The Rift Castle did not sleep. Its walls breathed with the green firelight of eternal braziers, its spires cutting into the torn sky like black knives. Beyond the throne hall, in chambers carved from obsidian and bone, generals of the Demon King returned one by one from their tasks across the world. Yet the air that night was different—thicker, charged, restless. Word had already reached the fortress: the Lady of Illusion had fallen.
And now, the Lord of Destruction came home wounded.
He entered the throne hall with his steps echoing like hammers on coffins. His molten eyes glowed dimmer than usual, helm fractured where Inigo's bullets had bitten. The rune along his left palm flickered unsteady. Even his cloak of fire clung close to him, thin and wavering.
The Demon King was already seated. He did not lean forward this time. He sat back upon the jagged throne, fingers laced together, eyes half-lidded, as if waiting to savor the taste of disappointment.
