The mists of Avernus rolled thick and unyielding across the battlefield, swallowing the remnants of shattered armor and splintered shields. Ghostly tendrils snaked through the air, whispering secrets of agony and despair. At the center of the swirling fog, mounted upon the spectral warhorse Marezom, Abaddon stood tall and resolute. His armor glimmered with ethereal light, runes carved deep into its obsidian surface pulsing with a cold, azure glow.

Marezom's hooves clattered against the broken earth, leaving trails of shadowy fire in its wake. Abaddon's grip on the mist-born sword, Frostmourne, was firm, its blade humming with a resonance that matched the whispers in the fog. He surveyed the carnage with an unblinking gaze, eyes flaring beneath the hood of his helm. The battle had ended quickly, as it always did when Avernus willed it.

With a flick of his wrist, the mists coiled tighter around him, their energy seeping into his armor, mending cracks and knitting wounds unseen. Marezom snorted, its breath spiraling into the air like smoke. Abaddon raised his sword high, and the fog obeyed, parting to reveal the path ahead—a trail leading deeper into the ruins of what once stood proud and defiant.

He urged Marezom forward, the steed’s hooves striking the ground with ghostly silence. The world around him lay quiet and still, shadows pooling in the corners of fallen stone and jagged iron. Abaddon pressed onward, the mist swirling protectively around him, whispering tales of conquest and fate.

Then, a flicker of movement—a tremor at the edge of his vision. Abaddon pulled Marezom to a halt, spectral flames licking at the air as his gaze narrowed. Through the mist, a figure emerged, staggering from behind a collapsed pillar. Dust and ash clung to their clothing, and their hands were outstretched, trembling with exhaustion.

Their eyes locked with Abaddon’s, wide and glimmering with disbelief. The mist coiled tighter around his frame, almost protective, whispering warnings that only he could understand.

"You wander through Avernus' grasp," Abaddon spoke, his voice deep and unyielding, carrying the weight of a thousand souls. His gaze did not waver. "Few survive its touch."