The air in the Council Chamber of the Spire of Sins was thick enough to choke a lesser god. Seven thrones of obsidian formed a circle, yet only one seemed to anchor the reality of the room.
Deimos, the Lord of Discord, sat with his chin resting on a fist made, his eyes fixed on a hovering projection of the Demonic Realm.
"Deimos, we must face the reality of our failure," Maledictus rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering over a grave.
She gestured toward a mountain of reports, parchments made of flayed skin and scrolls of soul-ink, brought by their frantic scouts.
"Finding Lom has moved beyond difficult, and into the realm of the impossible. He doesn't just hide; he has submerged himself in the cover of the Pearl of Calamity. Without him surfacing into the demonic realm, tracing him is like trying to find a drop of ink in a black ocean."
