Baal strode into Mot’s hall in Miry, brash as always.

“No guards?” came Mot’s soft voice.

“Do I need them? They did not help me defeat Yam,” Baal replied.

Mot slinked out of the darkness. “It was nice of you to come.”

Baal smirked. “What is it you want, Mot?”

Mot’s inky eyes fixed on Baal; in spite of himself, Baal shivered. Mot did not reply.

“You want my throne? Is that it? You’re not worthy, Mot. You’re a useless blot that had to be cast from the earth for life to thrive. You should be grateful that you were granted this much – you deserve nothing.”

In the gloom, Mot’s reaction was hard to gauge. “I have heard it all before, Baal.”

“Maybe you should listen sometime.”

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Mot replied as the darkness moved around them. “I know Anat told you not to come alone.”

Baal didn’t have time even to blink before the Yellow Ones descended.