"Me!" Jenny bellowed, her voice a whip-crack of lust and violence. The words rang with a hunger that was not just for blood but for dominion, for the raw, unchained chaos of what Hell was meant to be.
No veils of politics, no pretenses of civility. This was how it ought to be—like in the sagas of old, when the layers burned crimson with slaughter and only strength decided who ruled and who was consumed.
Atlas stood across from her, golden eyes glimmering like furnaces, unflinching. He knew their so-called council of kings was nothing more than a masquerade.
Every "meeting," every "accord," was nothing but a veiled maneuver to secure more control, more territory, more authority over the bound souls of Hell.
They were kings, yes—but kings of vultures, each agenda hidden beneath the cloak of ritual. He had no illusions. And unlike them, Atlas had no need for masks.
