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"So did the existence of Aerasak, once upon a time," I argue. "We can't limit ourselves to what we think we know. There's so much more out there."
Our debate grows heated, drawing the attention of nearby demons. Some scoff at my claims, while others listen with growing interest. I describe the portal, the glimpses of other worlds, careful to omit the more dangerous details.
"Even if you're right," Zilgron says, "what's the point? We have Galmoleth. We have Protheka below us. Why risk everything on some wild theory?"
I lean forward, my voice intense. "Because we need new horizons, new possibilities. If there are other worlds out there, maybe we can find a true home. One that isn't a floating rock or someone else's planet." I look around. "Unless you're telling me you haven't returned to Aerasak for some other reason?"
But no one argues with me on it. Those of us that have chosen to stay don't want to go back to a world who has shunned us. Those of us from Galmoleth are seen as traitors, deflectors.
And I won't be subjected to it. Even if I want off the floating island.
As conversation breaks out again, I leave the other demons to their heated debate, their voices fading as I make my way back to my chambers. My head throbs, a reminder of the intense ritual from earlier. I need some time alone to process everything I've experienced.
Back in my tower, I settle into a cross-legged position on the cool obsidian floor. The familiar hum of magical energy surrounds me as I close my eyes, focusing on my breath. In, out. In, out. Slowly, the tension in my muscles begins to ease.
As I sink deeper into meditation, something unexpected tugs at the edges of my consciousness. A faint, yet insistent pull of magic. My brow furrows. This isn't the chaotic energy that permeates Galmoleth. No, this feels... different. Foreign.
I concentrate, trying to pinpoint the source. It's coming from below. Far below.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, opening my eyes.
The pull intensifies, like an invisible hand reaching up through the floating island, trying to grab hold of me. It's not aggressive, but it's persistent. Curious.
I stand, moving to the window of my tower. The storm-shrouded expanse of Protheka stretches out beneath Galmoleth, hidden beneath swirling clouds. The magic seems to be emanating from somewhere down there.
My heart races. Could this be connected to the portal I opened earlier? Did I inadvertently create some kind of magical link to the world below?
I pace the room, my mind whirling with possibilities. This could be the breakthrough I've been waiting for. A chance to explore Protheka, to test my theories about the nature of magic and reality itself.
But it's also dangerous. Asmodeus has forbidden any unauthorized contact with the surface world. If I pursue this, I'd be risking everything.
But Asmodeus has been pulled away for a trial on Aerasak. There is no one to enforce our rules or laws.
The magical pull tugs at me again, stronger this time. It's like it's calling to me specifically, ignoring the other soz'garoth in Ti'lith.
"Fuck it," I growl, making up my mind. I've never been one to play it safe, especially when knowledge is on the line.
I begin gathering supplies, my silver eyes glinting with determination. Whatever's down there, whatever's causing this strange magical phenomenon, I'm going to find out.
2
NAIA
Iwake with a start, my heart racing as the familiar dread of another day seeps in. The slave quarters reek of sweat and despair, bodies packed tight in this dank hellhole. I stretch my aching muscles, careful not to jostle the others crammed around me.
Weak light filters through a grimy window. Dawn's still a ways off, but that's no excuse to linger. Overseers don't take kindly to tardiness.
I slip on my threadbare tunic, the fabric rough against my skin. My fingers work quickly to braid my hair - can't have it getting in the way while I'm hawking "merchandise."
"Naia," a hoarse whisper catches my ear. It's Elodie, her face gaunt in the dim light. "Trade you my bread for your water ration?"
I nod, though my parched throat screams in protest. Elodie's pregnant - she needs the sustenance more than I do.
The guards' heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Time to move. I shuffle out with the others, keeping my head down. No sense in drawing attention.
The market's already bustling as we're herded to our posts. The stench of unwashed bodies mingles with exotic incense, a sickening perfume that never quite masks the rot beneath.
I take my place behind a rickety stall, forcing a smile as potential buyers approach. My job? Make the miserable souls on display seem like worthy investments. It's soul-crushing work, but the alternative - ending up on the auction block myself - is far worse.
