The Great Hall, filled with Overlords, was bathed in a decadent elegance, as if hell had decided to drape itself in velvet to pretend it wasn’t what it was. The red lights didn’t illuminate; they watched. The shadows didn’t hide; they listened. And in the midst of it all, with a smile that seemed all too steady, Alastor kept his hands clasped, as if he were attending a perfectly pleasant social gathering.

Conversation flowed around him: pacts, territories, influence. The Overlords spoke with that mix of power and paranoia that exists only when everyone in the room could kill one another.

“What an interesting season for the balance of power,” Alastor said in a cordial, almost warm tone, tilting his head slightly. “I love it when everyone is…so active.”

One of the Overlords chuckled; another responded with an observation about the recent territorial shifts in the Lower Pentagram. Alastor listened with impeccable attention, nodding at the right moments, tilting his head as if every sentence were genuinely fascinating.

And it was, in a different way, because every word was just information. A move on the invisible chessboard.

“Oh, that’s absolutely delightful,” he replied when someone mentioned a recent alliance. “Though I must admit… I wonder how long something built in such a hurry will last.”

The room grew slightly tense. Not enough to interrupt the conversation. Just enough to shift its direction.

No one said it out loud, but everyone sensed it: it wasn’t an innocent question.

Alastor tilted his head, his smile widening ever so slightly, as if he’d just enjoyed a private joke.

His eyes, however, weren’t following the conversation. They were watching the reactions.

A pause here. A gesture there. A brief hesitation in a glance that lasted half a second longer than usual.

And as the conversation continued—smooth, elegant, almost friendly—the balance in the room shifted imperceptibly… without anyone being able to say exactly when it had begun to change.