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My light feels thin here. Hell is not merely a place. It is an atmosphere, an active force pressing against divinity to smother it. I feel weaker, my senses dull. Every breath feels like inhaling ground glass.

I need allies. I need information that isn’t steeped in the king of Hell’s games.

Vyxia, Lucifer’s newly revealed daughter. She helped Kael and risked herself. She carries a spark of something other than infernal calculation. And Eryon… Jareth’s brother. He aided Kael’s escape from the dungeons—a fallen angel whose loyalties might lie beyond Hell’s grasp. Finding them might be the only path forward that doesn’t lead back to Lucifer’s smirk or Michael’s lies.

But how do I find them in this infernal labyrinth? The keep is vast, a city sprawling through caverns and peaks. And asking the guards is pointless. Loyalty here is a currency paid in fear and power, neither of which I currently possess in abundance.

I turn down a less grand corridor, the obsidian walls giving way to functional gray stones. The air here smells less of sulfur and more of…bureaucracy? Faint sounds—the frantic scratching of quills on parchment that sounds suspiciously like dried skin, the low hum of what might be infernal machinery, the echoing clang of…an elevator?—reach me.

Modernity bleeds even into Hell, it seems. A jarring, almost comical juxtaposition.

A lesser demon, not a guard, darts past. It wears ill-fitting robes stained with ink and clutches a stack of scrolls that threaten to spill over. It looks…harried. Stressed. An administrator in the bowels of damnation.

Before I can second-guess the absurdity, I step into its path. The demon stops short, letting out a startled squeak and nearly dropping its burden. Its eyes, small and red, widen in alarm as it takes in my celestial aura, however diminished.

“You,” I say, my voice lower and calmer than I feel. I pitch it as a command without an overt threat. “Have you seen Princess Vyxia? Or a fallen angel who answers to Eryon?”

The demon trembles, clutching its scrolls tighter. “P-Princess Vyxia?” it stammers, clearly intimidated. “She…she was leaving the lower levels some time ago, Your…Your Brightness. With…with the fallen one, yes. Headed toward the Revelers’ Quarter, I believe. For…refreshments?” The last word is an uncertain squeak.

Refreshments. In Hell. The absurdity almost makes me laugh. “The Revelers’ Quarter? Directions.”

It points a trembling, ink-stained claw down a branching corridor. “That way, sir. Follow the, uh, the flickering crimson lights. Can’t miss it.” It shrinks back against the wall, seeming eager to be dismissed.

“Thank you,” I say, the words feeling alien on my tongue in this place. I turn, leaving the trembling bureaucrat to his infernal paperwork.

The Revelers’ Quarter—a district known for its dens of vice, its taverns with flowing soulfire, and its bargains in shadowed booths. It makes a grim sort of sense. If Eryon sought anonymity or perhaps oblivion, that is where he’d likely land.

I follow the corridor, the air growing warmer and thicker. It is now laced with the faint sickly sweet scent of distilled despair and something akin to cheap perfume. The crimson lights flicker ahead, casting lurid shadows.

My celestial senses, though dampened, reach out amid the chaotic thrum. I search for the unique frequency of a fallen angel’s essence—the echo of a lost light, the specific resonance of Eryon’s fractured soul. It’s like listening for a single broken note in a cacophony of screams.

Then I feel it. Faint at first. A familiar static. A cold light against the backdrop of Hell’s heat. As I get closer, it grows stronger. It’s concentrated, pulling me toward a heavy scorched wooden door just ahead. It swings slightly ajar. Music spills out, a mournful, discordant melody playing on strained strings. Laughter, rough and grating. The clinking of glasses.

Eryon. He is here, just beyond that threshold.

6. Cassia

I stir in my seat, my eyes shifting to the grand doors of the archive. It almost feels like something beyond the doors is calling my name, like an echo stitching the memories back together. I look back at the keeper and clear my throat as I rub the front of my neck nervously.

Its ever-changing hourglass eyes pin me to the spot. “Cassiel?”

“I thought I felt something outside the doors…”

“Continue with your story. Remember, your time is limited.”

I take a deep breath and try to settle my nerves, my eyebrows drawing closer together. “Ah, yes… The story…”

When I breached my bedroom, the bath was already a siren’s call. Tendrils of steam gracefully curled upward from the water’s surface, beckoning me. Leta, bless her sprite-hearted soul, had been meticulous in her preparations. The sharp, invigorating scent of eucalyptus oil, potent enough to scour away the grime of lesser realms, permeated the air. Thick luxurious soap, whipped into a cloud of foam, crested the porcelain basin.

Easing into it was a slow surrender, a soft hiss escaping as the heat enveloped me. It was an encompassing stillness, a liquid cradle for a body weary beyond measure. For a few precious minutes, I did nothing but listen to the profound silence. Yet solitude always exacted its pound of flesh, and memories, those unwelcome specters, never respected the sanctity of closed doors.

I closed my eyes, and there he was: Remiel. There had only been one actual moment in all of time, in all the fractured expanse of our cursed history, when he had been unequivocally mine. He was lithe and tall. His strength was not in brute force but in lethal precision, chilling efficiency. He often tied back his light brown hair, which cascaded in soft waves over his shoulders, in a careless half bun. A futile attempt to keep it from shadowing his face. And his eyes… Heavens, his eyes were golden embers of a sacred fire. Every time he was on the precipice of unleashing his power or in a moment of passion, they were always blazing gold, but when he was calm and collected, they would turn pale gray. His fingers were long and elegant, as if sculpted by a divine artisan to pluck at the strings of a celestial harp. His calloused palms spoke of countless battles fought in Heaven’s name, of swords wielded and judgments delivered. Yet when they touched me, they were soft as if I was some fragile relic, easily shattered.

But I was not delicate. I was desperate. A creature forged in the crucible of loss, starved for a touch that was not a lie.

I stop, the silence in the archive pressing.

“What is it now, Cassiel?” the keeper says. “You hesitate? The archive demands the full texture of the memory. The…heat of it, as you said.”