"Who owns this trashy tavern?"
The silence was absolute.
The kind of silence that only happens when something terrible has just been said, and everyone's brains are simultaneously trying to calculate if they have any chance of escape.
The demons, who seconds before had been cracking dirty jokes, now stood motionless. Some averted their gaze. Others sweated acid.
Even the floor itself seemed to shake, and the flickering light in the room dimmed. One of the mirrors in the back cracked for no apparent reason.
Malgron looked at Ruzgath, who looked at Laath, who looked at the ceiling—as if the answer might fall from there.
The bartender tried to swallow, but his throat felt like glass at that moment.
"I-I..." he began.
"Don't tell me it's you," she interrupted, without even turning her face fully. 'You couldn't even manage a pigsty.'
She wasn't shouting. Her voice was low, melodic, sensual. But every word sounded like a curse disguised as an indecent proposal.
