"I still make them weep," Asmodeus said, his voice soft. "Just not for the same reason."
"What is that supposed to be?" Belial whispered.
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. sad satan ost
"I remember when you used to make popes weep," a gravelly voice said.
It was Belial, once a great duke, now a skeleton in a moth-eaten tuxedo. His eyes were hollow. "I still make them weep," Asmodeus said, his voice soft
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. The single, repeating interval echoed off the empty walls
But that was before the Silence.
