The last thing Zeke saw was Haziel shifting around in his seat until he filled up the entry, glittering wings blocking out most of the strange double light of the hellish Abaddon.
* * * *
The temperature didn’t seem to change in this cursed place. Light didn’t either. To Zeke, this place was a static nothingness stretching out to forever. Which couldn’t be the case if the sun and moon sitting on the edges of Abaddon indicated anything. The dust-sulfur-honey smell was a persistent itch in his nose and lungs as he sat in front of Haziel’s tent, stomach in a riot from hunger.