"Fly, Stitchmark. Fly to Eteer. Our army has fallen but we return home in glory."

They flew, the world streaming around them, skies streaked with many clouds, beams of light like dragonfire, wilted forests, gray seas. They left the north, this realm of dragons, this realm that had purified him, that had cleansed his soul and turned him into a demon, into a great king of the underworld. He was half-starved, mad with thirst and fever, pale and thin but still laughing when Stitchmark carried him back into Eteer, his wondrous city.

"Beautiful Jewel of the Coast." He gazed upon his city with damp eyes. "Fair Crown of Taal." It was an ancient city, perhaps the oldest in the world. It was a beacon of civilization in a world of chaos. It was a hive of demon spawn, shattered bricks, and the birth of a new nation.

His children had been born; today they were all his children. The nephilim perched upon the shattered walls and broken roofs of Eteer, gazing at him with wide, lit eyes. Half demons. Half mortal women. Fallen Ones. They were the size of men already, their skin rotten, their wings leathery and warty. Fangs grew from their mouths, long as daggers. Their sweet, rancid smell filled Raem's nostrils, and he smiled. They had destroyed his city, the lovelies; few buildings remained standing, and the skeletons of many mortals littered the streets. From the ruins rose his palace, one of the few buildings that still stood. Its gardens were gone. Its columns were blackened. The engravings of old gods had been scratched off its walls; the spirals of the Abyss now dripped upon them, painted in human gore.

Stitchmark took him to that great palace, and Raem walked into his hall, his horse hoof thudding, his talon scratching. When he passed by his statue—one of the few statues to have survived the war—he gazed upon that proud, stone king and laughed. He saw a noble man, clean-shaven, his limbs muscular, his body pure. When Raem looked down upon his body, he saw a creature more glorious by far, a creature more than a man. He kept walking, heading toward his throne.

Angel lay here, her body long as a dragon, her wings draped around her. She gazed at him with eyes like embers. Like a serpent, she coiled around his throne. The seat appeared to have been shattered, and strings of skin and veins held it together like flesh growing over broken bone. Upon the throne sat a nephil, its eyes large and green, its body raw and wet.

"Our son," said Angel. "Ishnafel."

Raem approached slowly. He reached out his new left arm, and the writhing tentacle brushed against Ishnafel's cheek.

"He is beautiful. He is my heir."