He followed the scent of death here. The scar that was places against the mountains stunk of Carnage but the God of Terror had one thing to admit—Carnage had had the balls to take his own from the Fairies and had carved out a world for himself, and creatures like him. Deimos had returned as a shade—a former status of himself. Magic had blessed him on the war plains, and he had been remaking himself ever since.
 
The servant; the heart; the body; He had just two more to go, in order to make himself whole again. He growls in his throat, pulling himself down the mountain into the stricken valley below. Pangea they called it. Harmonia’s scent was here, and Ajatar behind her. He knew that child was the beginning of the end. There was something to that; but not even Deimos was infallible. He could not see beyond what was not his to see—Carnage had seen to that. And yet, This world would bow before her, and before them all. Those fairies—they had no idea what they had let slip into the world when they had paraded their power and their pride before the creatures they created. This would be a true Reckoning of them all—at the hand of not the fae, but of another class of magic entirely.
 
This was dark magic.
 
He stretches, looking around for a face he knows. These moments were few and far between that Deimos does not have an alterior motive. But as the little king Pollock had said, the field was indeed a fuck fest. Anywhere to call home but the common areas where the miscreants milled about aimlessly. He was not one of them. And though those around him had no idea of what was going to happen to them, or what lay in store—Deimos knew, and he intended to be at the front when the war cry sounded.
 
Red fiery eyes span the expanse. The land is truly Barren of life. He curls a thin cracked lip. This stinkhole wasn’t much better than the field, but at least the company was better—if company ever arrived to attend him.