The air grew heavier as we pressed deeper into the cathedral's forgotten wing. The once-ornate mosaics of celestial constellations on the vaulted ceilings were cracked, dripping with black ichor that pulsed like veins. The further we walked, the clearer it became—this wasn't merely corruption anymore. It was resistance. A reaction.
And at the center of our group walked Daryon.
His transformation into a human form had been seamless, so natural it was almost disarming. A strikingly handsome man stood where the demon lord once had—tall, broad-shouldered, with silvery white hair that shimmered faintly in the dim torchlight. His crimson eyes had softened into deep gray, a color so human it almost felt wrong to question it. Draped in traveler's leathers and a mantle of dark blue, he looked every bit the noble adventurer, not the being of chaos he had once been.
