The room itself is actually more humble, if only on the surface. There's a well-sized cot in the corner, adorned with mismatched pillows and a hand-knitted blanket; there's a shelf of books against the straighter wall, and an ordered collection of trinkets nestled across from it. The unknowing would see this and assume an intimate glimpse into the god's true priorities.

Asmodeus himself is lounging on a battered armchair like it's a throne, idly thrumming through a leather-bound tome. He looks, to both of them, like Evandrin; the resemblance to Elias is starkly obvious. So is the way Zerxus goes taut, bracing through a fresh wave of tormented yearning.

"It's hardly Malsheem, but welcome all the same. Please, sit down." The words are as smooth as polished glass. With a wave of his hand, two wooden chairs scrape across the floor to settle right next to each other.