The cradle of the molten veins.
Far beneath the surface of the capital—past stone and sanctum, past charred bones and cursed sigils—there sat a chamber carved from screams and still-burning hatred.
It was a room that pulsed like a living heart, each beat echoing through demonic veins twisted into the very walls.
Here, in this darkness untouched by humans or beasts, sat the Five Eyes of the Deep.
They sat on thrones not crafted but grown—from bone, from flesh, from madness.
Each throne was a monument to their essence, and each leader of the demon headquarters radiated a pressure so vile it could curdle divinity.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
The room was shrouded in a pressure so thick that even ghosts wouldn't dare whisper.
Then—crack.
A bone splintered. Loud. Dry. Sharp.
It was Veyron, the Bone Architect, shifting ever so slightly, his jagged form blending into his throne of skeletal wings. With every breath he took, bone scraped against bone.
Still, he said nothing.
