. He did not argue, nor did he pledge. His silence was more dangerous than any oath.
The Lords exchanged glances. Suspicion and hunger warred in their expressions. Then, one by one, they nodded. Even Drakovar, though he spat venom into the cracks of the stone, gave his assent.
The pact was sealed in shadow and flame.
The abyss shook, and Hal'Zirath's distant roar echoed through every soul present. The spire itself trembled, as though recognizing their agreement.
Azareth spread his arms, his voice rising like a priest's sermon.
"Then it is decided. Hal'Zirath's Gate will open. The world will burn. And when it does..."
The Seven Demon Lords, as one, intoned:
" ...it will burn by our will."
The roar of the abyss swallowed their words.
Far above them, Velgrin's eyes gleamed. He leaned back in silence, fingers curling around the faint glow of the Nightroot Fragment hidden beneath his cloak. His thoughts were not of unity, nor of Hal'Zirath's Gate.
They were of the Eighth Flame.