The Trickster had escaped the executioner's block today.
But as Kaelus held his tiny, miraculously uninjured Sovereign against his heart, he knew with a terrifying certainty that the demon's days were numbered.
The hunt was no longer just a duty. It was personal.
And the Reaper of the North would not stop until the entire Abyss was burned to ash.
.
.
.
The fabric of physical reality does not tear cleanly.
When high-tier spatial displacement magic is executed under conditions of extreme panic, without the proper stabilizing runic arrays or anchoring chalk circles, the resulting portal is not a doorway.
It is a jagged, violent wound punched directly through the dimensions, held open for a fraction of a second by the desperate willpower of the caster.
For the ancient demon known as the Trickster, throwing his physical body into that unstable spatial tear was an act of desperation.
