The demons of the Broken Antler warband looked at one another, a heavy, awkward silence filling the room. Marchosias, still on one knee, glanced at Nock, who was adjusting his fedora with a shaky paw. He looked at Halphas, whose pigeon head gave a nervous, involuntary bob. Finally, his eyes landed on Furfur, no longer a ten-foot wall of frozen muscle, but a slender, beautiful stag with a tail of flickering fire. They were stripped of their pretenses.
Belial let out a sharp, rhythmic snap of his fingers.
The pig-woman and sheep-woman immediately scurried forward, their black robes rustling. They moved with a practiced, militant synchronized clumsiness, flanking the massive, now-obsidian gavel. With a grunt of effort, they hooked the tines of their pitchforks under the handle and the head of the weapon, struggling to hoist the fridge-sized object between them.
"I thought perhaps you had finally commanded your children to accept the 'glory' of their demonic beauty," Belial said, his voice dripping with dry, academic amusement as he watched his squires wobble under the weight of the hammer. "But the gavel did not smite them. It merely stripped them of their armor. It turned them around, so to speak… forcing them to occupy the very punishments the Maker cursed them with."
Marchosias looked up, his amber eyes wide with confusion. "What?"
"Isn't it delicious irony, Marquis?" Belial asked, smoothing the lapel of his blood-red suit. "The simulacrum was designed to destroy demonic pride. But your lieutenants spend every waking moment rejecting your natures, hiding behind illusions and… makeup, the weapon had to break though those layers first."
"Pshh," Andras said under his breath. "They really are all performative as fuck."
Belial's rectangular pupils shifted toward the owl. "Did you say something, Andras?"
"Nope," Andras said, his golden eyes fixing on a spot on the floor.
"It seems like you never do," Belial said, rolling his eyes with a sigh of royal boredom. He turned on his cloven hoof, his red suit shimmering as he began to walk toward the exit, his squires trailing behind him like a very odd moving crew carrying a giant black hammer.
Zac, still pinned chest-first to the table with his rear pointing at the rafters, managed to crane his neck around.
"Hey! You're just gonna choke me and not even give me your number?!" Zac yelled as the King reached the doorway. "Don't be a tease!"
Belial stopped at the threshold. He didn't turn around, but his ears gave a sharp, irritated twitch. Then, he slowly turned back to face the room.
"You're right."
Belial held his gloved hand up, and the invisible, crushing force wrapped around Zac's throat and waist once more. Zac was physically yanked off the table, dragged through the air, choking and sputtering, until he hovered directly in front of the demonic King.
"It has been so long since I've enjoyed torturing a virgin," Belial purred, his rectangular pupils flaring with a dark, terrifying amusement.
The warband didn't hesitate. March, Skarg, Halphas, Nock, Bune and even Andras struggled to their feet in raw defiance, their injuries and exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
Belial glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, yes. And I guess I should reward you for not making total fools of me for once."
The goat King glared at the warband. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of his royal aura slammed into the lieutenants, forcing them instantly back down to prostrate themselves on the floor, their pained advances halted.
But Marchosias kept walking forward. He leaned heavily on his cane, his amber eyes burning, fighting the King's aura with every step.
"For your efforts, I will grant you one wish, Marquis Marchosias," Belial announced, his voice echoing in the ruined room.
Marchosias stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. "A... gift?"
Belial looked impatient. He twirled his finger, sending Zac spinning around in mid-air like a top.
This is a terrible amusement park ride, Zac thought dizzily, struggling to keep his waffels down. I hate teacups.
"I thought you might enjoy finally being promoted," Belial said smoothly. "Since you have managed to subdue a Duke already, it might be time for you to become one yourself."
Marchosias looked shocked. "That's... that's too much for a lowly warrior such as myself."
"Oh, come on," Belial said with a sharp, toothy grin. "We all know how badly you want to... climb the ladder. And maybe with a bit more power, you can finally utilize your strengths properly without purging yourself."
Zac watched the wolf as he spun around. March deserves recognition, he thought, the nausea fading into a bittersweet realization. A power-up would stop the wolf from hurting himself. This is probably the best outcome. I deserve eternal damnation anyways... but March, March is good. He should be acknowledged with a promotion so he doesn't have to keep throwing himself into the eternal meat grinder.
"So," Belial said, tapping his cloven hoof impatiently. "What do you want? I can get you anything you wish."
Marchosias looked down at the floor, his jaw tight. "I can get anything I wish?"
"Yes, yes," Belial said, rolling his eyes. "Just hurry up and tell me. I've got things to do, you know."
Marchosias slowly looked up. He lifted a trembling, clawed finger and pointed directly at Zac.
"I want the Avatar to be officially recognized as a member of the Broken Antler."
Belial's jaw dropped. He completely lost his concentration.
The invisible grip vanished. Zac went flying, still spinning like a top, and slammed hard into the stone wall with a painful thwack, crumpling into a heap of leopard print.
"Really?" the goat King demanded, his regal composure finally cracking.
Marchosias looked over at Zac, who had just been flung into a wall. "Well, sir, I have a job to do. Even if you made me a Duke, I would not be able to infiltrate the Holy City without him."
"Yeah, bottom bitch," Zac said, staggering to his feet and trying not to vomit from the nausea. "I'm special as fuck. Wolf Dad… I mean, the Captain, is so big-brained about strategy and shit."
"Why do you keep talking?!" the goat King yelled.
Belial clenched his fist, his eyes turning entirely black. A large, jagged, spiked metal object erupted from the ground, splitting the ruined dining table cleanly in half with a shriek of tearing wood.
"Oh, what, an iron maiden?" Zac slurred, leaning heavily against the wall. "How cliché."
"It's a Pear of Anguish, you fool!" Belial roared, reaching his hand out.