The throne had cracked at its base.
Great slabs of obsidian lay shattered behind them, flecks of divine light still flickering where Mephisto's last spell had struck. The smell of sulphur and blood lingered, mixed with frost, ash, and something older.
Asmodeus straightened slowly.
The red gleam of his axe caught the dying glow from the ruins overhead. His cloak, torn and burned, still flared with the residual heat of his aura.
Behind him, Riel lay where he'd placed her. The barrier shimmered faintly—cracks forming where the high priest's spells collided, but holding for now.
Mephisto hadn't moved.
The God of Death stood at the top of the throne dais, robes stirring faintly though there was no wind. His eyes—black within black—did not blink.
"You're bleeding," he said at last.
His voice was... amused. Not taunting, but eerily gentle.
Like a mortician admiring a corpse before sealing the coffin.
Asmodeus said nothing.
He rolled his shoulders once and advanced a step.
