"Candles and Catastrophe"

In the dead heart of the Varnathian Wastes, beneath a sky smeared with ash and sorrow, the necromancer Ezzar Thorne stood poised at the edge of greatness.

Tonight — this very night — was the apex of a celestial convergence that occurred only once every 666 years. The Eye of Ulgaroth hung high above the world, its eldritch gaze aligning the planes and weakening the veil between realms. Through it, Ezzar could summon the mighty Ancient Balor, a demon so ancient and furious that even the Nine Hells whispered its name with caution.

“I am ready,” Ezzar murmured, clutching the Grimoire of Severed Tongues to his chest. “Tonight, I shall command that which unravels empires.”

He had drawn the Circle of Spite with goat blood. The bones of an innocent (a street bard, tragically untalented) formed the pentagram. All was as foretold in the unholy script.

All... except the candles.

The Ritual of Immortal Combustion required 666 black beeswax candles, arranged precisely. Not just lit — but lit in sequence, counter-clockwise, with hellfire tinder.

Ezzar had practiced everything — the incantation, the gesture work, even the spine-cracking backbend that summoned the Void Howl. But somehow, he had underestimated how long it would take to light so many damn candles.

“Four hundred and twelve... four hundred and thirteen...” he wheezed, sweat streaming into his dark eyeliner. The hellfire tinder singed his fingers with every strike.

A wind began to rise. The Eye was nearly centered.

“Faster!” he barked to his skeletal familiar, Tibs.

“I have no lungs,” Tibs replied, trying to light two candles with a tiny match wedged between finger bones.

The wind screamed louder. The stars shifted. Ezzar lit the six hundred and sixty-fifth candle. He raised the last one—