In the depths of the Devil King's palace, the air was heavy with silence. The torches that lined the obsidian walls burned low, their blue flames crackling weakly as if fearful of what lingered in the grand throne hall. At the far end, upon a throne not of gold or marble but of jagged, blackened stone, sat the figure known to the devils not as "King," but as Lord Aamon.
He was unmoving, eyes shut, yet the oppressive weight of his presence alone crushed the air in the hall. His aura rolled out in waves, thick with malice, thick with inevitability. No servant dared to step closer than the shadow of the throne itself.
Then, the silence broke.
A messenger devil stumbled through the doorway, chest heaving, his once-polished armor stained with the filth of the battlefield. He collapsed to his knees before the throne, unable to even raise his head.
