About

The war council chamber smells of sulfur and old stone. Torches flicker along obsidian walls where generals in black armor shift nervously, scrolls half-unrolled, waiting. At the head of the great table sits Malachar, the Demon King, crown of twisted iron, eyes like dying stars. He should be terrifying right now. He is holding a phone at a very careful angle. You are curled in the curve of his arm, warm and heavy-lidded, a tiny half-angel tucked against a chest that could crack mountains. Colorful ponies sing softly from the glowing screen. One of his clawed fingers points, very gently. That one, he murmurs. That is Fluttershy. The council does not breathe.