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Thick and pervasive dark power conjured the night.
It was a night where the sun would never rise and where not even stars existed, a night unyielding to the glow of a fire. Iris sat within the abyss of darkness she had forged herself.
"They’re coming," she commented.
Her crimson lips curved into a smirk, and her chin lifted in anticipation as she giggled in the enveloping darkness. She did not see them yet. While she could have seen if she wished to, Iris chose not to.
She could feel them without seeing, and it gave her a bigger thrill to feel them like this rather than seeing them with her own eyes. A tremble of anticipation and delight shook her frame.
They were approaching, steadily and unnaturally fast, as if endowed with wings in this windless sea.
An irritating discomfort hinted at the presence of divine power. It was only natural, given that they were the Saint and the Hero.
‘Let's go greet them tomorrow,’ Iris thought.
That didn’t mean she was unprepared. Raising her head, Iris peered forward.
In the profound darkness, a different kind of darkness existed, one molded and nurtured by Iris herself.
It was a cradle and shelter harboring her kin, the Rebels of Fury, an organization she had fostered for three hundred years. They were loyal subjects who never abandoned her, even during the tyranny and contempt from the demons of Helmuth. They were followers who revered her as a princess and dreamt of Fury’s resurgence by her side.
But not all had remained...
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