Demon world, Drazroth Empire.
The chamber trembled faintly as another distant explosion rumbled through the underground fortress. Dust drifted from the vaulted ceiling, catching in the flicker of enchanted torches.
"Lord Dreck, we have located Velra," a subordinate reported, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the black stone floor. His voice quivered despite his best effort to sound calm.
On the obsidian throne, Dreck Disaster rested one hand lazily on the armrest, his long claws tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His crimson eyes, half-lidded, barely acknowledged the kneeling demon.
"Do I need to concern myself with losers?" he asked, voice smooth and detached, as though discussing the weather.
The subordinate stiffened. The words carried no heat—yet the very lack of it sent a cold ripple down his spine. That tone belonged to an absolute ruler who needed only a glance to decide life or death.
