[Location: Wrath's Palace, Wrath Circle, Seventh Hell]
[Amon Baelgorath's POV]
I WAS ANGRY. I AM ANGRY. I WILL BE ANGRY.
The words echoed in my skull like the clash of iron upon iron, each repetition striking louder than the last. In Wrath, silence did not exist—only the ceaseless howling of rage, the gnashing of teeth, the eternal frenzy of those who had surrendered their hearts to wrathful ruin. Yet, in my chambers, the silence that pressed down was far heavier than the cacophony outside.
My throne, hewn from the bones of behemoths slain during the Primordial Wars, groaned under the weight of my body as I leaned forward. Before me, the banners of Wrath swayed in the smoky drafts, crimson cloth dripping as though it bled perpetually. The palace was built not of stone, but of iron-black basalt fused with the molten rage of the circle itself. Flames licked along the walls in jagged streaks, refusing to burn steady—ever flickering, ever hungry, as though mocking even me.
