"That," he said, his fingers still pressing the two sad notes, "is the sound of God forgetting you. Not hating you. Not punishing you. Just… forgetting. It’s colder than any lake of ice."

As he played the final, trembling chord, he heard a shuffling behind him. He didn't turn.

He placed his claws on the keys. Not to summon fire, or to break minds, but to play the Nocturne in C-sharp minor . His fingers, built to tear spines, moved with a gentleness that would have shocked Heaven.

"I still make them weep," Asmodeus said, his voice soft. "Just not for the same reason."

Tonight, he was perfecting a new piece. He called it "Lament for the Morningstar." It had no fire, no fury. It was slow. It was sad. It was the sound of a prince realizing he had won the rebellion and lost everything else.

The piano wept.

"What is that supposed to be?" Belial whispered.

He began a new melody. A single, repetitive note, like a dripping faucet in an abandoned hospital. Then a second note, a minor third, creating a tiny, aching gap. He played the gap over and over.