The morning mist over the Neverend River was not like the mist of the human world; it was a heavy, translucent silver vapor that smelled of salt, ancient silt, and the faint, metallic tang of magic. The river was the lifeblood of the globe, a sprawling, impossible vein of water that defied geography. It flowed from the high-tech industrial runoff of Heathwat City, sliced through the jagged heart of Voidmore, and eventually spilled into the exotic, shimmering territories of the sirens and succubi.
Thorn Theodore stood at the prow of a long, narrow skiff made of blackened ironwood. His amber eyes were fixed on the swirling currents, his hand resting on the hilt of a curved hunting blade. Behind him, a squad of six demon soldiers—hulking brutes with grey, pebbled skin and eyes like glowing coals—leaned against the railings, their laughter low and guttural.
And then there was Robert.
