Despite being one of the greater gods, thanks to the limitations of divine force in the mortal realm, Mephisto's presence should've been muted.
It wasn't.
The throne chamber bent around him.
Light dulled to a flat grey, as if colour itself recoiled from his presence. Sound came late. Movement, slower. Like death already ruled time here.
Asmodeus clenched his axe, muscles coiled. Every instinct screamed. The kind of scream that didn't come from fear, but from the ancient memory of prey.
The black-armoured god tilted his head. One hand lifted.
He snapped his fingers.
A whisper.
Then—white.
Dozens of figures materialised around the throne, stepping from cracks in the air like pieces of a broken mirror.
Each wore pale robes embroidered with silver, the sigil of the underworld stitched across their chests in ash-grey thread. Their eyes glowed with muted blue fire. Silent. Weightless. Priests of Mephisto.
No heartbeat. No aura.
Just intent.
