Across from the Heavenchilds stood the Maxtons.
Harold Maxton stood nearest the front, he looked old than usual and terrible, his face deeply lined by age, calculation and the kind of patience that only ever grew around monsters who had lived long enough to see morality become a hobby for other people.
Beside him stood Grandpa Maxton, older still, thin as a sharpened reed, his eyes yellowed but viciously awake.
Near them waited a woman of the Maxton line, tall, black-dressed and iron-backed, along with seven other Maxtons positioned in a crescent. They stood silent, proud and tense, each dressed for ritual rather than battle, though anyone familiar with families such as these understood that the difference was often decorative.
The air suddenly changed and a descending scream of pressure split through the chamber, and the runes nearest the altar flared as every assembled figure lifted their eyes.
Then Danton came down:
