The fight was over. The only sounds left were the groan of settling rubble and the hiss of cooling stone. The air hung thick with the smell of ozone, ash, and something coppery. Lucifer stood in the center of the devastation, his dark clothes torn, blood—both black and red—drying on his skin. The living shadows that armored him were receding, sinking back into his flesh like retreating tide.
He didn't move for a long moment, just breathed in the wreckage. Behind him, the portal shimmered, a vertical pool of liquid night. Through it, figures in stark, crimson armor began to step through, their movements silent and synchronized. His army. He didn't turn to look.
Footsteps approached from behind, careful on the broken ground.
"Damn, Luce," Ken's voice cut through the quiet, rough but familiar. "You redecorate the place?"
