Angry

The great halls of Asmodeus's domain trembled under the weight of his fury.

Shadows danced wildly against the obsidian walls, twisted by the crimson light of the ever-burning hellfire that lined the chamber.

The air itself crackled with his rage, thick with the scent of brimstone and his power.

At the center of the throne room, Asmodeus sat upon his grand seat of black stone and gold, his fingers digging into the armrests.

His expression had twisted into something dark and dangerous.

Before him, kneeling on the blackened marble floor, was one of his generals — Azareth, a battle-scarred Demon with curved horns and armor that bore the marks of countless wars.

Despite his usual confidence the general kept his head lowered, his body tense. He knew better than to meet his master's gaze when he was like this.