Three incandescent streaks of apocalyptic light plunged from the central plaza onto the forward terrace of Crater Island.
The stone flagstones cracked on impact.
Ancestor Pyre materialized amidst a swirling vortex of Ashen Sun fire, his scorched robes trailing black cinders. Beside him stood Ancestor Vesper, his silver-white hair whipping wildly in the wind, and Ancestor Draven, whose gray, stone-encrusted skin leaked wisps of necrotic blood.
All three ancient rulers burned with the full, terrifying pressure of Saint Vessel Peak.
Driven to suicidal madness by the loss of their vaults and the stalled Star-Array, they no longer cared about preserving their life expectancy. They were burning their personal soul-lamps to fuel their strikes.
Behind them limped Inquisitor Thorne-Crow, clutching a dagger coated in purple soul-poison.
“The grotto entrance is thirty paces ahead,” Thorne-Crow rasped, his voice dripping with venom. “The boy is inside that doorway. Break the seal, and the war is won.”
Ancestor Pyre did not speak.
