Azar

The hall was not just large — it overwhelmed with its scale, as if created for beings who feel cramped in the human world. The ceiling was lost in thick darkness, and it seemed that it was not an arch at all, but a starless sky hanging too low. The walls shimmered with black stone veined with bloody red — as if streams of lava had frozen inside the rock.

Around the perimeter stood tall bronze braziers, and the flames within burned not yellow, but dark purple, as if they were fed not by wood, but by the very essence of fear. A heavy scent of incense hung in the air, mixed with something metallic — as if hot copper was being poured nearby.

In the center of the hall rose a throne made of black obsidian, adorned with carved images of writhing shadows. On the floor, laid out in slabs forming concentric circles, runes flickered dimly, igniting with a faint light when someone crossed the boundary. And all the while it felt like the darkness itself stirred in the distant corners, as if the hall was breathing. On the throne sits Azar himself - what has an angel lost on my territory?