Behind Issari, the other dragons grumbled, prayed, and blasted out smoke. They all saw the pit now. As they flew closer, Issari got a clearer view. The hole gaped open between the shattered columns of the palace—a chasm that seemed to delve down eternally. It was not merely dark. Darkness was only the absence of light. It was not merely black. Black was only the lack of color. This pit was an emptiness, a despair, a sinkhole crafted from the nightmares and anguish that tugged at the soul in the middle of the most silent, lonely night. Smoky tendrils rose from the deep, twisting like the tentacles of some subterranean creature reaching up to the sky. Evil itself seemed to be rising from the underground, a pain that clutched at the heart, that Issari felt deep inside her. It was the emptiness of her life, of her womb.

The nephilim upon the walls seemed to notice the dragons. They screeched. A few cowered. Others took flight and hovered over the city. Soon hundreds rose like flies from a disturbed carcass, yet they did not yet swarm to attack.

Issari darted ahead, then spun around, the city to her back, and faced the army of dragons.

"Hear me, Requiem!" she cried. "Hear me, dragons! The creatures of the Abyss crushed our homes. They swarm across all thirteen city-states of Terra, devouring, destroying. Their king lurks in darkness, festering in his pit. We will find him. We will slay him. For dragonfire, for justice, for Requiem!"

The dragon army returned her call, a thousand voices rising. Issari turned back toward the city and beat her wings, flying toward the ruins, gaining speed. Behind her, the thousand dragons streamed forward, roaring, smoke blasting from them. They hid the sky behind their wings. Their shadow covered the land.

In the city, the nephilim screeched, took flight, and flew toward them. The rotting creatures stretched out their lanky limbs, and their fangs shone. Their flesh was shriveled like that of mummified corpses, but their eyes blazed with hatred. They beat their insect wings, crying out for blood to drink, for bones to snap, for flesh to eat.

Which one of you is my son? Issari thought.

She blasted out her dragonfire.

The two hosts slammed together above the ruins.

"Slay them all!" Tanin shouted at her side. He blew his fire, torching two nephilim, and clubbed a third with his tail. Blood rained around the red dragon. "Slay every nephil you see!"

Suddenly Issari wanted to turn back. She wanted to stop Tanin, wanted to stop this assault. Slaying demons—as lurked inside that hole—was one thing. But suddenly she could not bear to kill nephilim. Here were the sons of mortal women! Here somewhere was her own brother, the creature Ishnafel, born to her father and the Demon Queen. Here somewhere might fly her own son. How could she slay them?

And yet Issari slew them.