Ebon

Veylan’s fingers twitch upward, and the air screams. Two jagged portals, rimmed with teeth-like obsidian shards, rip open on either side of the victim. Through them spills the 6th layer’s cacophony—wails of eternally flayed souls, the wet crunch of infernal machinery grinding bone into mortar. Hundreds of clawed, molten hands surge forth. Some are skeletal, dripping magma. Others are bloated and rotted, oozing pus that sizzles on contact with air. They seize the victim’s limbs, hair, jaw—twisting. Fingers pry into eye sockets, peel ribs from sternums like opening a grotesque gift. The victim’s screams fragment as their jaw is wrenched sideways, tendons snapping like lute strings. Blood sprays in arcs, but the hands keep pulling, until the body is reduced to meat ribbons suspended in a web of demonic fingers. The portals snap shut, leaving a crater of gore and the stench of sulfur-soaked viscera. Veylan’s left eye burns a liquid, volcanic red—pupil slit like a serpent’s.