Chapter 10: The Shadow of the Ninth
The wind howled across the Shattered Steppes, scouring the desolate expanse with grit and the acrid sting of distant volcanic vents. Huddled within a cluster of jagged obsidian boulders, five figures crouched low. Hellspawn Scouts. Humanoid, yet twisted skin a mottled grey-green, covered in coarse, pebbled hide instead of scales. Short, curved horns jutted from their brows, and slit-pupiled yellow eyes, reptilian and cold, scanned the barren wastes towards the distant, brooding silhouette of the Obsidian Reach. They wore crude leather armor studded with chipped bone plates, their hands resting on the worn hilts of notched black iron blades. Their leader, marginally larger with one horn snapped near the base, grunted, pointing a clawed finger towards an unnatural plume of smoke coiling near the fortress – the aftermath of the recent "cleansing."
"Heard the Ninth finally got stomped," one scout hissed, his voice like stones grating together. "Heroes came. Big army. Shiny metal."
"Good riddance," spat another, picking obsessively at its fangs with a claw. "Weakling. Made the rest of us look bad. Lord Moloch wants to know if the hole's empty now. Easy pickings."
The leader nodded slowly, his gaze fixed not on the smoke, but on the unsettlingly smooth, bowl-shaped depression marring the steppes near the fortress walls. "Something... wrong there," he rumbled. "Smells wrong. We watch. We report. Don't cross the ash line. Lord Moloch said watch. Not touch."
Suddenly, the light died. Not from cloud or storm – the sky remained pitilessly clear – but as if an immense wing had momentarily eclipsed the sun. A figure stood upon the air, ten feet above them, where nothing had been an instant before.
The scouts recoiled as one, blades snaking from sheaths with a chorus of dry rasps. The figure was a man, seemingly young – perhaps mid-twenties – clad in simple black garments that seemed to devour the light. Thick black hair framed a face dominated by eyes that burned with molten gold fire. He radiated no overt menace, yet the air thickened around him, charged with ancient power. It hummed just beneath the surface, a vibration felt deep in their marrow rather than heard.
One scout, the youngest and most foolish, gaped. Its yellow eyes stretched wide with a terror usually reserved for Demon Lords. "Y-you!" it stammered, voice cracking. "Are... are you the Ninth? Lord Azrael?"
The name hung in the abruptly still air, heavy and profane.
The man – Ignis – didn't react with rage. He went utterly, terrifyingly still. His molten eyes, locked onto the young scout, widened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of pure, primal terror flashed across his features before vanishing behind a mask of chilling void. The name, spoken so casually, so disrespectfully, by this insignificant grub, echoed the command he dreaded most:
Do not disturb me.
The leader scout sensed the catastrophic shift a heartbeat too late. "Fool! Silence!" he snarled, lashing out with a backhand.
But It didn't matter.
**CRUNCH.**
Not a sound, but a sensation. An invisible mountain slammed down from the figure above. The five scouts were hammered flat against the unyielding ground. Air exploded from their lungs in wet, ragged gasps. Leather strained, bone plates groaned under impossible pressure. Screams died unborn; the weight was too absolute. Their yellow eyes bulged, reflecting nothing but utter, mindless terror. This wasn't the Ninth's rumored apathy. This was annihilation given form. This was the sky falling.
Ignis descended slowly, landing soundlessly before them. He gazed down at the pinned, writhing creatures, his expression colder than the void between stars.
"How dare you."
His voice was a low growl that vibrated in the roots of their teeth. "How dare you speak His name? How dare you foul the air with the title of my Master?"
The scouts' terror intensified, laced now with profound confusion. Master? The Ninth Lord had no followers! He was a pariah! A target! Who was this being whose mere presence crushed them like gnats, who spoke of the weakest Lord with such terrifying reverence?
Obsidian eased the crushing weight just enough for them to draw ragged, agonizing breaths. They remained pinned, trembling violently, unable to lift a limb. He looked down with utter disdain. "You are fortunate," he stated, his voice devoid of any mercy. "My Master, in His infinite forbearance, desires you alive." He emphasized the word, making it sound like a reprieve they scarcely deserved. "Mostly."
He raised his hand, with a contemptuous flick of his fingers.
An unseen force, cold and implacable as glacier ice, wrapped around the five scouts. It lifted them off the shattered ground as if they were weightless sacks of offal. They hung suspended, limbs dangling uselessly, utterly immobilized beyond even a whimper. The broken-horned leader locked eyes with Ignis's burning gold gaze and saw only the abyss staring back.
"Be silent," Obsidian commanded, the words an unbreakable compulsion sealing their throats tighter than iron bands. "You journey to the Obsidian Throne. Pray your presence amuses Him."
Without another word, Ignis turned. The invisible force holding the scouts flowed with him like a dark current. He went back to the palace.The five scouts floated helplessly behind him.