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Arkemis, the heretic among High Elves, stood in Hell. She was a returned Transcendent and an alchemist of the highest order. If the Demon King had descended and the war had shifted beneath the heavens, she would follow the current to the deepest part of the world.
Cold sweat slid down her temple. The ground in front of her boots had been shaved away in a line so clean that it looked like a craftsman had cut it with a blade as tall as a mountain. One more step, or rather, if Serena had not cried out for her to stop in time, Arkemis would have taken that step, and she would have parted with the earth in two neat pieces.
“Th-thank you, Serena,” Arkemis said.
Serena didn’t respond. She wasn’t in any state to receive gratitude. A strangled sound escaped her throat as her face went rigid, and she collapsed where she stood, her knees refusing to obey. All color had fled from her skin until she looked even paler than the woman she had just saved. Her eyes had gone glassy—vacant, unfocused, and far away.
Arkemis did not need to ask why. She could feel it as well, the terrible weight that pressed from far away and then from everywhere at once.
“The Demon King,” she whispered.
In a past so distant that the memory felt like a borrowed dream, during the Divine-Demonic War, a single being had burned half the Mortal Realm and put a score of gods to the sword. That being had set foot here.
Serena was the Holy Sword. No living person felt demonic force more clearly. Under such presence, the mind buckled. Arkemis clenched her teeth and took Serena by the shoulders....
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