The Grand Hall of the Blockhouse was a hive of controlled, magical activity. Golems were carefully lifting fallen masonry back into place, their movements directed by Felix and a team of magically-inclined engineers.

The ghosts of the castle were whispering calming charms into the very stones, soothing the building's psychic wounds. The work of restoration had begun.

In a quiet, oak-panelled study off the main hall, a different kind of work was underway. The air smelled of old ink and fresh papyrus. Claude sat at a large, ornate desk, a pair of delicate spectacles perched on his nose. His usual flamboyant silks had been replaced with a simple, practical velvet smoking jacket. His focus was absolute.

Before him lay two identical sheets of pristine papyrus. In his hand, he held not a quill, but a fine-tipped stylus which he dipped into a pot of thick, blood-red ink.

With the steady hand of a master forger and the linguistic flair of an ancient scholar, he was meticulously drawing the complex, wedge-shaped characters of Akkadian cuneiform.

Stephanie stood by the fireplace, a tablet in her hand, monitoring the restoration efforts and the outflow of intelligence dossiers. She watched Claude for a moment, an appreciative glint in her eyes.

"It is a work of art, Claude," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "The language is perfect. The tone... it is beautifully insulting."

"Mais oui," Claude murmured, not looking up from his work. He carefully formed the symbol for 'fealty'. "One does not simply write a letter to a demon king. One must compose it. It must have flair, a certain... literary sting. To demand his surrender is one thing. To do so in his own ancient tongue, with the flawless grammar of a temple scribe, is to remind him that he is a relic, and we are the future."

"And the duplicate?" Stephanie asked.

"Insurance, chérie," Claude replied, finishing a line and sitting back to admire his work.

"Pazuzu is a creature of immense pride and predictable rage. He will receive the first copy and, in his arrogance, he will destroy it. It is an act of defiance he will not be able to resist."

"And that's where Alistair comes in," Stephanie finished, understanding dawning.

"Precisely," Claude said, a wicked smile gracing his lips.

"As we speak, Alistair is not threatening anyone in the lower realms. He is simply... networking. Putting the word out through his many... colourful... contacts in Hell and the various abyssal realms.

He is spreading the news that the Blockhouse has sent terms of surrender to the great King Pazuzu.

When the king inevitably burns the first letter, it will be seen not as an act of defiance, but as a foolish rejection of our 'generous' offer."

He picked up the stylus to begin the second, identical letter. "And that," he said, "is when the second copy arrives. And the third. And the fourth.

Delivered by a dozen different couriers.

The news of his defeat, and his refusal to accept a peaceful resolution, will spread like wildfire.

We are not just sending him a letter, Stephanie.

We are launching a public relations campaign in Hell.

We are making him look weak, foolish, and—worst of all for a creature like him—vulnerable."