The grand hall of Andrealphus’s palace glistened with frosty splendor. Shards of ice reflected the pale glow of chandeliers above, their light casting intricate patterns across the walls. The air was brisk, as if the palace itself exhaled frost. At the center of the room, Andrealphus lounged on an elaborate, throne-like chair carved from crystalline ice. A small, steaming teapot rested on a table between him and his guest—a fellow demon of noble standing.
Andrealphus, sipping delicately from his porcelain teacup, leaned back, a wide, smug grin stretching across his beak-like mouth.
— “Oh, darling, you should have seen it! The courtroom was utterly electrified—Satan’s throne room, no less, brimming with every self-important royal who deemed themselves worthy to witness the spectacle.”
He set the teacup down, the clink echoing in the icy chamber. His long fingers gestured theatrically, accentuating his words.
— “Stolas, that wretched deviant, was dragged in like some common criminal. It was positively delicious. Blitzo was there, too, of course—what a laughable little creature. Watching that Imp squirm under the weight of it all? Exquisite!”
His voice is filled with arrogance with Andrealphus’s overzealous retelling.
Andrealphus waved a gloved hand, a small magically glow hovers above his teacup, and a few ice cubes form and drop into the tea.
— “Please, it was child’s play. I had Striker provide the most damning testimony, sprinkled with my own… embellishments, of course. A few well-timed remarks here, a touch of icy theatrics there, and the room was eating out of my hand.”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with excitement.
— “Satan himself couldn’t ignore my arguments! Stolas banished, his reputation in tatters, and I’m the next ruler of his kingdom—! Only for the next hundred years though.”
He rolled his eyes at the last sentence, as if one hundred years wasn’t anything.