The Meeting Hall of the Four Demonic Archons didn't seem made of stone, or any other material that could exist in a mortal world. It was a colossal hall, supported by living columns—twisted colossuses of black flesh and bone, pulsing like exposed hearts. The ceiling was endless, dissolved into darkness dotted with red stars that moved like eyes. And in the center, the table.
Round, massive, formed of obsidian crystal that reflected the distorted faces of those present, as if the very furniture mocked them.
In the four seats of power sat the Archons.
Amon stood as still as a statue, his golden eyes shining like incandescent suns in his dark face. His presence was overwhelming, but not with fury—but with absolute calm, like a blade resting before being unsheathed.
