For hundreds of kilometres around us, the battlefield went still. Earth's armies, still pouring out of the seams, paused. The demon fleet, stunned by what it had just seen, held its position. The war of mortals stopped for a breath, and every eye on both sides turned to the three figures who had become the centre of it.
A wave of brutal, physical heat rolled over the lunar surface. The regolith under my boots superheated at once, on the edge of turning to glass. Something enormous and misshapen landed on the plain in front of me: a mountain of raw rock veined with magma and held together by throbbing channels of burning miasma. Its landing threw a shockwave of molten dust kilometres up into the airless dark. Its body was barely human in outline, a crude sketch of a biped, and it radiated a mindless, catastrophic rage. This was Wrath, the Third. Its roar was a psychic scream of pure fury at the being who had humiliated its army.
