Belial stared at the piano. The single, repeating interval echoed off the empty walls. For the first time in a thousand years, the fallen angel felt a shiver that wasn't from the cold, but from a terrifying truth: they hadn't won Hell. They had simply built a smaller, lonelier prison.
He placed his claws on the keys. Not to summon fire, or to break minds, but to play the Nocturne in C-sharp minor . His fingers, built to tear spines, moved with a gentleness that would have shocked Heaven.
It was Belial, once a great duke, now a skeleton in a moth-eaten tuxedo. His eyes were hollow. sad satan ost
"I still make them weep," Asmodeus said, his voice soft. "Just not for the same reason."
Asmodeus shook his head. "I can't find the anger anymore. It’s all just… tiredness." Belial stared at the piano
Asmodeus finally turned. His face, once a mask of terrifying beauty, was streaked with grey. He wasn't crying—demons don’t cry. But his eyes held a moisture that looked suspiciously like regret.
It wasn't always this way. Once, Hell had rhythm. The forge-hammers of the damned beat in time, the screams formed a chaotic choir, and Lucifer himself would tap his hooves to the percussion of falling empires. Asmodeus was the court’s virtuoso. He composed the soundtrack for the Fall—a beautiful, crashing descent into dissonance. They had simply built a smaller, lonelier prison
"What is that supposed to be?" Belial whispered.