In the darkened chamber beneath the mountain—carved from obsidian, lit only by enchanted braziers and the steady pulse of the world’s molten core—the gathering began.

The Round of Thirteen was not an easy council to summon. Between banishments, time warps, underwater kingdoms, and the occasional prison escape, coordinating schedules was something of an art. But this was important. For once, it wasn’t about conquering. It was about… courtesy.

“I call this session of the Malevolent Concord to order,” said the chair, adjusting his silver-lined cloak and flicking ash from the end of his staff. “We have only one item on the agenda today.”

A thin wisp of smoke curled toward the ceiling from a brazier shaped like a dragon’s jaw. Beside it, a villain in armor sat back with a faint creak of metal and crossed one leg over the other. “You mean that item. The monologue proposal.”

Grunts and nods circled the table. One particularly ancient figure, draped in linen like a forgotten statue, tapped a scroll against the obsidian surface. “We waste too much time,” he rasped. “Too much breath. Too many metaphors.”

“I enjoy my metaphors,” said another, his fingers gloved in flame. “It’s part of the experience.”

A shadow in the corner—barely more than a shape wrapped in cloaks—let out a slow sigh. “Yes, but your experience includes describing every phase of the moon since your childhood. Last time, the sun set while you spoke.”

Snickers. Even the flame-gloved villain cracked a grin, the embers along his knuckles dimming.

The chair rapped a silver ring against the stone table. “Let’s stay focused. The proposal, formally, is as follows: henceforth, prior to any planned attack, trap, coup, or confrontation, a villain shall refrain from issuing extended monologues, villainous speeches, poetic warnings, or biographical recountings—”

“Unless,” someone interrupted, “the hero asks.”

“Of course,” the chair said. “If prompted, that’s an entirely different matter.”

“Does muttering count?” asked a woman with pale eyes and an aura of frost. “Sometimes I mutter. Strategically.”

There was a pause.

“No,” said the shadowed one. “Mutters are fine. As long as you’re moving while you do it.”

“Movement is key,” echoed the flame-gloved man. “Respect the pacing. A good skirmish should be under ten minutes if we’re being honest. Everyone’s getting older.”

“And our heroes,” said the chair, “have families. They come in knowing it’ll be a long night, but they shouldn’t have to stay past supper. One of mine missed his daughter’s birthday because I took too long describing the collapse of my home planet.”

A few villains nodded solemnly. One rubbed his chin.

“I mean…” began a hunched figure near the end of the table, his voice papery, “we are the villains. Should we care about their domestic inconveniences?”

The chair leveled a look at him.

“You ever tried fighting a sleep-deprived hero who’s missed three family events in a row?”

The hunched one recoiled slightly. “Point taken.”

The frost-eyed woman tapped her fingernail against the stone. “I timed myself last time. Twelve minutes of prologue. I hadn’t even gotten to the point before the princess unshackled herself and smacked me with a vase.”

“See?” said the chair. “We’re losing efficiency. And dignity.”

A low murmur of admiration circled the chamber.

There was silence then, not awkward, but weighty. The kind of quiet that settled like mist when villains shared something serious. Then, slowly, the chair pushed forward a heavy book, bound in dark leather.

“Let it be known. We are not becoming good. We are becoming professional.”

One by one, hands were raised. A few hesitated, some looked down, but they rose all the same.

“Motion carries,” the chair said with a nod. “The Ban on Pre-Attack Monologues is in effect at midnight. Let us strike with precision, strike with force, and, for once, strike on time.”

The braziers dimmed to a low blue. The obsidian glimmered with reflected flame. Somewhere far above, wind howled across the peak of the mountain. And thirteen villains, united not by creed, nor cause, but by weary pragmatism, stood and filed from the room—cloaks swirling, boots tapping, minds clear.

They had havoc to wreak.

And for once, they wouldn’t be late for dinner.