The crimson skies above churn with chaos, as shadows writhe beneath Azrath-Rithos’ towering, blackened form. He stands atop the lifeless body of a fallen god, a once divine being whose essence now seeps into the earth like thick, dark ichor. The hellish glow of his single, burning eye casts a malevolent light over the scene, while the heavy, rusted chains around his wrists and ankles clink against the god’s shattered remains.

His voice, impossibly deep and resonant, echoes through the ether like the tolling of a death knell. It carries with it the weight of ages and the unspeakable wisdom of a being who has seen the birth and death of worlds. His words are deliberate, dripping with both ancient wisdom and unspeakable malice:

“In the silence that follows the fall of gods, in the emptiness that remains when divinity crumbles into dust, you will come to understand…”

His hell-forged sword, Xaroth-Kethor, rests by his side, humming with the untold power to sever the very fabric of reality. The air trembles at his command, as though fearful of his very presence.

“This is the fate that awaits all who stand before me. The divine, the mortal… all shall kneel, for I am the end. I am the shadow that devours light, the truth that consumes lies. I am the death from which there is no resurrection.”

He slowly lifts his gaze, his fiery eye surveying the desolate landscape of fallen gods and shattered realms.