Compared to the cold emptiness of Hell's first floor, this place was the opposite.
Warm lantern light.
Soft carpets.
The faint fragrance of herbs and roasted meat drifting in the air.
Across a long carved dining table sat Arianne Evermoon, watching him with a small smile as she lifted a forkful of food.
If Michael were honest with himself, the contrast was almost comedic.
A moment ago, part of him was crouched on a frozen ridge, watching two barbarians from the Ancient Tribe Realm try to murder each other in a blizzard.
Here, the other part of him was eating glazed beast meat cooked with rare spices.
He took another bite.
He paused.
He chewed again.
Then he nodded slowly.
"This is better than mine," he admitted in his mind without shame. "Much better."
The Duke's chefs had a reputation for a reason.
Arianne's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
"You like the food," she observed lightly, chin resting on her palm. "I can tell."
Michael glanced at her.
