Far from the caverns of the Veiled One, across the shifting folds of realms unseen by mortal eyes, a throne of bone and flame pulsed with unnatural life.
On it sat Asmodeus.
His body was a fortress of fire, his skin a lattice of molten cracks, his crown forged from the ribs of titans long forgotten. His wings—vast, black, and tattered—smoldered with embers that burned without end.
For centuries he had waited, his dominion echoing with silence and shadows. The last battle, the fall of the Clan of Seven, had buried him in slumber. Not defeat—merely delay.
But now—
His eyes snapped open, glowing red enough to split the void.
The flames around him surged. The fortress quaked. Demonic legions scattered like insects before the storm.
He had felt it.
A tremor, faint yet undeniable, cutting across existence. The stirring of the Heart of Mars. The whisper of the Veiled One awakening her trial. And within it, a spark that was all too familiar.
The seed.
He rose slowly, each step shaking the citadel beneath him. The air around him warped as the sheer pressure of his presence bent the realm itself.
"After all this time…" His voice was a growl and an echo, layered in tones both human and monstrous. "…they dare return."
A horned general approached, trembling, his body armored in jagged obsidian. He dropped to one knee, bowing until his forehead struck the burning floor. "My king… shall we summon the legions?"
Asmodeus's gaze pierced through him like a spear.
"No. Not yet."
He turned his eyes upward, through the burning skies, as if he could see across worlds—straight toward the faint glow of Mars.
"Let them think themselves free. Let them touch the Heart. Let them believe they can rise."
His lips curled into a grin of ash and flame.
"And when they do… I will burn their hope to cinders."
The fortress roared as if it shared his laughter. Shadows stretched, demons wailed, and somewhere, far away, Eris shuddered without knowing why.