There was a flash of blue light, and in Apocalypse, there stood a wizard.
Blight stepped forward, and spoke in a deathly whisper. “You of all should know this Hall passes only Horsemen and their steeds. As neither, you should not forget your place, abjurer.”
Animus bowed, his gilded blue robes reflecting the dull green light that suffused the great hall. “I am a courteous guest, have no fear.”
From one of the thrones, Hunger spoke—a rasping voice from a parched throat. “The First Seal has been broken.”
Blight’s whispered voice left its foul lips. “The Reckoning draws closer, wizard. When the last Seals break, the planes will be judged. The Old Accords will fail.”
“And what has this to do with I?”
The rasping voice came forth. “When the Seals are broken, when the Accords fail and the Planewar comes, the Mortal World shall be its field. For the Second Seal to break, this warning must be made.”
Animus’ metal visage remained unmoving as he listened to the Horseman. Blight spoke once more, “The Mortal World must keep the Balance. It must endure whatever will come from the hands of Law and Chaos. From Good and Evil. It must remake the Seals, that the cycle might begin anew. So mote it be.”
“So mote it be.”
Animus fixed the Horsemen with a steel glare. “Then the Eight shall stand.”
“The Eight will not be enough.”
