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Vines overrun the dark realm, blotting out the already purple sky. Avicinda hasn’t been here in a long time, but someone had to volunteer to close it.
“You are lost, little fairy,” says a voice he has heard once before: muffled from within Chigda’s room while he tossed and turned in illness.
Avicinda gazes back at the Dark Apostle, unwavering. “I am not.”
“Then you come seeking something.”
“I’m closing the realm.”
“Is that so?” asks the demon with a smile. “When it is all you have left of him?”
He doesn’t answer; it continues: “Shall we make a deal?”