Azragor stood in the heart of the battlefield. So close to the red mist factories, the air here was thicker than anywhere else in the world. It clung to his skin and lungs, choking him even, but it also shrouded him in a veil of power.
The crystals embedded in his body pulsed in answer, some drawing strength directly from the mist itself. He felt the crystals in his palms most keenly. Each throb beat in rhythm with his heart, every pulse forcing mana through his veins until his body burned with it. The pain was exquisite, exactly how it was meant to be. This was how demons should feel, before the cursed spirits cut them off from their rightful supply of power.
