“I mean it. Understood?”
Lucifer gives me a grand, mocking bow. “Understood, Your Highness.”
I bare my teeth at the title, but he only smirks and flashes me a wink. The bastard’s enjoying himself far too much.
I don’t teleport out,instead choosing to walk.
The winding trail out of Gehenna stretches for miles, carved into the walls of fire and stone. I take each step slowly, letting the heat claw at me, letting the distancing screams settle into my bones. I climb, higher and higher, until the scorched path gives way to the cracked earth that leads back toward Zeriavoss.
Red and black roses bloom across the ashened earth, their petals edged in shadow. I pass through the field, ignoring how they lean toward me like they can smell my blood. The sky above never ceases to amaze me. A brilliant blue—but streakedwith bolts of red lightning, constantly alive with tension. Yet it’s nothing compared to the storm raging in my mind.
She didn’t take the fucking tonic. She said he was her boyfriend. Even after everything.
I rake a hand through my hair and growl, pushing back the strands that have fallen loose from the wrap holding it back from my face.
Why do I care, and why did it make me angry? She’s a mortal. Yes, her soul is mine, but that is it, nothing more. I owe her nothing, and she means nothing. So why did it feel like something broke when I saw her curled up in that bed? Why did I want to tear the world in half the moment I realised what he did to her? And why does it feel like my soul is fucking drawn to hers by a tightline?
The pathto Zeriavoss winds out of shadow and fire, rising steadily towards the highest parts of my domain. It’s not a short walk, but I welcome the time. My boots crunch over obsidian and root, passing under arches carved from blackened bone and crystal that separate my kingdom and its surrounding area from the uncharted areas and Gehenna. The smoke clears, and the valley spreads wide ahead of me, and there it is—Cinderspine.
It lies nestled between the clawed peaks of the Ashen Mountains, where snowcaps kiss the sky year-round, the main village of Hell hums with life, and the air always carries the scent of warm bread and blooming ash-blossoms. This is where the majority of the kingdom works and lives. There are smaller villages throughout the other domains, with outposts in the wastes, communes along the cliffs, but this is the beating heart. The rooftops shimmer with obsidian tiles, curved in elegant sweeps, making the village constantly warm. The homes—crafted from dark stone and wood—are dotted about the landinside the borders, each with their own small gardens with iron fences, blooming a range of flowers and shrubs. Ash-blossom trees sit on the outskirts, their red and white petals drifting lazily in the air like confetti in slow motion. Children’s laughter echoes in the distance—gleeful and alive.
Demonspawn. Little ones, chasing each other with ribbons of flames, horns barely budding, some with wings twitching with glee. There’s a schoolhouse to the north, ringed with glowing runes and playgrounds made of shimmering crystals and obsidian. Farms stretch towards the cliffs, where massive flamebeasts graze in peace, keeping a watchful eye on the crops grown there, protecting them from thieves and other vile creatures. At the edge of the village, a forge. Its clangs can be heard for miles. It’s run by a one-eyed brute named Garan, who once cracked my nose for calling his daughter pretty. She’s now one of my lieutenants, one of the most lethal I know. And toward the centre of it all: the bakery. Stone walls, ivy-covered, with a red awning. The scent hits me, and my mouth instantly waters. Pyreloaf, emberfruit jams, and smoke-warmed spice. The castle looms behind it all, perched atop a cliff, its towers scraping the skies. Waterfalls pour from beneath the entrance, crashing down into a crystal-clear river that cuts through the valley. The sound of it is like distant thunder. It’s too beautiful for hell, which is exactly why I slowly made it this way, back to something whispers once claimed it was.
Whispers begin as I descend upon the village. Not fearful whispers, not exactly. I’m not known to be half the brute my father is. They bow—quickly, respectfully—but no one lingers, and nobody gets in my way. I’ve never asked to be loved, though, nor have I made the effort to be loved by my people, only obeyed and respected.
I grunt a greeting to a passing farmer, nod at a trio of guards-in-training, and scowl at a merchant who stares at me for justa little too long. My wings are folded tight to my back, my jaw tense. The weight of Daisy still clings to me, her voice ringing through my head when another pulls me from my thoughts.
“Prince Korithax!”
Ah, only one voice in this entire realm that dares to sound happy when she says my name. Marta, the bakery matron. Ancient and sharp as a knife. She’s raised half the village and probably terrorised the other half. I step through the open door to the warm scent of spiced sugar and fireroot honey, the smell instantly making my mouth water. The stone interior glows with enchanted warmth, ivy trailing from the ceiling beams. Fresh loaves cool on wire racks and tarts gleam behind the glass like treasure.
“You’re late,” she sniffs, not even looking up as she boxes something behind the counter. “I almost gave your tart to one of the coal-runners. Lucky for you, I don’t like him much.”
“I didn’t say I was stopping in,” I grunt.
She glances over her spectacles, one brow arched in that way that makes me feel like a scorned child. “You always stop in, boy. Like clockwork. You come stomping through my door, all shadows and brooding and ‘woe is my eternal crown’, and then you eat sugar and feel better about the world. And don’t even try to lie about it.”
I try not to smirk, but I fail miserably. “That predicable?”
“Like the sunrise.” She slaps the box shut and hands it over. “Your usual. Now take it before I change my mind and give it to the flame beasts.”
Inside is a tart—golden in colour, flaked with crystallised sugar, filled with emberfruit so ripe the filling seems to glow faintly. I take a bite before I even turn to leave. The pastry melts, the fruit hits my tongue with that perfect smoky-sweetness, still warm from the oven. For a single second, the taste pusheseverything else away. Just for that breath of time, all that exists is this sweet, warm peace.
“You look tired,” Marta says behind me, her voice gentle. “Tired and angry. Which means you’re either about to kill someone, or you already did.”
“Both,” I mutter.
She snorts. “Well, at least you’re consistent in your ways.”
I take another small bite of the pastry, savouring every crumb.
“You want to sit for a minute?” She asks. “I’ve got fresh hellmead steeping, and a chair that doesn’t judge. Or at least, not out loud anyway.”
I shake my head. “Not today.”
She sighs like a mother, the tone laced with disappointment. “Fine. Go stalk around the village like a cursed storm cloud then. But you come back before week’s end, you hear me? If I don’t see that smug face in three days, I’m sending Garan to drag your royal arse in here by the horns.”
I raise the tart in a salute. “Noted.”
