Far away, beyond the barren ridges and valleys of blackened ash, the demon castles stood like wounds torn into the horizon. Their spires were jagged, not built but clawed into the sky, each one etched with runes that glowed faintly in the perpetual twilight. The air here did not move — it pressed — thick and warm, as if it had once been alive and had simply refused to decay.
A low, rolling sound came from within, like the throat of some great beast, and then it swelled into laughter. Not mortal laughter — not even the booming mirth of high demons — but something that turned the air itself into a drum. Each guffaw sent a tremor through the black stone, so that the entire fortress seemed to chuckle with its master.
Inside, the tremors were felt in the bones. Servants — low demons in tight-fitting butler uniforms, their tails tucked low in constant submission — scurried about with platters that shimmered faintly with their own acidic fumes.
