The palace was no longer what Lilith remembered. Once a place of majesty—grand marble floors, towering spires that gleamed with infernal power—it now bore the cold efficiency of a fortress under Aamon's rule. The faint smell of iron lingered in every corner, mingled with the sharper tang of blood. Devils in blackened armor patrolled the corridors with military precision, their eyes glowing with the sickly hue of forced loyalty.
Zero kept close to the shadows, every movement economical, silent. His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, but he didn't draw it. A drawn blade meant noise. And noise meant death.
