In one of the most isolated and unreachable corners of the world, Vergil sat at the edge of one of the tallest buildings in New York.
The wind lashed his silver hair, but he remained indifferent to the urban sprawl beneath his feet. Far from everything and everyone — the dramas, the conflicts, the desires — he finally found the stillness he needed to deal with a darker matter. A matter that carried the weight of his new title.
He slowly raised one hand, as if summoning an old companion.
"Itharine."The shadow behind him twisted, crackling like living flesh mixed with smoke and darkness.
From it emerged a feminine figure, sinuous and ethereal — a woman with features that defied biological logic.
Itharine bowed deeply. Her skin was gray, almost metallic. Her ears, long and pointed, resembled those of an ancient elf, but twisted by some necromantic touch. The sclera of her eyes was pitch-black, accentuating the violet glow of her irises — eyes that did not see, but judged.
