The journey from the Demon Cult's stronghold to Espadavale took less than an hour. The two figures—Malachi, the Apostle of Subservience, and Count Varethrak the Wither—travelled not by mount or machine, but through levitation, gliding silently through the lifeless skies that hovered like a casket lid over the mirror dimension.
They arrived at the edge of Espadavale, suspended above a jagged cliffside that jutted out like a broken tooth into a restless sea. The waves below were not blue, but a swirling mixture of black brine and crimson foam, thrashing violently against the stone as if in protest against the arrival of such malefic beings.
Above them, thick, churning clouds spread across the heavens, twisting shapes that whispered madness, thunder without lightning, despair without rain. The very air was heavy with it: sorrow soaked in magic, despair as natural as breath.
