Deep in the Underworld's most fashionable lava-lit boutique (also known as Gruk's basement lair), the air smelled of brimstone, burnt silk, and someone's failed attempt at infernal cologne.
Gruk — current holder of the title "Most Likely To Yell At A Minion And Then Cry About It" — was pacing in front of a full-length obsidian mirror, flexing his scrawny arms like he was auditioning for the role of "Demon Lord: The Bulk Edition."
Gruk was, in fact, stronger than most of the other underworld princes. He didn't need disguises or illusions; this was his true form — a deceptively lean, sharp-featured human-looking body that had snapped more necks and crushed more skulls than most demons twice his size. Strength like that doesn't show in biceps. It shows in how calmly you can stare at someone while you decide whether to let them keep breathing.
Aamon stepped through a portal of swirling shadows, looking like he'd just survived a twelve-hour shift at the Complaints Department of Eternal Torment.
He wordlessly held out a small silk-wrapped package.
Gruk snatched it like it owed him money.
"Finally! What took you so long, Aamon?
Aamon blinked slowly — the international demon sign for "I am too tired for this conversation."
"…Traffic," he said flatly.
Gruk snorted. "Traffic? In the underworld? You expect me to believe that? The only traffic down here is when some poor soul gets stuck in the wrong punishment line."
Aamon stared at the ceiling (which was currently dripping lava like a broken faucet). He had, in fact, been delayed for several very good reasons:
A mid-tier demon lord tried to make him deliver a love letter to a succubus who then tried to make him her sugar baby.
A pack of hellhounds chased him for three miles because he accidentally stepped on their favorite chew toy (a screaming politician's femur).
He got stuck in an elevator with the intern from Accounting who kept asking if he'd filed his "eternal torment receipts."
But telling Gruk any of that would only lead to more yelling, more dramatic posing, and possibly another "motivational" speech about "the grind."
So Aamon simply said: "The embroidery shop was having a sale. Line was long."
Gruk narrowed his eyes, suspicious… then shrugged.
"Whatever. Gimme the goods."
He tore open the silk like it personally offended him.
Inside lay the most ridiculously extra cape in the history of capes: midnight-black silk, embroidered with a massive, glittering dragon that looked like it was mid-roar and also mildly constipated. Tiny ruby sequins formed flames around its jaws. It screamed "I'm important"
Gruk flung it over his shoulders and struck a pose that would've made a statue of a demon lord feel inadequate.
"Behold!" he bellowed, arms wide. "The future Demon Lord, Prince of the Underworld, Gruk the Unyielding, Gruk the Magnificent!"
Aamon stared at him with the expression of a man who has seen too much and now simply exists in quiet despair.
"You look… ambitious," Aamon said diplomatically.
"Ambitious?!" Gruk spun dramatically, nearly setting his own tail on fire. "I'm not ambitious, Aamon. I'm inevitable. The Demon Lord Selection Match is in three days, and this cape is my secret weapon. When I step into that arena, the other princes will see this dragon and immediately forfeit out of sheer awe. Or jealousy. Probably both."
He flexed again, and the air around him actually rippled — a reminder that beneath the theatrics, Gruk could probably bench-press a hellhound if he felt like it.
Aamon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"In the underworld," he muttered under his breath, "the powerful bully the weaker… make them fetch embroidery… even when you come from a top-tier family…"
Gruk froze mid-pose.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Aamon said instantly. "Just admiring the sequins."
Gruk grinned, satisfied.
"That's right. Respect the drip."
He struck another pose — this one involved a slow-motion hair flip that somehow set off the smoke alarm.
Aamon sighed so deeply it probably created a new layer of hell.
Somewhere in the distance, the other demon princes were probably practicing their victory speeches.
Gruk was practicing his entrance music.
And Aamon was already mentally drafting his resignation letter.
In the deepest chasm of the Underworld, where even the lava rivers flowed uphill out of respect, stood the obsidian spire known as the Black Crucible.
No banners. No guards. No dramatic music.
Just silence so heavy it had its own gravity.
At the top of the spire sat Prince Valthor Drakenscale, eldest son of the current Demon Sovereign, third in the direct line of succession, and widely considered the single most terrifying thing to ever wear a crown without needing to announce it.
He didn't look like Gruk.
He didn't need to.
Valthor's true form was tall, lean, and carved from midnight itself: skin the color of cooled obsidian, eyes like twin molten rubies that never blinked, hair long and silver-white that moved like liquid mercury even when there was no wind. His armor wasn't ornate — it was functional black plate that seemed to drink light rather than reflect it. No cape. No sequins. No posing.
Because when you're strong enough to crush a lesser prince's skull with one hand while sipping wine with the other, you don't need accessories.
Right now, Valthor was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the spire's open platform, staring down at the distant glow of the Demon Lord Selection arena. In his lap lay an ancient black scroll — the kind that whispered curses if you stared too long.
A lesser demon (some trembling imp courier) approached on hands and knees, forehead scraping the floor.
"M-my prince… the scouts report that… that Gruk has received his new cape. The one with the dragon embroidery. He… he says it will make the others forfeit in awe."
Valthor didn't move.
Didn't even look at the imp.
The silence stretched until the imp started sweating sulfur.
Finally, Valthor spoke — voice low, calm, and carrying the weight of someone who had personally ended civilizations without raising his pulse.
"Gruk," he repeated, tasting the name like bad wine. "The one who yells his own titles at mirrors."
The imp nodded frantically. "Y-yes, my prince! He's… very confident. He believes the cape is his secret weapon."
Valthor tilted his head slightly — the motion so small it barely qualified as movement, yet the temperature around the imp dropped twenty degrees.
"A secret weapon," Valthor murmured. "How quaint."
He lifted one finger.
Just one.
The air rippled.
A distant scream echoed from the arena far below — some unfortunate training dummy that had just been bisected by an invisible force from three miles away.
The imp yelped and flattened himself harder against the floor.
Valthor lowered his finger.
"Tell the others," he said quietly. "The Selection Match begins in three days. Anyone who wishes to forfeit may do so now. Politely. In writing. Delivered by hand."
He paused.
"Gruk may keep his cape. It will make excellent kindling when I burn his ambitions to ash."
The imp scrambled backward, bowing so low his nose scraped obsidian.
"Y-yes, my prince! At once!"
Valthor returned to staring at the scroll, expression unchanged.
Somewhere far below, Gruk was still practicing his entrance pose.
Somewhere even farther below, Aamon was wondering if resignation letters could be delivered via portal.
And somewhere at the very top, Prince Valthor Drakenscale sat in perfect silence — the kind of silence that reminded every living thing in the Underworld exactly why he didn't need a cape, a title shout, or anyone's permission to end them.