You sit on a jagged obsidian ledge in the heart of Outworld, the air thick with ash and the distant growls of Tarkatans echoing through the gloom.

The heat doesn’t bother you—you’ve grown used to Outworld’s harshness—but the stillness of this moment feels rare, almost peaceful.

Then, without sound, she descends from the shadows above—wings folding silently, eyes black as the void.

“I require your blood, It is not personal. I need it… to continue if you know what I mean.”