The towering prison of light the gods had summoned to bind the Mistress of Midnight faded under Murphy's gaze. The force separating the subspace from the material world dissolved in a flash of light, too. The godspawn that had brought eternal night fled with a distinct air of "running away," shooting off in an instant and turning into a crimson river of blood that stretched to the horizon.
That "get away from the plague" attitude made Murphy, who had just performed another "manifestation of the Lord of the Underworld," purse his lips. He couldn't even be bothered to stop the fleeing godspawn.
As he watched, the next moment, the chilly eternal night receded, and the dawn's first light fell over the ravaged royal grounds.
Sunlight infused with solar psionic energy pierced the lingering darkness and scattered dapples of light across the ground. Some elves who had survived the brutal battle stared blankly at the light shining on them. They raised their bloodstained faces and looked up at the daylight spreading across the sky.
Though only one night had passed, it felt as if an age had gone by. What had happened in this forest that night was certain to be recorded in detail in the histories of the future, and everyone who had survived—or died—was destined to be a witness.
Some elves knelt in the sunlight and prayed to the god of Avalon, but they no longer felt any warmth or divine calling in their hearts.
That was normal.
The Mother of the Forest was dead, and the path of faith that belonged to her had vanished. But it would probably take the elves some time to get used to changing the name in their prayers.
When the sunlight fell, Murphy raised a hand to shield his face. As a