"Lord Wrath," the baby's head said from inside the toad's mouth, voice deep and measured, "you have been summoned by the Council."
The stone beneath Asmodeus's feet cracked in a spiderweb pattern.
Not because he did not understand.
Because he did.
The so-called 'Council' sounded dignified, almost important. One might assume it existed for planning, for strategy, for the careful shaping of the Abyss's future. That was certainly how it was described. In reality, such notions were pointless. Abyssals did not debate paths forward—every action they took was already determined by the will of the Great Mother. What need was there for discussion when choice itself was an illusion? The Council was nothing more than a pretense: an excuse for ancient, powerful beings—creatures who had existed for millennia with nothing left to surprise them—to gather together in search of entertainment, usually at the expense of one of their own.
