Throne Room – Demon Domain
"So, what bad news is it this time?"
The voice that echoed through the obsidian-pillared hall carried a pressure so heavy that the air itself seemed to grow thinner. Orien, the Demon Prince, sat upon a dark throne, his gaze locked on the trembling figure kneeling before him.
The demon on the ground was sweating profusely. His skin was pale, his wings stiff, and his throat dry. No amount of mental preparation could ease the choking fear pressing against his heart.
He had seen with his own eyes what happened to those who failed to deliver good news. This time, he knew, he was likely next.
"M-My p-prince… a few days ago, we dispatched another batch of infiltrators into the Elven continent," he began, voice barely a whisper. "But… the moment they crossed the barrier, they all… they all died instantly."
He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking up for the briefest second before darting back down.
