Chapter 36: Three Realms, One Raven
Ash choked the air like a curse, settling over the cracked plains of Nefrath in waves. The sky was black, not from absence of light, but from the density of smoke and sulfurous vapors that twisted above the battlefield. Lightning raked the heavens in silent arcs, crimson and violet bolts that writhed like serpents through the choking gloom.
Below, the thunder was not of storm but of steel and hoof and rage.
Thousands upon thousands of demons surged across the charred land, their horns raised, their hooves shattering the blackened earth with each step. They howled and bellowed, a symphony of hatred, hunger, and anticipation. Weapons, many forged from bone, flame and steel struck against obsidian shields in a rhythm that pulsed with the war drum from the heat of hell itself. Demons roraring in tandem, hoofs hitting the ground and fire spells shooting to the darkened sky from time to time to show how exiceted the hellspawn were.
At the heart of it all stood a towering spire of molten basalt, sculpted with runes that burned from within. At its peak, standing above all, was Archdemon Korvath the Proud.
Clad in a flowing mantle of scorched iron and infernal steel, Korvath looked like the crown of damnation itself. His form shimmered with heat, eyes burning with twin suns of contempt. From his perch, his gaze swept across the gathered legions, ranks upon ranks of Fiends, Emberbornes, Hellborne and seething Abyssal Champions. Dozens of Dreadlords were commanding them. The only Dark soverigh under Korvath’s Command was Ravathos the Grey. Two Demon Lords and Ravathos himself was the main Generals of Korvath’s forces.
Hatred born of Pride radiated from him like a field. It pulsed in his every breath.
He saw Velkoth’s insignias among the captured standards below, and his fingers twitched with restrained fury. His mind spiraled around one word: vengeance. Velkoth would pay. Pay in blood, in fire, in soul. What was taken from Korvath would be returned tenfold. No slaughter in the history of Nefrath would compare.
Standing behind him, like sentinels carved from spite, were the two demon lords who had sworn allegiance to Korvath’s cause. Their armors bled smoke, and their eyes glowed with sadistic promise. They waited for his command, but not all eyes held fury alone.
Ravathos stood apart.
Silent. Still.
Where the others seethed, his demeanor was calm, almost meditative. His old skin was untouched by soot, his curved horns polished. His eyes watched the battlefield not with hunger, but calculation.