Nereus was right. The journey to Hebthej was shorter than a fading breath.
In no time at all, Lancet heard the dropship's pilot announce that they had arrived. Outside, the pristine, white-and-gold dropship drifted close to a sky that looked like blood smoke.
The clouds above Hebthej had rotted, becoming something like coagulated devilish red; a product of the Demons and their corruptive essence.
Below the ship, the once-verdant borderlands had been transformed into an infested, festering wasteland of black ash and purple sludge.
The dropship's thrusters whined as it set down just outside the town's outer limits, touching down in the center of a heavily fortified military encampment. This was the perimeter line, held barely intact by the Brigades and the Kingdom Rangers.
The Brigades—the world's militarized police force—rushed frantically around the barricades. They wore dark, tactical uniforms that mixed modern ballistics with gothic tailoring.
