I blink, looking at him with my mouth popped open. “Children?”
He nods. “Souls who passed young. There are gardens, willow spirits that glow. It’s a place of healing. They’re cared for until they choose what comes next. Some choose to reincarnate, some ascend. A few stay to help others. Vailith offers them the one thing life didn’t.”
My chest twists at that. Aran turns slightly, gesturing to a jagged stretch of pale cliffs between the southern and eastern reaches. They shimmer faintly, like lightning frozen in stone.
“That’s the Welcome Circle. Where all new souls arrive. The cliffs whisper your name, your sins, your truths. Nothing is hidden here. Lower judges determine where a soul belongs. It isn’t a trial, it’s more like a sorting. Stripping everything away until what’s left is real.”
“What about that forest?” I ask, pointing eastward, where a sprawl of gnarled black trees seems to writhe in place.
Aran’s expression hardens. “The Whillowing. A forest that eats everything. The Moirvath live there—bark-skinned beings with too many eyes. They don’t take kindly to trespassers.”
Noted. No forest strolls.
“The black desert just beyond that,” he continues, “is The Shuddering Waste. A no-man’s-land for broken souls. Sand made of bone dust. Night beasts. The Diminished wander there—souls who’ve lost everything, even their names.”
“Why does it exist?” I ask.
He looks at me. “Because some people don’t belong anywhere else.”
I shudder again and turn to the southeast, where something dark still looms. A chasm. Inverted towers spiralling downward into the abyss. The sky above twilight, despite it being day.
“Nox’Thraxis,” Aran says softly. “The Shadow Realm. Ruled by the House Nytherian. The sun never touches that place. It’scold and silent. The Shadowfolk feed on secrets and regret. They serve as spies and interrogators. But they’re not an evil species, just curious.”
I don’t say anything. There are no words, only awe. Closer to Zeriavoss, I spot something more normal. A village. Smoke from chimneys, the distant sound of laughter.
“That’s Cinderspine,” Aran explains. “Our civilian hub. Bakers, smiths, merchants, and a school. The forge is down there, powered by soulfire. It’s where our Ember-born make enchanted weaponry.”
“Wait, there are schools? Bakers?”
Aran smiles. “Hell is more than torment and fire. It’s a civilisation, a kingdom. Even those who’ve sinned still live lives here—some reformed, some rebuilding.”
I don’t realise I’m smiling until I catch the warmth of it on my lips.
“And that,” Aran says, gesturing southwest. “Is Sovarith. The Council Spires. Where bureaucracy lives and dies. Every soul contract, every ancient law—it’s all written and archived there. The Obsidian Codes sit in the highest spire. They say it knows the name of every ruler who’s ever held Hell’s crown…” His eyes meet mine, “And everyone who will.”
I take a step back, completely overwhelmed. Everything I thought I knew about Hell has unravelled. This place isn’t terrifying; it’s incredible, beautiful, alive. Not like I really believed a place like this existed anyway.
“Well,” Aran says gently beside me, “when you’re feeling up to it, I’d be honoured to show you around properly. Cinderspine is always lively around dusk. But for now…” he nudges a small cloth-wrapped bundle into my hands, “you do need to eat more.”
I unwrap it and bite into a warm coal-coloured cake filled with what Aran says is ashberry jam. Gods, it’s divine. As I chew, I stare out across the realm again. Smoke. Flame. Forests.Villages. Secrets. Hell. Somehow, impossibly, it doesn’t feel so much like a prison anymore. But it doesn’t feel like I belong either, because I’m no resident. I’m a mortal, brought here by a demon who seems to hate me for reasons I can’t explain.
By the sixthday of being awake, I’ve decided that I’ve had enough. As amazing as this place is, I want out.
“Take me home,” I demand, arms crossed, even though I still look like I’ve gone five rounds with the Reaper.
Aran just gives me this soft, exhausted sigh that says, ‘I wish I could.’
“There are… matters to be settled first,” he says delicately.
His voice tells me the decision isn’t his to make and I decide not to push. Not because I’m feeling cooperative, but because I can’t bring myself to be an ass to him.
It’s the seventh day when the shift comes. It feels like the magic that constantly surrounds the air changes. It thickens, like walking through syrup made of static and dread. It crawls under my skin, curling around my lungs, and every instinct in me is suddenly screaming to run. The hairs on my arms rise before I hear the knock, like my body knows something bad is coming. Aran enters, wearing a dark robe over his suit, stitched with glowing silver thread. His face is set in a way I’ve never seen before, somewhere between reluctant and deeply apologetic.
“They wish to speak with you,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “Who?”
His pause is just long enough to twist the knife. “The Divine Six.”
