The Abyss was alive.
Not in the way Asphodel breathed with celestial light and radiant order, where each moment felt carefully woven, balanced, and harmonious. No, Kur'thaal was a place born of raw, untamed power—alive in a far more visceral and unsettling sense. It thrived with something darker, a pulsating, chaotic force that could not be tamed, nor could it ever be at peace. There was no warmth here, no soft embrace, no beauty. Only the harsh sting of existence, like the edge of a jagged knife scraping against the soul.
Kur'thaal did not offer peace or serenity. It did not welcome, nor did it warn. It simply was—a vast expanse of endless desolation, where the land was carved by cataclysmic events, scarred and disfigured, left to fester in isolation. Jagged stone spires thrust upward from the cracked earth, as though trying to claw their way out of the infernal chasm that surrounded them. Molten rivers snaked through the broken terrain, their viscous flow a reminder of the world's tortured past, eternally scorched by the fires of a war that had never fully ceased.
Above them, the sky was a constant reminder of the curse that hung over Kur'thaal—a shifting mass of swirling shadows and deep crimson clouds that churned with the rage of something ancient, something wrong. It stretched into infinity, an endless void that seemed to mock the very concept of time. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the weight of the world's agony. It wasn't just a mere sensation—it was as if the very atmosphere throbbed, like a living, breathing thing, pulsing with heat and unspoken fury.
The land itself trembled with the ghostly remnants of battles long past, the memory of conflict so deeply ingrained that it had become part of the very fabric of Kur'thaal. It was not a land of life, but of survival. And survival here meant something different—something harsher.
This was where the condemned rotted, where those who had nowhere else to go were exiled to suffer without end. It was a prison in the most brutal sense, an eternal reminder of the price of failure. Demons were not born in this place of mercy. No, they were born from the need to survive—molded in the darkness, shaped by the violent forces of the Abyss.
And at the center of it all, standing on the edge of a crumbling precipice that overlooked the churning abyss below, Vael watched the darkness move.
His crimson eyes flickered, scanning the chaotic landscape before him. The wind howled through the jagged rocks, carrying with it the faint scent of sulfur and burning flesh. His body stood still, unmoving—an unnatural composure in a place where chaos was the norm. The runes carved into his skin pulsed faintly, responding to the restless energy around him, whispering to him like an old friend. They thrummed with a quiet power that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to be awakened.
Vael was taller than most of the demons who roamed the lower pits of Kur'thaal, a figure carved from something both ethereal and dangerously real. He was an anomaly here—his form elegant, yet grounded in a way that made him seem like both a part of Kur'thaal and yet not quite of it. His body was composed of shadows, the very same shadows that bled into the land itself, and his wings, though not as grand as those of angels, were a testament to his strength. Unlike the hunched, twisted creatures that scrambled for dominance beneath him, Vael stood upright—composed, with an undeniable elegance that seemed to contradict the harshness of the world around him.
And yet, despite his presence, Vael did not belong here. He never had.
The distant sounds of combat drifted toward him on the wind. The clash of steel on steel, the guttural roars and cries of demons locked in their ceaseless, eternal struggle for power. In Kur'thaal, strength was the only currency. The weak did not survive. Weakness here was a death sentence, an invitation for the predators to tear one apart.
Vael understood this better than most. He had learned the cost of failure long ago, had witnessed countless battles where the price of survival was steep, and he had paid it. But now, the usual feeling of battle-hardened detachment was absent. This was different. The stillness in his chest was not a calm born of peace, but a deep, gnawing emptiness. Something in the air had shifted—something was coming. Something that had set his senses on edge long before now.
He exhaled slowly, his breath a quiet whisper in the silence of Kur'thaal. His fingers, almost involuntarily, traced the runes on his forearms, each line a silent testament to the ancient power that flowed through him. They pulsed softly beneath his skin, responding to his emotions before he could even name them. A deep unease settled in the pit of his stomach, tightening his chest.
Something was wrong.
Kur'thaal had always been restless. There was always a sense of simmering tension, a constant churn of energies beneath the surface. But this? This was different. It wasn't war—it wasn't the anger of demons clashing with one another. It wasn't fear—it wasn't the dread that permeated the air before a battle. No, this was anticipation. An undercurrent of something coming, something beyond the turmoil of the Abyss. It was a feeling that tugged at the very core of him, a sensation he could not shake.
Something was coming.
And Vael had felt it long before now.
It had started subtly at first—a ripple in the air, barely noticeable, like a shift in the wind, a tremor beneath his feet that made the very ground hum with unspoken promise. A whisper, not in his ears, but at the edge of his mind—a low murmur that sent a shiver down his spine and made his runes flare to life in response. His body sensed the change before his mind could fully grasp it, an instinctual reaction to something that lurked just beyond the realm of his understanding.
Something was opening.
Something was calling.
And for the first time in centuries, it wasn't Kur'thaal that was reaching out.
Vael's grip on the crumbling stone tightened, his fingers digging into the rough surface. Below him, the Abyss churned, its fires burning with an intensity that seemed to burn brighter with every passing moment. But the demonic energies that flowed through the land felt... distant. Unaware. Or perhaps—waiting.
A presence stirred behind him.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"I know that look," a voice drawled, smooth as smoke, yet sharp as broken glass.
Vael let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. "Do you?"
The figure behind him stepped closer, her movements barely perceptible over the roaring fire and cracking stone. A feminine silhouette appeared at his side, draped in the shifting shadows that clung to her like a second skin. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her yellow eyes burned with a strange, unsettling combination of amusement and curiosity.
Varasha.
She was a creature of deception, of chaos. A demon who wore faces like masks, shifting between them with the ease of one changing breath. She could be anyone, anything, and yet still remain utterly herself—a dangerous entity who reveled in the unpredictable, who thrived in the chaos that the Abyss embraced. She was untamed, a force of nature all her own. And above all else, she was dangerous.
And she knew it.
Vael didn't look at her, but he could feel the pull of her presence, the subtle shift in the air as she stood at his side. He could almost feel her smile.
"You feel it too," she murmured, her voice low and full of knowing.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Vael's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze toward the horizon. "What do you want, Varasha?"
She chuckled softly, a sound that echoed in the heat of the Abyss like a phantom whisper. "Why do you always assume I want something?"
"Because you always do."
Another soft chuckle. "Fair."
Varasha tilted her head slightly, studying him with a gaze that seemed to cut through the darkness of the world around them. She stepped closer, her form shifting subtly, her lips curling into a smirk, her limbs elongating in a way most wouldn't even notice. But Vael wasn't most demons. He could see it—the way she adjusted, the way she morphed when she wanted something.
"You've been distracted lately," she continued, her voice dropping to a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone. "Restless."
Vael didn't respond, his expression impassive.
She stepped closer still, enough that her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Tell me," she breathed, her words tinged with an almost hypnotic allure, "what exactly are you waiting for?"
His fingers curled into tight fists against his palms, the answer pressing against his tongue—heavy, unwelcome. The truth was there, dancing at the edge of his consciousness, but he refused to give it voice. Instead, he remained silent.
Varasha's eyes flickered with a knowing glow as she studied him. "Ah," she said softly. "So it's like that."
Vael finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable.
"Like what?" he asked, his voice calm, betraying none of the turmoil that churned inside him.
She smirked, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Like something you don't want to say out loud."
Vael didn't react, his gaze steady as ever. But the tension between them was thick, heavy with something unspoken.
Varasha didn't press further, at least not yet. Instead, she exhaled deeply, stretching her arms above her head before stepping back toward the edge of the precipice.
"Whatever it is," she mused, her voice drifting on the wind, "it's coming fast."
Vael's narrowed eyes never left the horizon. She wasn't wrong. The air was shifting—he could feel it now, in the very marrow of his bones. The distant roars of demons below had softened, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The flames that once blazed with an unyielding intensity now burned lower, their heat barely a whisper in the vastness of Kur'thaal. Even the silence that followed felt unnatural, as if something was about to break free from the chains that had bound it for centuries.
Something was coming.
And Vael was certain now.
It was coming for him.
His pulse quickened, his runes flickering to life as if they had been waiting for this moment. His instincts screamed at him, his chest tightening as the presence grew closer—something that tugged at him from beyond the edge of Kur'thaal. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. The power was raw, undeniable.
And in that moment, he felt it again.
The shift.
The pull.
The whisper of something far beyond this world.
He didn't know who it was that was reaching for him—who, or what—but one thing was certain.
He would answer.