The throne room emptied slowly.
Clan heads filed out. Generals saluted. Scientists bowed. The witches lingered a moment longer than the others, their eyes lingering on Lucifer's face, before disappearing into the corridors.
Within minutes, only a handful remained.
Damaris stood near the throne, still as a statue. His silver hair caught the torchlight. His golden eyes—so like Lucifer's, yet older, more worn—studied his son with an expression that held centuries of regret.
Ella hadn't moved. She stood near the left pillar, arms crossed, watching.
Luna had drifted closer, her notepad forgotten in her hand.
Vina and Rey waited by the doors, silent sentinels.
Dracula stood at the base of the throne stairs, his ancient face unreadable.
Zane leaned against the far wall, pretending not to care.
"You're serious about this," Damaris finally said.
Lucifer's jaw tightened.
"I've never been more serious about anything."
