Azezal took the head of one of the fallen — not hacked, not crushed, but severed in a way that felt almost surgical. The neck's edge was so clean it gleamed, like glass cut by a master's hand. The skin still clung to it, pale under the drying blood that dripped in slow, deliberate beads onto the ash-dusted ground.
The hair was black as the hell-winds, matted but still holding a sheen under the crimson streaks. The eyes — darker still — were locked wide, horrified, as though the final sight they'd known was not death, but something far worse staring back at them.
Azezal sneered as though the trophy was more art than kill.
He stepped forward, talons clicking lightly on the scorched rock, and lowered it toward Atlas.
{For you… Atlas. The one who guides hell,} he said, the guttural resonance of his voice making the air around them feel heavier. He placed the head below Atlas's floating feet as if it were a king's tribute.
