They gather on the ridge, eyes blazing like molten steel. Their fists clench at their sides—knuckles whitening under the weight of betrayal. Every breath they draw hisses with scorn; every heartbeat pounds a war drum calling for the ruin of mercy.
They stand as living storms: thunder rolling across bruised skies, lightning crackling with indignation. Their voices, when they rise, are guttural roars that shake mountains—an anthem of fury scorning any glimmer of compassion.
Yet beneath the rage lies a tremor of awe: a grudging respect for that stubborn light they hate. It drives them mad—the idea that goodness can stand firm against their fury, unmoved by spite or slaughter.
And so their anger burns all the hotter, a crucible of wrath and wonder, forging them into avatars of defiance against a peace they cannot comprehend.