Every patch of shadow, no matter how small, connected to a greater whole that now embraced a world in its gradually constricting grip. And the Darkstar used this flow of shadow, swimming through the inky currents like some great prehistoric predator on the hunt. The scent of those who would oppose him was like blood in the water, and he followed it. Though he would be loath to admit it, the Three Sisters of Umbra had shown him the way to supremacy. By slaying those who had been deemed the saviors of the world, protectors of humanity, he would prove to his detractors that he was all-powerful, and to worship him would be most wise, for he intended to have this world as his own—to flaunt before a helpless God—for a very long time. And then there was the Morningstar, still managing to hold on somewhere deep inside the Darkstar’s psyche, holding out hope that somehow he might regain control. Satan would see that hope forever vanquished with the murders of the half-breed Nephilim, crushing it beneath his heel, grinding it to nothing until all that remained of the Son of the Morning was a fading memory.
