The Champion's Boast
The chamber was too quiet, too heavy. The suffocating darkness pressed in from every direction, broken only by the faint glow of Lisa's Soterei blessing that flickered like a fragile lantern. The devil sat unmoving on his stone seat, his wings slightly curled like a predator pretending to rest, horns gleaming faintly in the dark. His eyes glowed faintly red—half-lidded, unreadable, as though watching ants squabble over crumbs.
But the silence didn't last long.
Because Loren Vance stepped forward.
He felt the gazes of the group burn into his back as he pushed through them, taking those deliberate steps toward the center of the chamber. His pulse was hammering in his throat, but he didn't let them see that. He forced a confident grin onto his face, lifted his chin high, and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. If the devil wanted a champion, then who better than him?
