"Is I, brother."
Lucifer slowly turned, his piercing gaze meeting the one figure he had fully expected to show up at such a moment. A slow, knowing smile crept across his lips. Before him stood Azrael, the Angel of Death, cloaked in shadows that seemed to move with an unnatural fluidity around him. His tall, lean frame was shrouded in a dark, ethereal robe, its edges whispering like the wind, and his eyes—deep, endless voids—seemed to peer directly into one's soul.
"Good to see you, brother," Lucifer drawled, leaning back with a mocking grin. "Or should I say, Lady Death?" His voice dripped with amusement, but his eyes glinted with the desire to provoke.
Azrael's expression darkened instantly, a low sigh escaping him as the light around him flickered. "Oh, please, brother," Azrael said in a tone both soft and menacing, the air growing colder as he spoke. "We both know I prefer Lord Death."
