Dark flames curled slower around the armored figure at the center of the hall, settling into something closer to stillness as he studied Arthur across the ruined stone.
Red and purple armor wrapped him from head to foot, and every plate caught the fire licking off his shoulders and arms.
The flames never faded, no matter how still he stood. He hadn't moved from the spot where he'd landed, and nobody in the hall seemed willing to be the one who made him.
Dark Deacon Larios, the demons called him, and the name carried enough weight that even the newly arrived demons behind him kept their eyes lowered, waiting on his next word.
Ahox stood off to one side with his arms crossed, the white scar across his chest plainly visible through the torn plating.
He didn't touch it again, and his sneer hadn't shifted by so much as a hair.
Vorath stood beside him with his eyes half lidded, looking at Arthur the way a man looks at a stain on a wall he already plans to scrub off.
