The Court of Asmodeus, deepest in Nessus, again trembles beneath a presence too vast for mortal comprehension. Yog-Sothoth descends like a wound in reality—soundless, sightless, sensed only through the cracking of time.
The Nine Lords of Hell appear. Chains rattle. Shadows twist. And the madness begins again.
Yog-Sothoth: [The echo of stars collapsing inward]
“The serpent coils, but the tiger rends. Ravana moves. His schemes are layered beneath mine, hidden within the fractures of Phoor. The balance is threatened by House Vishrava.”
Mephistopheles: [Raising an elegant brow]
“Oh, Elder. We warned you. I believe it was 10,000 years ago? You asked for the Rakshasa—asked for them cast out of our realm and placed upon Phoor. A generous exile.”
He smiles thinly.
“Surely you didn’t expect them to be docile?”
Dispater: [Calm, calculating]
“And to clarify: King Vishrava, the head of the House, is not involved in Ravana’s insurgent activities. He’s officially disavowed the scion’s project.”
He flips open a black codex.
“Filed under the Disgraced Scion Register, Column 3: ‘Outright Denial with Probable Amnesia.’ A classic.”
Glasya: [Laughing lightly]
“You're unraveling over a rogue prince? How very material of you.”
Mammon: [Counting a ruby-studded abacus]
“I expected more from you, Yog-Sothoth. An Elder God undone by court politics and succession drama? What next—envy over inheritance?”
Bel: [Snarling]
“They are your problem now. You placed them. You deal with them.”
The chamber chuckles in collective mockery, the archdukes enjoying—for once—the upper hand.
Yog-Sothoth: [The mockery ends with a single, resounding thought, like a bell rung beneath creation itself]
“The Rakshasa are not the breach. The breach… is the Ruby Accord of the Eighth City.”
A heavy silence falls. In the center of the infernal court, a scroll—black parchment with gold-stamped sigils—materializes in flames. The Ruby Accord of the Eighth City hovers, spinning slowly.
Fierna: [Eyes narrowing]
“Oh. That Accord.”
Asmodeus: [Unbothered but now attentive]
“Filed through the Black Ink Barony. Negotiated by Drusilla Veyl, Esq., not a citizen of Hell, but of your Seregon. Technically… a third-party arrangement. Mercenary law.”
He taps his cane.
“But… let us examine it, shall we?”
Dispater: [Reading from the scroll, voice crisp]
“Five legions of Nycaloths, one Canoloth, two Mezzoloths. All defending Malefica under a contract funded through gemstone transfers. Scope of services… rather grand.”
Belial: [Grim]
“Too grand. This wasn’t a guard detail. This was a war force.”
Baalzebul: [Oozing sarcasm]
“Well, well. We may have ourselves a loophole.”
Glasya: [Smiling cruelly]
“Clause VI. The contract is null if the forces oppose the interests of the Eighth City. Which they now do.”
She twirls her fingers, flame dancing between them.
“The Principal—Malefica—has triggered a psionic beacon. It’s destabilizing trade sigils in the Southern Contract Halls. A clear breach.”
Mammon: [Grinning as he does the math]
“Unprofitable, too. She’s made no follow-up payments. No maintenance fees.”
He slams a gem-stamped seal onto the parchment.
“Technically: default.”
Mephistopheles: [To Yog-Sothoth, with false deference]
“It seems… you were right. The Accord exceeds its scope. The terms are voided. Shall we adjust the arrangement?”
Asmodeus: [Nods slowly, decisively]
“Effective immediately: the five legions of Nycaloths are withdrawn. The Ruby Accord shall be amended. Malefica may retain a dozen personal bodyguards, nothing more.”
His eyes burn.
“Should she protest… remind her whose ink sealed her contract.”
Yog-Sothoth: [A ripple of immense satisfaction]
“Balance returns.”
Above the Crimson Fang Ruby Mine, the skies crack. Five legions of Nycaloths—armored, shrieking, battle-drunk—are ripped backward into their home plane, howling as violet flame devours the sky. Malefica screams curses to no one who will answer.
Glasya: [Wryly]
“Poor dear. No refund, either.”
Asmodeus: [To Yog-Sothoth, closing the matter]
“You have your quiet chorus. We have our order intact. Now let Phoor burn, as it must—on your time, not ours.”
Yog-Sothoth: [Final resonance]
“The Dead One dreams. Let no devil echo him.”
*And with that, the court returns to silence. The Nine vanish one by one, and the scroll of the Ruby Accord, now voided and singed, remains behind—a warning, and an opportunity.