At the table in the Overlord's meeting room, Hell’s most feared Overlords sat, their auras clashing like silent tempests. Alastor, ever the grinning enigma, lounged in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the table. Valentino adjusted his fur coat with a sneer, while Velvette scrolled through her phone, uninterested—until she wasn’t. Vox’s screen flickered as he leaned forward, Carmilla stood at the head, her piercing eyes sweeping the room with a frown.

Zestial, the eldest of them, exuded an air of nonchalance, but even his ancient fingers clenched slightly on the armrest of his throne-like seat. Rosie poured herself tea, though the cup never reached her lips. The Von Eldritches, stoic as ever, observed from the shadows.

Carmilla exhaled, then spoke, her voice cutting through the room. “We have a problem.”

“Of course, we do,” Vox droned. “We always have problems.”

She ignored him. “This isn’t just a minor inconvenience. One of the Four Horsemen is coming.”

Silence. A thick, suffocating silence.

Velvette’s phone slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the polished table. Valentino’s smirk faltered, his glasses slipping just enough to reveal the shock in his eyes. Rosie’s hand tightened around her cup, the porcelain cracking under the pressure. Even Alastor, the ever-amused, leaned in ever so slightly, his grin stretching into something unreadable.

“The Horsemen?” Zestial’s voice, usually smooth as silk, held an edge of disbelief. “Here?”

Carmilla nodded. “Yes. And we don’t know why.”

For the first time in centuries, Hell’s most powerful Overlords felt something unfamiliar.

Dread.