The wine was older than generations.
Gorath poured it with the careful reverence of someone who understood that some things gained value through survival alone.
The liquid was dark—not red, but a deep purple that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"From the vineyards of Mor'thalas," Gorath said, offering Liam a glass carved from volcanic stone. "Before it fell. Before the third great purge. Before demons learned that beauty was a luxury we couldn't afford."
Liam accepted the glass but didn't drink.
His grey eyes studied the Arch-Demon with the patience of something that had learned to read between words.
They were in Gorath's private study, a room that felt more like a museum than a workspace.
Books lined every wall - except they weren't the martial treatises or tactical manuals one might expect from a warlord, but philosophy, poetry, histories written in languages that predated the current age.
Artifacts sat on shelves like sleeping memories.
