Page 84 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"Constance," he calls.

She produces another chair and positions it at the table. Everyone finds their seats with the practiced choreography of people who've done this countless times. Virgil doesn’t pull his chair back. He simply sits, his body passing through the chair’s edge as though it weren’t there. The cushion shows no indent. The wood makes no creak.

If anyone finds this strange, no one reacts.

The silence that follows feels like the held breath before a blade falls.

Staff appear discreetly, depositing dishes of oil seasoned with herbs and citrus peels alongside loaves of still-steaming bread. Before each of us, they place, as a first course, a small bowl of golden, fragrant broth that catches the candlelight like liquid amber.

Virgil receives a dish as well, but he doesn't look at it. Instead, he gives me a soft nod.

It's safe to eat.

As soon as Satan lifts his spoon, I follow suit, though I have no appetite and even less interest. But I understand how these games are played. I've played them myself, countless times, across tables not so different from this one.

The soup is extraordinary. It’s rich and layered, the depth of flavor suggesting it simmered for days, each ingredient coaxed to its peak before being allowed to meld with the others. I hesitate before swallowing, letting it fill my mouth completely.

I can't help but think Virgil would love it. Under different circumstances. At a different table.

Satan settles back in his chair with the ease of a man who has never once doubted his welcome anywhere. "It's a rare moment when we find a soul who measures up to our standards."

This gathers attention from the dozen guests seated closest to us. A few nod in agreement, murmuring appreciation.

Satan throws his hands up in a gesture of innocence. "You've seen the lower realm. The..." He scowls with theatrical distaste. "...mess it's become. I’m a man of humility, Mr. Dante. I can admit when I've made mistakes in the past. I'm certain your companion has shared details of my origins."

I fight the urge to look at Virgil, to try to read what he might have me say. "I've heard only the most basic details."

"Well, then you know I've acted impulsively. Foolishly, at times. There was an era when I was young and had much to learn. I gathered persons into our ranks who weren't truly worthy of the calling. Those who haunt the lower realms now, whom I'm sure you've encountered."

"A few."

He appraises me carefully, dark eyes missing nothing. "If you'd indulge me for a moment, Mr. Dante, try to forget your experiences in those places. I abandoned them…” He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "I can't say how many centuries ago now."

Murmurs of more agreement ripple around the table. Virgil remains utterly still, his plate untouched, his presence like a held breath. Strange. Virgil loathes this man and this place. His silence should be cutting, defiant. Instead it feels… restrained.

And I have never liked rooms where one voice controls the entire conversation.

"The souls who arrive there," Satan continues, "they impress their own expectations onto the space. Bringing their beliefs of what hell should be, transforming it into some ghastly, theatrical thing. Those I've recruited who lack the intellect and vision we require within our circle pass their time foolishly in that realm. But we have turned our minds toward greater ambitions." He leans forward, eyes bright with something like fervor. "And that's what we need, you see. Persons capable of thinking strategically. Who understand logistics, resource management, long-term planning. Who can see beyond immediate gratification to sustainable growth." He spreads his hands. "And that's why I wished to speak with you."

I pause, lift my wine glass, let the bold, velvety flavor settle on my tongue before responding. "I appreciate your interest."

He smiles and gestures with his own glass, a toast to nothing in particular. "You've seen how certain realms here can be shaped by the mind. How one can craft entire worlds to one's own specifications."

"I have."

Virgil doesn't interject at all, and I don't like that he's seated to my left, on the far side of Satan. I can't see him easily, can't read his reactions without making my attention obvious. And Virgil is not a man who holds his tongue without reason.

"We're forming new territories. Orderly. Organized. Places built on principles of moderation and reason. Not the chaos of the lower realm, but something... civilized."

I don't know how, but I feel Virgil tense. I can't actually feel him, of course, there's nothing to feel. Perhaps it's simply that our minds have grown so attuned to each other. But I recognize there's some detail here being carefully omitted.

Servants glide forward to remove the soup course, replacing it with plates of roasted lamb—the meat pink and glistening, crusted with herbs—alongside vegetables caramelized to blistered perfection, their edges darkened and sweet. Others begin eating. Virgil remains utterly still, his plate untouched, his presence like a held breath.

That’s when I realize what I'm missing.

"Does everyone here require feeding to function fully?”

Satan stops mid-slice, his knife hovering above the lamb. He looks up at me. The table goes silent.