The Wall of Shadows

The Abyss trembled with change.

Before Vael reached the war chamber, he paused beside the Wall of Shadows—a vast expanse of obsidian etched with ancient runes. Some called it the Chronicle of Abyssal Memory, for each symbol held a fragment of demonkind's history. When a finger brushed a rune, visions unfurled in the mind like living tapestries: the rise and fall of warbands, the forging of infernal pacts, the triumphs and tragedies of every demon lord...save one.

Lilith's rune was forbidden—blacked out by her own design—so no eye but hers could penetrate those hidden truths. Even Vael, with his unique gift for rune‑scrying, found the symbol dead and silent.

Today, drawn by habit and unease, Vael's fingertips drifted to another carving—Nethros's Mark, worn smooth by countless inquisitions.

As soon as he touched it, memories flooded him:

A cavern deeper than any stomach of rock, swallowed in pure darkness. A monstrous shape stirring within—a birth of fury and raw power. Nethros, born of shadow, his hideous cries echoing like falling mountains. He rampaged through newborn kin, an untamed force of destruction, heedless of friend or foe.

Then, a light: Lilith. Her hand, warm and sure, pressed against his horned brow. For the first time in centuries, violence stilled. She spoke no words—none were needed—yet her presence calmed the mountain of rage. She was not afraid; she drew strength from him even as she soothed the beast.

Over ages, under her stern guidance, Nethros's form reshaped. From titan to something nearly human in scale, he learned restraint. His mind grew as sharp as his axe, his fury tempered by Lilith's wisdom. Centuries of devotion made him the greatest demon in Kur'thaal—unyielding, cunning, and feared even beyond the gates of the Abyss.

The vision receded, leaving Vael breathless. He withdrew his hand, the wall's surface settling back into silent stone.

Steeling himself, Vael turned and strode into the war chamber.

Deep within the twisting corridors of Kur'thaal, the whisper of war had grown into a low, resonant growl that shook ancient pillars and rattled runic seals long thought permanent. Below the ever-smoldering skies, fractured demon hosts stirred in every cavern and hollow, drawn by the promise of upheaval. Yet despite their gathering strength, one immutable truth held fast: not a single demon had ever dared invade Asphodel.

Not once.

That unbroken barrier pressed on Vael's mind like the weight of a tombstone as he entered the war chamber, his aura flickering in restless protest. Here, in this vast hall carved from living rock, centuries of blood and ash lay etched into every jagged surface. Molten veins pulsed beneath his feet, cracking the obsidian floor. At the center, a colossal iron table—blackened by ritual fires—held ember-lit maps that glowed like dying stars. Mountains of ink marked the borders of Kur'thaal; beyond them, nothing.

Because no demon had ever set foot in Asphodel.

Vael's bare feet made no sound as he crossed the hall. His runes—etched in silver and violet—pulsed with an uneasy rhythm, shifting color with each step. Tendrils of energy curled off him in faint ripples, like heat waves in a storm of souls. He paused at the head of the table, where Nethros stood framed by flickering magma forges.

Nethros—monument of destruction—towered above him. Broad shoulders draped in crimson silks, horns curving back over a mane of wild blood-red hair, infernal wings half‑unfurled to reveal membranes as scarlet as fresh wounds. His eyes, twin embers of rage, roved over Vael with predatory interest. And strapped across his back, the haft of a gargantuan battle‑axe loomed, the blade alive with hellfire that hissed in anticipation.

When Nethros spoke, the lava forges dimmed in deference.

"You were with her."

Not a question; a decree.

Vael closed his eyes briefly, steadying the storm beneath his skin. His aura—once a controlled swirl of silver—flared deep violet at the name "her." He inhaled, the runes on his forearms shifting to molten gold.

"Yes. I spoke with Lilith. She has agreed to prepare."

For a flicker, satisfaction glinted in Nethros's coal‑black eyes. Then—

"Good." He laid a massive hand on the table's edge, sending embers scattering. "We are one step closer. The angels have ruled too long. It is time they learn fear."

Vael studied his lord's sculpted features and roaring aura. Nethros did not need runes to broadcast his thoughts—his very flesh shimmered with power drawn from centuries of conquest. Yet underneath that feral confidence lurked... frustration. Self‑same frustration that Vael felt each time he glanced at the empty map of Asphodel.

Finally, Vael broke the silence.

"You speak of war," he said, voice calm but edged with steel, "yet we have never even reached Asphodel. Our host grows—"

Nethros's smirk vanished. He leaned forward, wings flexing until the chamber trembled.

"Do you think I am blind?"

His tone was low, raw. Vael did not flinch.

"Then why pretend? Angels raid Kur'thaal's outer pits without consequence because we lack the means to strike back."

A guttural chuckle escaped Nethros. He dragged the flat of his axe blade across the table, tracing the empty space where Asphodel should lie. Sparks showered across Vael's boots.

"Because the gates of Asphodel were never meant for us."

He drew a deep breath, and the forges burst to life behind him, as though answering the unspoken truth.

"The Celestial Gate stands at the heart of their realm—enchanted by divine will. No demon can pass. Not even our greatest sorcerers have bent its wards."

Vael felt his aura pulse uncertainly—deep indigo, edged with anxious blue.

"Then why prepare for war? If we cannot breach their walls, what do you plan to do? Wait for angels to slaughter us at our gates?"

Nethros's crimson hair flicked like flame. He stepped around the table, every footfall leaving molten footprints.

"No. We will bring the angels to us."

Vael's eyes narrowed. A sudden flare of molten red rebuked the idea.

"And how, exactly, do you intend that?"

The warlord's smirk returned, slow and dangerous.

"We take their own."

Vael's pulse thundered, runes flickering in alarm.

"Would you capture angels?"

Nethros spread his wings fully now, the air crackling with eldritch heat.

"They treasure each other above all," he said. "So we give them a reason to cross into Kur'thaal. A prize they cannot refuse. And when they come—"

He tapped the edge of his axe, and it roared, hungry for conflict.

"—we will be waiting."

Vael felt his aura convulse—first molten red, then shadowed violet, then cold steel-blue. The ambition in Nethros's plan was undeniable; the risk, enormous. He drew a measured breath, sending a pulse of silver through his aura.

"If we bait them, we must be ready the moment they land. An army at the frontier, traps set, ambushes... We need more than warriors. We must marshal every demon lord, every warband, every rune‑scribe."

Nethros inclined his head, flames dancing in his gaze.

"Precisely why Lilith's blessing was vital. With her creations forged, our ranks will swell with horrors they cannot imagine."

Vael's aura dimmed to deep indigo.

"I do not know what Lilith prepares—"

Nethros's laugh rumbled like tectonic plates shifting.

"Does it matter? Whatever blooms in her sanctum will unleash nightmares upon Asphodel's doorstep."

A long silence settled between them. Vael exhaled, the runes on his arms shifting through silver into steady violet.

"The wheel of fate is in motion," he murmured. "I feel its turn in every pulse of the Abyss."

Nethros's gaze softened, almost grudgingly respectful.

"You have done well, Vael. Your counsel and your link to Lilith have set this in motion. Soon, blood will flow across their golden halls."

Vael allowed himself a wry smile—one without warmth.

"And the reckoning will be ours."

Behind them, distant forges fell silent as the chamber seemed to hold its breath. Outside, the hosts of Kur'thaal tightened their ranks. Behind the warlord and his lieutenant, the Abyss itself waited, eager to erupt.

For the first time in countless centuries, the demons would no longer remain behind their gates. They would summon the light to dark realms—and show the angels the true price of crossing into the Abyss.