A stillness hung in the chamber. Ahriman's question faded unanswered. Sarvest didn't even glance his way.
Instead, his eyes swept across the "U" shaped obsidian table, studying the assembled council—villains, overlords, monsters, and destroyers of worlds, each seated in shadows and silence, thirsting for chaos.
His voice, when it came, was calm and composed.
"Andras was killed when I sent him to handle a task involving the isolated dwarves in the border."
As he spoke, a procession of red-clad dark elves entered the room—maids in pristine uniforms, their movements silent and fluid.
They poured fresh tea into everyone's cup and discreetly scrubbed away the blood trail left behind by the human's corpse.
"Unbelievable," a youthful voice rumbled.
It belonged to Baal, seated sixth at the Megiddo table—a Devil King swathed in soft peach robes, his eyes glowing faintly beneath a furrowed brow.
