"Azezal…"
Atlas's voice was low, carrying a weariness that seemed to shake the stones beneath him.
The demon stilled. He had been entertaining thoughts unfit even for Hell's ears, wicked schemes threading through his mind like serpents. But when his master called, all of that scattered like ash in the wind. He folded his vast wings back, their span cracking against the ruined arches above, and emptied his thoughts. There was no room for hesitation. Not when the one he had waited centuries for — no, lifetimes — had spoken.
{Yes, my guide, my lord…} His voice reverberated without sound, like iron dragged across the bones of the air. He bowed even as he floated, red bat like wings shedding sparks of crimson, bending before the man seated upon the last standing pillar of a palace long since broken.
