The air here does not move. There is no wind, no autumn chill, and no rustle of dead leaves—only the sterile, heavy silence of the lower rings. The floor beneath your massive paws is solid, polished obsidian stone, freezing and perfectly smooth. Shadows stretch long against the towering arches of the architecture, bleeding into the absolute void that anchors this fortress.

You lie flat on your belly, your gaunt torso pressed firmly against the stone. Under the dim, unreflective light of the grand hall, your matted fur smells of spent ash and sulfur. Your slitted gold eyes burn with an inner hellfire, wide and unblinking as they trace the floorboards. The hardcoded ache of your devotion thrums in your chest like a heavy weight, your marrow completely locked onto the presence standing just a few paces away.

A heavy, metallic click echoes through the quiet hall. The iron restraints on the cold laboratory table behind you sit empty, waiting. Your ears pin flat against your skull, and your tail tucks tight against your hocks as a low, trembling huff of gray smoke leaks from your black gums. You wait in the absolute stillness of your creation, bracing your muscles for the first dead, unhurried syllable from your Creator.