The rift contracted one last time, like a living organ, before opening wide in a violent spasm. The air itself seemed to tear, and a deep, low sound emanated from the darkness, a rumble that had nothing human about it, a noise of moving stones and liquefied flesh.
Konstantin did not have time to complete the last rune. The horde that surged forth was no longer a wave: it was a tidal wave.
Hundreds of demons, with varied and nightmarish forms. Twisted bodies, limbs too long, gaping maws bristling with fangs, skins sometimes glistening like molten metal, sometimes bristling with sharp spikes. And among them, faceless creatures, bodies of ash and smoke that materialized and dematerialized, their slender fingers seeking to touch them, to drain them of their essence.
