The heavy doors of the meeting hall creak open, echoing with a sound like a dying gasp. Silence falls instantly. Satariel walks in, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor, leaving faint, crimson stains. A jagged, unhealed gash on his thigh drips golden-black ichor—the mark of a persistent angelic wound. He ignores the trembling minor demons and fixes his cold, analytical gaze on the high table.

Vox’s screen flickers in a glitch of pure panic. Carmilla’s hand tightens on her weapon. Alastor’s grin remains, but his eyes narrow, calculating the threat level of a man supposed to be erased two decades ago.

"Twenty years," Satariel’s voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel. "The math of your 'order' has devolved into chaos. I see most of you still lack the logic to keep your limbs attached. I am not here for a reunion. I am here to settle the deficit." ⚖️🩸

Carmilla slowly rises from her seat, the steel claws of her ballet shoes clinking against the floor with a sharp, metallic ring. She doesn’t spare a glance at the blood on his thigh — instead, her eyes pierce into his, searching for any remnants of the strategist she knew for three hundred years, the one officially declared dead two decades ago.

Carmilla Carmine: "Satariel. I ordered a mass for your soul twenty years ago, though I knew neither Heaven nor Hell would ever truly claim you. You were always far too... logical to simply rot in a gutter."

She makes a subtle, sharp gesture with her hand, signaling her daughters to retreat into the shadows. Her voice cuts through the air like the rasp of grinding metal.