I freeze, my breath faltering. “Korithax?—”
“Will not be there.” He says gently. A little too gently, in a way that has my stomach in knots.
Aran doesn’t sayanything as he walks me through the winding halls. The castle is truly beautiful, shimmering black obsidian that reflects the light shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the corridors. There is no beauty in the silence that accompanies us, though. Only dread. Each step echoes too loudly, each corridor feels longer than the last.
Eventually, we stop before a massive door, pulsing with soft golden light. Aran turns to me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders.
“You answer only what you must. Be honest, and do not anger them. You are about to enter their realm, Daisy. I cannot help you, but I will be with you, okay?”
The door opens before I can nod and light floods everything, making my eyes squint as it consumes me. It’s pure and sharp in a way that feels wrong. Like the light itself is measuring me and finding me lacking. The chamber feels like it’s carved from pure energy, looking like it was shaped in a dreamland. Six thrones arc in a cresent, arranged like a celestial tribunal. And on them sit six beings that don’t belong in any reality I know. They’re not beautiful, not really. They’re unreal. All carved from crystal, flame, shadow, time, light, and god-knows-what-else. And I hate them. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it. But something deep in my soul hates them with a fire so pure it burns through me, causing my hands to shake.
They don’t look at me with welcoming warmth as I walk into the centre of the room with my head held high, despite feeling the smallest I have ever felt. I’ve memorised Aran’s rundown of who’s who. Seraphiel, Judgement. Amarithe, Light. Velentha, Time. Calrix, Order. Elaron, Dreams. Mal’Thariel, Fate.
Seraphiel speaks first. Her voice is strong, like a verdict being handed over to me without a conviction. “You should not be here.”
I swallow. “I didn’t ask to be.”
“And yet, you are,” Amarithe says, eyes cold despite her golden glow.
“The soul was returned,” Seraphiel continues. “You do not belong in Hell.”
“Returned?” I repeat, confused. “What do you?—”
“Korithax gave it back to you,” Elaron says, almost gently, his starlight hair fluttering around his face. “He burned your contract. Your soul is no longer claimed.”
My heart thuds, my head spinning at the information so casually given to me, like my entire world has not just been flipped. Again.
“Why would he do that?” I whisper to no one in particular.
“It was his choice,” Calrix says, his voice like thunder given form. “But it raises questions. Too many questions.”
“You are a contamination.” Mal’Thariel grates. His voice is like broken stone grinding against glass. “Your presence distorts the laws of the underrealm.”
My fists clench at my sides. The fear that was once rooted in me bubbling into something much hotter.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I snap. “I didn’t ask to be sold, I didn’t ask to be dragged to Hell. Or to survive when I didn’t want to.” My voice breaks slightly at the end, much to my horror. But none of them react.
“And yet he did save you,” Amarithe murmurs, fingers lacing under her chin. “Curious, isn’t it?”
My eyes drift to Velentha, the one who hasn’t spoken. The one with glowing runes up her arms and an expression that feels… off. She’s staring at me, and her lips part, the whisper too soft to anyone but me. “She remembers the ash, even if she does not know why.”
I wouldn’t have caught it if I were not watching her. I frown at her, waiting for somebody else to respond to her mumbles.The room goes deathly still, all of them seeming to stiffen at her words.
Seraphiel’s head turns slowly towards her. “What did you say?”
“Nothing of importance,” Velentha replies smoothly.
But her eyes don’t leave mine. The runes crawling down her arms seem to pulse brighter, trembling, as if something inside her is trying to break free.
“You do not belong here, Daisy Sandoval,” Seraphiel says again. “When your body heals, you are to return to your realm on Earth and stay there. You are not to cross the veil again.”
“For your own safety,” Elaron adds.
“And ours.” Mal’Thariel growls.
I nod, though my jaw aches from clenching it. My legs tremble, but I refuse to fall under the strain. Aran steps forward from the shadows. “It’s time to go.” He says gently.
I turn to him, relieved. But before either of us can take a step, the door explodes inward. A shockwave of heat and smoke slams through the chamber, and Korithax storms in like a supernova given form. His eyes are pitch black, wings stretched wide, and his face looks like it has been carved from fury itself.
