The air in the throne room was thinning. Not of oxygen, but of evil. The constant, oppressive weight of Hell was lightening, replaced by the sharp, clean scents of ozone, blood, and divine sweat.
Asmodeus watched it all from his perch on a crumbling archway, his legs crossed elegantly. Below him, the battle was turning into a slaughter. His own forces were in disarray. The stench of dead demons was becoming overwhelming.
His eyes tracked the pairs.
Thor and Loki moved through the chaos like a storm front. They weren't even talking. They didn't need to. Thor would swing Mjolnir in a wide, crushing arc, clearing a space, and Loki would be there in the opening, his daggers finding the throats or hearts of the disoriented survivors. It was a brutal, efficient dance they'd perfected over a thousand years of fighting together and against each other.
Asmodeus felt a flicker of… not fear, but profound irritation. This was messy. This was beneath him.
