He still lurks, of course. Creeping around the halls of Hell when he has the energy, advising where he isn’t welcome, whispering to the few allies who still call him king. He wants me to rule the way he did—with cruelty mistaken for order. He sees my defiance as weakness, my restraint as failure. But I am not him, and I never will be. Despite the fact that it was long before my existence, the constant whispers all tell the same story of the betrayal, the lies, the deceit. And one day, when the right moment comes, I will burn the last remnants of his reign from these walls.
We don’t even speak, not really. I spare him a hello every now and then, but other than that, he may as well be a stranger who lurks the halls with a lopsided crown upon his aging skull.
He may technically still be king, but as far as I’m concerned, he is nothing more than a thief of oxygen whose time is running out. Removing him from the throne permanently is the only thing that makes me want to take a bride. But even so, I cannot. Not yet. I have too many things to focus on before shackling a woman to a lifetime beside me. I have no interest in love orwomen, other than using their bodies for a quick fuck to release tension.
I lean my head back and let out a slow breath. I’ve got no interest in any politics today. No patience for court games or fake smiles. My thoughts continue to drift back to the girl in the cluttered apartment. Daisy. Stupid name. Stupid sunshine attitude. But damn if she didn’t stare at me like I wasn’t the worst thing to ever walk through her door. The way she didn’t scream makes my skin itch in the most irritating way. In fact, she was sarcastic as fuck and acted like I was just an annoying inconvenience in her little pathetic life. Mortals are supposed to crumble when they meet their end.
I’d checked her file. Dead mother. Gambling, drunk of a father. A girl caught between trying to survive and pretending she’s not breaking from grief. Death was such a big deal to mortals, something I didn’t understand. Maybe it was because their lives were so short in comparison to us immortals. Gone in the blink of an eye. My mother had also died, but I did not mourn or grieve. Death was a part of the process, even as an immortal. Or maybe I just didn’t have enough time with her to be able to grieve her. I barely remember her, only her lavender eyes that sometimes appear in my dreams, like even in death she’s checking on her only child.
Mid thought,the summons arrives on parchment that smells like self-righteousness and stardust. The seal is golden—pressed with their wretched emblem: six interlocked rings. Six beings who believe their authority is divinely ordained just because they sit higher in the sky than the rest of us. The Divine Six. The Uppers. The creators and rulers of everything that is and ever was. They want a word. Of course they do. I let the scroll burn toash in my hand before stepping through the portal I summoned with a flick of my hand.
The chamber of the Divine Six is made of pure light. Not the warm kind, but the blinding, blistering, and suffocating kind that scrapes at your skin like it’s judging you the second you walk in. And gods, does this place give me the feeling it’s disappointed in me. It shouldn’t hold form the way it does. Pillars stretch impossibly high. The air here tastes like purity laced with lies. I absolutely hate it here, and now my headache is so much worse.
They’re already seated, a perfect crescent of celestial arrogance. Three women and three men, each one glowing in a way that would make you believe they’ve never known shame. Spoiler: they have. They’re not smiling, they never do. Miserable bastards. They’re like judges in a cosmic court, yet you can guarantee to never expect fairness when it comes to them.
They say nothing at first; they never speak until they want to. It’s all power games and arrogance; the delay meant to come across as dominance, but it just comes off as insufferable bullshit. A whole performance meant to remind me I’m the one they can summon whenever they please, and that they hold my strings like just another one of their puppets in their fucking games. I don’t offer them the respect they so desperately crave. I don’t bow, don’t blink in awe like they expect. Because I don’t give a shit about a single one of them.
Finally, Seraphiel rises like the leader she wishes she were. The Voice of Judgement. Drenched in silver and polished chrome, a helmet hiding what little humanity she might’ve had. Her wings stretch behind her, crystal clear, flawless, and as cold as her dead heart.
“You were summoned. You are late.”
I sigh, already bored to near tears. “I’m here, am I not?” I lift a hand with dramatic flair. “Try not to faint.”
There’s a musical laugh, soft, sweet, and fake as hell. Amarithe. The Manipulator of Light and Reality. She glows like a sunrise made of gold and honey, but underneath the warmth is the chill of illusion. She could stab you with a smile and convince you to thank her for it.
“Still alone, I see,” she purrs. “No partner. No… anchor.”
She doesn’t say bride, none of them do. But it’s what they mean. Because without a queen, I’m just a boy playing king in their eyes. They believe that I am not fit to rule without a queen.
Velentha speaks next—though it’s not speech so much as weeping. Because, unfortunately, everything with her is melodrama and mystery. Tears of pure white light train endlessly from beneath her hood, vanishing into the marble beneath her feet. Time runes twist across her arms in constant motion, shifting futures looping like ribbons around her. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to, because she sees all. Every possible future and outcome, she knows it. Of course, fate changes every second, so she sees many possibilities.
“The threads tangle,” she murmurs, voice distant. “Too many paths… too many endings. You tempt the storm, Child of Ruin.”
I bristle at the name, but I say nothing. I impatiently await the next one to speak because it’s always the same. They speak their riddles, their warnings, each thinking their voice should shatter the sky. All it actually does is raise my bastard blood pressure.
Calrix leans forward—because of course the militant asshole wants in. The Spear of Order. Divine Warfare’s golden boy, who claims to be the protector of the realms. He’s flame wrapped in armour, his wings ablaze, and his eyes burn with the fury of a sun held back by chainmail.
“You should not be here,” he growls. “You stain the light.”
I snort. “First of all, I was invited. Secondly, if I’d known I was walking into a celestial poetry slam, I would’ve brought wine.”
Calrix’s sword ignites in his grip, the fury in his eyes sparking even brighter as he stares me down. I swear, he lives for the drama. Seraphiel lifts a hand, and he instantly lowers the weapon like the obedient bitch he is. Across the crescent, Elaron smiles. His voice, when he speaks, is so gentle it almost slides past you unnoticed. Despite his soft voice, he is just another manipulator, his abilities allowing him to mess with your thoughts, memories, and dreams.
“The realm quivers. Strange dreams ripple through the mortal veil. Something stirs.”
His hair is starlight, and his eyes are gentle, yet unblinking. He smiles like a friend, but the whispers within the realm are that he was the one who erased the old queen’s soul. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me.
“Do you feel it, Korithax?” He asks me. “The little sparks waking in the dark?”
I stare back at him, my expression deadpan, and say nothing. I won’t give them the satisfaction of asking them what the fuck they’re talking about. My eyes track over to Mal’Thariel. He doesn’t speak, never does. His body is a monolith of marble and glass, ancient beyond comprehension. The original creator of everything. And he just… watches. Like a god who sees every flaw in your soul and decides you’re boring anyway. The laws of the universe get quiet around him.
I roll my eyes. “Gods, don’t all speak at once for a change, will you?”
“You mock us,” Seraphiel says, her voice cutting through the atmosphere like a blade. “You forget who we are.”
“No,” I mutter, straightening. “I remember exactly who you are.”
Show time.I raise a finger to point, a cocky grin plastered on my face. “One: Judgement in the form of a silver bitch.” Seraphiel glares.
