Chapter 58: Under the Molten Sky (2)
On either side of the central path rose two living columns: elite guards, perfectly motionless, in full armor forged from dark, smoking metals.
They were of the same species as the other demons of Zagnaroth — those humanoids with dark, cracked skin streaked with glowing fissures — but their presence radiated absolute discipline, a contained force.
Each held a halberd of fire, planted in the black floor, gaze fixed straight ahead.
I walked slowly, my steps echoing on the obsidian tiles. Sweat beaded at my nape. I wasn’t exactly afraid... but tense. A heartbeat too fast in my chest, a heightened awareness of every movement.
To my right, Lysara advanced without a word, straight, calm. She observed, but did not react. Her breathing was slow, perfectly measured, almost out of sync with the intensity of the place.
And then I looked up.
At the far end of the hall, on a massive platform forged from the very heart of metal, rose the throne.
It was not sculpted, nor decorated. It seemed born of raw matter, a fusion of molten metal, broken chains, blades, blocks of ore and spikes forged in rage. A forge frozen in the moment the world burns.
And on that throne, seated, arms resting on the armrests, the Lord.
Xagros.
Of the same race as his kin, but... more. Taller. Broader. Older.