The main gates of Abaddon—giant arches carved from black stone and protected by centuries of curses—opened like the wings of a fallen angel. Not with screams or creaks, but with an almost theatrical reverence. Hell, for a moment, held its breath.
The carpet that unfolded across the castle staircase was made of living fabric, sewn with veins of molten gold and constantly shifting shadows. Trumpets of celestial bones sounded from above. The gargoyles on the towers turned to watch. The sky split into shades of red and purple.
Vergil emerged from the ceremonial carriage to the sound of a hellish fanfare—made of broken bells and distorted choirs. His cloak, as long as the lament of a defeated empire, danced in the wind as if it had a will of its own. He wore black and silver, and each step he took seemed to mark a new chapter in books that had not yet been written.
