The air inside the corridor remained as still as the grave, charged with the heavy, unyielding static of the void. Robert's pulse hammered against his ribs like a captive bird, his eyes fixed on the tall, imposing silhouette of Thorn Theodore. The Commander of the Demon Army did not wait for a second invitation. With a single, fluid motion that betrayed his immense, predatory power, Thorn turned on his heel and gestured for the assistant to lead the way.
"Walk, servant," Thorn hissed, his voice a low, velvet rasp that sliced through the quiet of the estate. "If you are lying to me, if this is a trick to draw me away from my duties, I will ensure your final moments are spent beneath the hooves of my Maqded."
"I am not lying, My Lord," Robert choked out, his voice a dry, trembling rasp. "She is dying. I just need—I need someone who understands the sickness of the abyss."
