Durrant, relaxing from intense concentration, let out a tired sigh before shaking his head. “Still nothing, Sera. Maybe once, long ago… but there’s nothing here now.”

Seraphina slammed her fist into the tree beside her, causing it to shake. “Damn it!” Looking up at the slowly darkening sky, the albino tried to calm herself.

The magician shook his head. “Whoever this new one is, he’s very good at covering his tracks.”

“We need to find him soon, before he grows strong!” Sera growled.

“Hey,” Durrant said reassuringly, reaching out to grasp Sera’s arm in comfort. When she fluidly evaded his touch, the magician’s mouth thinned in irritation, but he continued regardless. “They always show themselves in the end. Hell, if there’s one cardinal rule in this business, that’d be it. Demonic magic corrupts like a cancer; the bastards can never resist making a splash. You know it as well as I do. So what’s really bothering you about this one?”

The albino was quiet for a long moment, staring at the sky. When at last she spoke, her voice was small and uncertain, nothing remaining of her previous fury. “I’ve heard before of… Vessels dying.”

When she did not seem about to continue right away, Durrant nodded solemnly. “Yes… I’ve come across various references in my studies. The most famous example was the struggle for the Seal of Solomon; in which three Vessels died on the same night, and all of Creation wept.”

Sera’s shoulders shook a little, as if containing tears or laughter. “Why weep for our passage? We are merely tools of the Lord God, insignificant. Our reward is eternal, our sins washed away through his mercy. What is there to fear?”

The magician frowned. “You tell me.”

“I fear for my Master, Durrant. I care nothing for myself, for I am the least of God’s servants, and sooner or later he will gather me back to himself; in this I rejoice. But what of Amariel? That sorcerer, Martel, he didn’t kill the Vessel, Durrant, he killed the angel.”

Sera looked at the magician with lost eyes. “What would it feel like, to be empty, and know you will never be full again? To be forever alone, to have your life’s purpose destroyed? To know that a being of indescribable beauty and goodness and power; a being that stood at the right hand of God, is gone forever?”

Durrant opened his mouth, then closed it again after a minute, having thought of nothing to say. He’d heard that Vessels tended to be unstable, and Sera was certainly prone to alarming mood swings, but this was the worst he’d ever seen her. The magician figured that telling her another angel would doubtless jump at the chance to touch the world through her would be less than comforting.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

Sera smiled bitterly. “You don’t know.” She turned away from him, gazing across the street, her gaze unfocused.

All of an instant her stance changed. Drawing herself upright, she narrowed her eyes, coming on point like a hound picking up the scent of a fox.

“There!” She said softly, gripping Durrant’s arm so hard it hurt. “Look!”

A lone figure was ambling down the street, the picture of a perfectly normal citizen out on an evening walk to drink in the lush greenness of the scenery. At this distance Durrant could not see him clearly, but it appeared to be a young man, tall and dark-haired.

“Him?” the magician queried uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

Sera spared him only a single, scathing glance. “I am not ‘sure’, Durrant. I know.”

The magician nodded jerkily, his heart beating fast. “What are we doing?”

“We are following him,” Sera rejoined tersely. “With any luck, he’ll lead us back to the nest. They aren’t capable of much independent action. You are keeping quiet and casting a glamour, so I can prepare myself.”

Durrant nodded, and began quietly chanting under his breath. Sera paused for a minute in deep concentration. Once back to herself, the Vessel glided swiftly after her prey. As soon as the albino reached the street, she slowed down, strolling along as if she had not a care in the world. Durrant stayed close to her side, hand in hand. They presented a strange picture together; the tall, spare magician in his dark business suit and the leather-clad albino. To the casual observer, however, they were unnoticeable. IT would take a concentrated effort of will to pierce Durrant’s glamour, and that’s if anyone knew what to look for, which was hardly a danger.

“What is he?” Durrant whispered cautiously, his free hand nervously toying with the golden cross at his throat. “Spawned? Or a warlock?”

“Spawned,” Sera replied absently. “Moves wrong. Shut up.”

Durrant swallowed hard. The particular menace always evoked stark fear in him. No surprise, that. Dark sorcerers and the craven slaves of the Abyss were fearsome foes indeed, but even so, they only wanted to rule the world, not destroy it. Voidlings, on the other hand… they were the antithesis of life, the essence of destruction.

The magician took a minute to watch his companion, appreciating the security of her presence. Sera moved with the grace of a great hunting cat, eyes unwavering fixed on her target. Sleek and sinuous, her body moved exactly as she wished it, every move and exercise in perfection. The supple black leather of her outfit hugged the curves of her body enticingly.

Durrant tore his eyes away, cursing the tightness in his loins. He needed to focus.

All of a sudden, Sera froze for an instant, and for a single, terrifying, ludicrous moment, Durrant thought she had caught him staring and was going to deck him for it. But then the albino faded back around the nearest corner, dragging the magician along with her. Durrant winced as her steel-hard grip sank into his arm.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Sera peered back around the corner, her tongue caught between her teeth. “One of the Devoted has joined him,” she breathed. “We must be cautious. Some of them can See.”

Durrant swallowed hard. Sure enough, when they began their forward progress again, much more careful now, there were two figures striding ahead of them. At this distance and in motion, Durrant could not focus his senses much, but he still felt the newcomer’s presence distantly, like the edge of a fire’s heat in his mind, or a whiff of subtle corruption.

She looked normal enough; a short, dark-haired girl in bright pink, rather overweight; but Durrant knew she was deadly dangerous. The Spawned had no choice but to do evil; they had been consumed from within. The Devoted, on the other hand, chose to give themselves to the Void for various reasons. But whatever their motivation was to begin with, destruction soon became an end in and of itself.

Abruptly, their journey came to an end as their quarry entered a large, ramshackle house built in the Victorian style. Durrant blinked rapidly and gritted his teeth as he strove to keep his eyes focused on the entrance. It required an effort of will; his gaze kept wanting to slide off to either side, like forcing two magnets together. The house was shielded. The magician noticed with some annoyance that Sera gazed on the place without seeming to exert herself in the least.

“The nest,” Sera said softly, taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment before releasing it slowly. “You ready, wizard?”

Durrant let a hint of the pure white light of his magic seep out of his aura to glimmer at the tips of his fingers. He smiled tightly. “Ready.”

But Sera did not hear him. Eyes rolled back in her head, her body shook in sharp, spastic motions, caught up in the ecstasy of the Embrace. When she looked at him again, her eyes were golden and unearthly.

“Come,” Amariel said in His melodic voice, “and thou and I shall brave the dark once again.”

The angel led the way to the side of the house, surveying it quickly. A hint of something – confusion? disgust? – crossed His borrowed face, but was gone as quickly as it had come. “Thy hand, magician,” He commanded, holding out His own. When Durrant took it he suddenly found himself airborne, rising gently to the second story, where a window silently unlocked and swung open to greet them.

Perhaps it was merely the ward addling his senses, but to the white magician it looked like a beast, maw gaping wide to receive its prey. “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly,” Durrant murmured to himself.

The two entered, Durrant considerably less graceful than his companion. The floor creaked softly underfoot. They were in a bedroom, the bed and floor littered with thick, plush pillows and blankets. Amariel padded quietly to the door and eased it open. A hall led back to the main part of the house, terminating in a stairway leading down to the first floor. From somewhere below, Durrant could hear the faint murmur of voices.

“I shall fall upon them whilst they are unawares,” Amariel proclaimed in a low voice. “With the grace of God, I shall fare as did Gideon.”

“Just as long as I’m not quizzed on my water drinking habits,” Durrant muttered, and kicked aside a down comforter impatiently as he followed the angel down the hall.

“And He shall come as a thief in the night,” a rich, liquid voice remarked from behind them. As Amariel and Durrant whirled around to face him, the speaker smirked and spread his hands. “I always supposed that was a figure of speech, but it seems I was wrong. If you are after our silver, I’m sorry to dash your hopes, but I haven’t any.”

The man confronting them was tall, with shoulder-length, black hair and a regal, almost hypnotic air hanging about him. He was dressed in black slacks and a black, short-sleeved, silk button-up shirt, with the top few fasteners undone to show a hint of perfectly toned chest. His fingers were long and slender, and prone to stirring restlessly, even when the rest of his body was still.

This was only on the surface, however. To Amariel and Durrant, both wielders of great power and possessed of the ability to See Beyond; a quite different, and horrifying, form lay beneath the suave mask superimposed to hide it. Under the concealing illusion, the man was squat and markedly overweight. His eyes bulged unpleasantly, his skin was a dead, fish-belly white, and he was dressed in grungy jeans and a greasy black tee-shirt with ‘Al’s Car Mechanics’ emblazoned in red on the right side.

Just beneath the surface of his skin, unseen things writhed and shifted. Tendrils roiled and slid, making his flesh bulge and roll weirdly. Hair-thin tentacles extended themselves from beneath his fingernails and lashed around a moment before retreating. Even his limbs seemed fluid; flowing unnaturally long one moment, growing in girth the next before withering again like a slug drying in the sun.

Amariel started towards him, a snarl contorting His lips, His sword drawn in a single smooth motion as the radiance about Him flared into golden glory. But the hideous stranger, laughing though his eyes flashed venomously, brought a hand up and clenched it in the air in Amariel’s direction. A moment before the angel reached him, silver sword poised to strike, he threw his hand out to the side, uttering a single word.

Egressus! (Begone!)

Sera stopped suddenly, midstride, as if she had run into an invisible wall. She jerked convulsively, her sword clattering from her nerveless fingers. A moment later, she followed it, crashing to the floor hard, he halo winking out as if doused.

Nearly panicked, Sera fought her way to her hands and knees. Amariel was gone, and the last of his fading emotions were a tangled knot of terror and rage. If this thing before her frightened and angel… they were dead; or worse.

As the man approached her, Sera scrambled backwards, panting. “Durrant, stop him!” she begged, a note of desperation in her voice.

“Much as I would like to,” Durrant strained voice replied from behind her, “the fellow with the dagger at my throat seems against it, and I think I shall have to accede to his demands.”

The man clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Tch, tch. And you a Hand of God! I thought you were stalwart defenders of the Most High? Or was it ruthless assassins for the Eternal Tyranny? No matter; either way, fear does not become you.”

The man came to a halt in front of Sera and smiled down on her as she shuddered. “You being the brave heroine, Seraphina, are supposed to transfix me with your eyes, full of righteous wrath, whilst I, Calatrix, evil incarnate, am supposed to tremble. But I can’t in good conscience quail if you don’t work up a good stare, now can I?”

The utter corruption of his presence washed over Sera like noisome waters, and she turned on her side and vomited. Retching and heaving, she nevertheless found the breath somewhere to whimper as Calatrix touched her, stroking her forehead with obscene gentleness.

“So sweet inside,” he whispered to her, and even though, deprived of her Angel, she could not see his true form, Sera saw a greedy light burn in his eyes. “Strange, being what you are.” Calatrix leaned foreword so close his breath tickled her ear. “Maybe after They eat you, They’ll be sated for a while.”

Then he touched her again, and darkness took her.

Durrant eyed his surroundings alertly as his captor forced him down a set of broad, old oak steps. They were descending into the basement, led by Calatrix, who cradled an unconscious Sera in his arms; the musty, damp smell of the earth and old masonry reminding the magician of the reek of an open grave.

The basement was large, a wide, open expanse bounded by ancient stone walls. Symbols, obscene geometrical shapes and scrawled script that twisted the stomach and pained the eye to behold, sprawled across the floor, etched in the crumbling concrete with black scorch marks.

At least a dozen people were gathered here, some of them indefinable shapes lurking in the shadows cast by the few, flickering bulbs that illuminated the basement. The girl in pink, whom they had followed here, stood over a woman who lay trussed hand and foot on the floor, a gag tied tightly around her mouth.

As they entered, the girl in pink looked up, and smiled widely. “Master!” she addressed Calatrix. “They took the bait, just like you said.” She eyed Sera speculatively. “Did she give you any trouble?”

“She came as quietly as a lamb,” Calatrix replied, a hint of laughter in his smooth voice. “Has our new friend awakened yet, Lyssa?”

Lyssa shook her head. “Sleeping sweetly as a new-born babe, Master.”

Calatrix set Sera down at his feet gently, smiling fondly upon her. “I think it is time to begin. Soon, the Sleepers shall rise.”

The warlock motioned a few of his people over the watch her before striding to Lyssa’s side. Though Sera’s new guards looked normal enough; a tall thin man with thin, greying hair and thick glasses, accompanied by an Asian youth with a scarred cheek and ragged clothing; Durrant knew they were both Spawned, and thus, deadly dangerous.

Calatrix examined the bound woman closely, making no move to touch her, but seeming to memorize every detail of her body and face. “Yes,” the warlock said slowly. “You chose well, Lyssa.”

The other captive was an attractive young woman, Hispanic, dark-haired and curvaceous. She was dressed smartly in a charcoal grey business suit and she had the look of one who took a great deal of care about her appearance.

Durrant shifted his weight a little, and was rewarded with a warning prick from his dagger-wielding friend. The magician bit his lip. His guard was the one who held Sera’s sword, and if he let his guard down, just a bit, Durrant thought he might be able to disarm him… but what then? The magician knew he would never be able to fight his way out on his own. He would be overwhelmed instantly. But once they revived Sera…

Durrant swallowed hard as he looked up right into Calatrix’s knowing eyes. With a supreme mental effort, he wrenched his gaze away, feeling sweat bead on his forehead; and thus missed the sly, meaningful look that passed between Lyssa and her Master.

“Ego dedo is vicis, is tractus , is vexillum ut inritus,” Calatrix intoned in his deep, rich voice; which alone of all the positive qualities he possessed was not an illusion.

(I consign this time, this space, this company to the void)

“Exsisto is sic,” his followers responded in unison.

(Be it so) “Orbis terrarum est nusquam, quod nusquam est panton. Tantum Qui Sceptrum Ultra es eternus. Ego sum suum mancipium, efficio per ut mos; Ego sum umquam obedienter ut suum libido.”

(The world is nothing, and nothing is everything. Only Those Who Reign Beyond are eternal. I am their slave, to do with as they will; I am ever obedient to their whim)

“Sibimet, obsequium.”

(To Them, obedience)

“Is vadum venio ut vadum pervenio sicco, scindo divum quod terra, quod addo totus tergum sibimet. Ut dies mos adveho nunc.”

(It shall come to pass that They shall reach out, rend sky and earth, and bring all back to themselves. May that day come soon)

“Oblivio dico,” came the chorus.

(Oblivion beckons)

“Vir est pallens, Vir est constupro, pessimus nefas ut mos umquam exsisto. Vir ero laxo. Quod quisnam melior subvertio Vir quam Vir?”

(Man is weak, Man is corrupt, the worst perversion imaginable. Man must be undone. And who better to destroy Man than Man?)

“Permissum totus pereo.”

(Let all perish)

“Is mulier pro nos mos nunc sentio Suum tactus. Is est beatus.”

(This woman before us will soon feel Their touch. She is blessed)

“Perussi suus.”

(Consume her)

“Is mulier pro nos mos nunc animadverto Ultra. Is est beatus.”

(This woman before us will soon see Beyond. She is blessed)

“Perussi suus.”

(Consume her)

“Is mulier pro nos mos nunc obduco in Ulteriustractus. Is est beatus.”

(This woman before us will soon pass into the Uttermost. She is blessed)

“PERUSSI SUUS!”

(CONSUME HER)

“Suscitatio!” Calatrix roared, bringing his hands up from his sides in a sweeping gesture. “Aspicio vestri fortuna!

(Awake! Behold your fate)

Sera and the bound woman stirred simultaneously. Sera got to her feet slowly, closely watched by her two guards. The woman struggled for a moment against the ropes, futilely, then lay still her eyes full of fear. Calatrix smiled down at her, a predatory, malignant, nakedly hungry expression that made Durrant’s blood run cold.

“Fight me, little lamb,” the warlock said softly to her. “It makes your blood so sweet.”

No glamour could mask the unnatural movement now taking place in his body. Calatrix’s fingers flexed bonelessly, writhed, and began to lengthen dramatically, sloughing off their fingernails, lashing about like enraged serpents. Reaching down to the woman’s body, they prodded and slid over the outside of her clothing, seeking out her soft warmth.

The woman seemed frozen in horror for a moment, but then began to trash about frantically, trying to dislodge the insistent invaders that clung to her body. But Calatrix’s fingers seemed utterly unaffected by her vigorous motions, and continued their assault unabated.

One fleshy member found the edge of her pants, and dipped down under them, untucking her snow-white shirt. Moving upwards, it caressed her stomach on its way to her breasts, roughly squeezing and molding the soft swells. The woman let out a muffled scream at the indignity, and this sharp sound seemed to excite Calatrix into a frenzy.

Her shirt bulged outwards and burst with a sound of ripping cloth. Her bra soon followed, the flimsy scrap of fabric offering no protection against the warlock’s rapacious desires. Her breasts sprung free, jutting proudly from her chest, capped with dark nipples taut with unwanted pleasure.

The rest of her clothing soon followed, the scraps of cloth tossed aside carelessly to litter the floor. Her bonds were torn from her as well, but a tentacle clasped each limb in their place, and the woman’s struggles were of no avail against Calatrix’s freakish strength. Slowly, surely, her legs were pried apart, every muscle strained in desperate resistance, revealing her dark furred cleft.

Snake-swift, a finger darted down and slipped inside of her. Calatrix clenched his teeth and hissed in pleasure as he probed her tightness, drinking in her screams. Another finger, and yet another slithered down to join the first in her pussy, all uniting in a relentless driving rhythm. A bloated index finger slipped off her gag and plundered her mouth, choking her cries. She tried to bite the rubbery invader, but her teeth could find no purchase on its slick surface, and the warlock merely grunted gutturally twitching in appreciation and her small blunt teeth scraped over his appendage.

Soon the woman ceased to fight at all. Moisture glistened around the edges of her engorged sex; covered the fingers pumping in and out of her. Head trashing from side to side in futile, useless denial, the woman obviously could not resist the sensations Calatrix was eliciting from her. Though her mind still protested, her body was giving in with traitorous ease, responding avidly to the warlock’s attentions.

Durrant looked to Sera as the woman let out a muffled groan, and found the albino gazing back at him. The magician winked at her, then inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction of her sword, where it hung from the belt of his captor. Sera nodded almost imperceptibly, determination mixed with fear and disgust in her eyes. She would be ready. Durrant swallowed hard. If his theory was correct, they would get their only chance very soon now…

Calatrix’s illusory self was rippling wildly. The warlock was losing control, lost in the delights of the woman before him; feeling the warm, velvety wetness of her cunt contracting around his fingers as they moved in and out of her harder and harder, making her squeal and clench even harder about him; biting back groans as she sucked and licked at the organ in her mouth, her moans vibrating deliciously on his skin. All about him, the Spawned gazed on glassy eyed, their Master’s feral abandon tugging at their empty minds.

Bits of the real Calatrix began to show through, hideous flashes the shimmered like half-remembered nightmares. A glimpse of his bloated, distorted face, tongue lolling horribly out his gaping maw; his legs fusing together, flesh roiling and flowing like boiling mud, half-seen out the corner of the eye; hair that was one instant immaculately groomed, and the next the few strands hanging on his mostly bald pate were squirming like worms, wriggling along fluid skin to drop to the floor as if making a desperate bid for freedom.

Calatrix threw back his head and roared, and the deep, ragged sound was entirely inhuman. He glamour failed completely as he positioned his victim on all fours before him, all resistance fled, and eager whore ready to service him. The woman pushed her cunt back towards him wantonly, strands of her juice dripping to the floor, rubbing up against the heavy cock that the monster behind her now brought forth.

The warlock bellowed again, spreading the woman’s holes wide with his flexible, serpentine fingers, and plunged into her pussy violently, wringing a cry on mixed pain and pleasure from her swollen lips. Simultaneously, Calatrix sent his long, forked tongue sliding down to her ass, laving her buttocks for a moment before roughly impaling her. A series of animalistic squeals and grunts issued from the woman’s lips as she rutted back against his tongue and cock, squeezing him hard with her inner muscles. Slick fluids trickled down her creamy thighs, whipped to a froth by their frantic fucking. The woman whimpered and convulsed around Calatrix’s rigid member, lost to the flashflood of pleasure that brutally smashed her apart.

For a minute, Calatrix continued thrusting into the woman’s limp body, sliding her back and forth on the floor with the force of his lunges; her eyes unfocussed and her face slack as she passively accepted the furious pounding into her dripping pussy and dilated ass. Then the warlock growled, long and low in his throat, as he buried her self inside her and came, flooding her womb with spurts of his warm, thick fluid.

And there it was. As Calatrix came, squirting his corrupt seed deep into the woman’s body, all the Spawned faltered for a moment, lost in their Master’s pleasure. Durrant took full advantage of their lapse.

Twisting quickly, he knocked the dagger from his captor’s slack hands and seized Sera’s sword. The quickly recovering minion grappled the magician as he drew it from his belt, but Durrant spoke a single word.

“Exussum”

(Burn)

The Spawned shrieked and reeled back, his flesh smoking, and Durrant, free for the moment, hurled the sword length-wise to Sera. The albino caught it deftly by the hilt, having stunned her erstwhile guards with a few well-placed blows. Durrant saw her deliver the death-stroke to the two Spawned lying before her, but then Lyssa was upon him, and the magician found himself fighting for his life.

The Devoted reached out to touch his face, her hands shedding a sickly green glow. Durrant fell back desperately, feeling his skin rot and peel as Lyssa’s fingers grazed his cheek. He threw up his hand.

“Per venia Deus, avaunt!”

(By the grace of God, go before me!)

The Devoted recoiled with a scream as golden light bloomed in Durrant’s palm, driving her back. She snarled from where she cowered before him in the gloom, beast-like, her eyes gleaming crimson. Then in a sudden surge she rolled aside, evading his will, and leapt upon him with boneless grace, sending them both crashing to the floor in a heap.

Lyssa seemed everywhere, all sharp teeth and rending nails. Durrant screamed in pain as he felt her fasten in the back of his neck, latching on and worrying lose his flesh with violent shakes of her head. Flailing about wildly, the magician fought for breath, gasping, “In nomen Spiritus Sanctus, servo mihi. Permissum mihi excedo queritor meus hostilis.”

(In the name of the Holy Ghost, deliver me. Let me pass beyond the grasp of my foe)

The room faded to wavering insubstantiality about him as Lyssa’s body suddenly fell through his, encountering no resistance. The Devoted hissed in frustrated rage, coiling all of an instant before launching herself upon him again, but her ire was to no avail; she passed through him as if he were smoke, cannoning into several of the Spawned, sending them sprawling in a confused tangle of limbs.

The Spawned were simple beings, designed mainly for a single purpose, namely, to destroy. Thus they reacted violently to the perceived attack, and one even went so far as to bite at the Devoted, teeth growing into barbed bone daggers.

After the transgressors abrupt decapitation, the Spawned refocused on catching the elusive magician, but it was too late. Durrant had already glided formlessly through their serried ranks, a warm feeling of mixed relief and gratitude welling within him as he saw Seraphina valiantly holding the stairway to their freedom against all comers.

Aiding the two escapees was the fact that Calatrix appeared to be unable to separate himself from his victim as he completed the Spawning process. Durrant had no illusion to the fact the if the warlock were free, the two of them would be destroyed in an instant. Durrant understood what a terrible risk Sera had run by waiting for him, knowing at any moment Calatrix might come untied from the ruined woman and take her. Coming into full corporeality at the top of the stairs, he beckoned frantically to her.

“Sera come on, let’s go!” he screamed.

The albino turned to leap to him, and the Spawned lunged after to drag her down to her death. Heads on elongated necks gibbered and gnashed their pointed teeth, hands with improbable numbers of fingers clawed for her flesh, and slick tentacles struck like lightning to encircle her slight form.

Durrant drew himself up to his full height, and gathered his power about him like a cloak, until the landing shone with his pooled might.

“In nomen Senior Deus, Ego reprobo vos!” he roared. “Adepto vos absentis, immunda phasmatis! Sentio ira plurrimi Altus!”

(In the name of the Lord God, I abjure thee! Get thee hence, unclean spirits! Feel the wrath of the Most High!)

The mass of evil fell back from the light of his fury, wailing, and Sera scrambled to safety. The two turned and fled, and did not look back. Though the Vessel and the magician believed their enemies too cowed by Durrant’s spell to pursue, the truth was far different.

Lyssa and Calatrix exchanged slow smiles in the dark. The Devoted lounged back against the rough wall, ignoring the whimpering of the wounded Spawned, feeling both sated and triumphant.

“Tastes so good,” she whispered, and licked her lips, shivering in delight at the lingering traces of the magician’s blood.

“The door is opening,” Calatrix’s voice rumbled in the gloom. “So comes the end of all things. The Void approaches.”