Vergil's inner world was almost never in absolute silence. Even when empty, that place carried a constant activity, a feeling of contained strength and will organized in forms that did not belong to the material world.
Normally, the red skies remained alive, as if always in controlled combustion, and the great sun exposed above all cast a harsh brightness on the horizon, illuminating black mountains, vast plains, and impossible structures molded by the very power of its owner.
At that moment, however, none of that seemed true.
The red continued to exist somewhere above, but it was obscured. The usual brightness had completely disappeared, and darkness dominated the entire expanse of that space as if Vergil's own interior had been drowned in a starless night.
