Makareth, a Demon newly ascended to the rank of Archlord and bred for the sole purpose of war, was itching for a fight.
"Heh heh heh... The dark symphony of the Abyss has begun to play. All life shall dance to my tune, or they won't live to see tomorrow's sun!"
With a manic howl, Makareth tore into the distant clouds.
Miles away, Elara manifested from thin air, hovering just a few yards in front of a black-robed figure.
"Speak your True Name and submit. I might spare your life."
Elara's tone was flat—too flat for an Archlord. To Cavendish, her complete lack of aura felt like a bad joke.
"Submit?" Cavendish scoffed. "You must be jesting. I am one of the Eight High Inquisitors of the Holy Order, a chosen zealot of the Goddess Agaman. Who are you to command my surrender?"
His voice dropped to a glacial chill. To him, Elara's attitude was a blasphemous insult.
"Oh. So you choose death."
