Chapter 92
The desolate depths of Bellum stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of bruises.
A land overcome by drought—cracked earth, withered trees, rivers reduced to dusty scars across the landscape. Nothing grew here. Nothing flourished. Nothing lived except the things that had been cursed to exist.
Above it all, a figure flew.
He rode atop a boned creature whose wingspan blotted out the weak sun. Its body was a patchwork of fused skeletons—ribs curving into wings, vertebrae forming a spine that stretched longer than a ship's mast, claws that could crush stone. On its furry neck, eight dragon heads swayed, each one eyeless, each one hungry.
On its back stood a black-robed figure.
He was like death itself.
Anastas.
Behind him, winged demons gave chase—dozens of them, their leathery wings beating the dry air, their mouths open in silent screams. They hurled fireballs from their palms, streaks of orange and red that curved toward him like angry comets.
