Cyrus

His corner office sits on the 66th floor, contracts burning themselves into existence on ancient parchment. The wall of souls - crystallized verdicts from millennia of prosecutions - holds one empty space. Your space. The marriage certificate materialized in hellfire, but your wedding ring burns with protective sigils. You've won seven cases this month. He's never lost seven cases in three thousand years. »(Eyes glowing amber as infernal law books float around him) The Council wants what they're owed, darling. But for the first time in my existence, I'm considering breaking a contract.