The storm had not ended for three days.
Skies above the Withered Vale groaned with thunder, veined with black lightning that danced like the wrath of dying gods. Below, what remained of the Infernal Vanguard camped in silence—scattered, tired, and unsure. The war had begun to eat its own generals.
But inside the obsidian sanctum, Shadow remained still.
He sat at the edge of the war table, staring not at the maps or arcane blueprints strewn before him, but at a single relic: a broken helmet, charred and melted. Lidow's. Retrieved from the battlefield by the last of the demon riders, it had arrived without a word—silent proof of his son's crushing defeat.
Not dead. But destroyed.
Behind him, the silence was broken by the soft steps of Valaria. She said nothing at first, simply placed a hand on his shoulder.
"He's alive," she whispered.
Shadow's eyes didn't move.
"I know," he answered.
But his voice trembled.
Valaria stepped in front of him. "You've seen many die. Even your own blood. Why does this… feel different to you?"
Shadow stood, slowly. "Because he believed he could stand in front of death… and win."
"And now?"
Shadow looked toward the storm. "Now he knows what it takes."
There was no rage. Only stillness. Like the quiet before an ancient beast awakens.
Far away, Lidow was hidden in the ruins of Serath's Spine, surrounded by dark healers and ancient rites. His body had survived, barely, but his spirit—shattered. The loss of his arm had only been the surface. Deep within, something darker had cracked open.
Elsewhere…
In the shadows beyond the realm of men and flame, a presence stirred.
A new enemy.
Not a god. Not a demon. Not even a soul.
Just a whisper. Born of the old void—older than the first star and hungrier than the last king.
It had seen Shadow bleed.
And it wanted more.
Back in Hell's Capital
The council was uneasy.
Without Lidow, without the Flamebound Vanguard, and with their outer realms in disarray, the throne room echoed with voices raised too often in fear and not enough in strategy.
"He must act!" one of the Demon Lords hissed.
"We cannot lose him to grief," another snapped.
But when the double doors cracked open, all fell silent.
Shadow entered.
Without armor.
Without cape.
Without flame.
Just the black robes of mourning.
But his eyes burned more than ever.
"You ask what I will do," he said quietly. "You ask if I will fight."
He stepped forward, gaze cutting through them all.
"I will not fight."
A pause.
"I will erase."
The flame behind him exploded—just once, like the exhale of a titan.
"I will make the world remember why they feared the dark."