Hovering as an unseen ghost in the oppressive meeting room, Sunny found the six Demon Lords seated around a massive table of polished bone, deep in a heated debate. The very air was thick with the scent of ancient malice, and the bone table seemed to whisper with the memories of the colossal beings it was crafted from.
"I am still against this treaty. I don't know why you all agreed to it," Ichor, the Lord of Corrosion, snarled, his voice a wet, scraping sound. He tapped a slimy claw on the table, leaving a sizzling, acidic mark that ate into the ancient bone. He yearned to spread his decay to the worlds of the living, but he knew that to do so now would be a death sentence, and he was not ready to die again just yet.
