The weight of Hell pressed against Sariel’s chest as the light faded completely, swallowed by the oppressive gloom that stretched in every direction. The presence of the divine figure had been fleeting—like a candle snuffed out too soon—and in its absence, the air felt heavier, the darkness deeper.

  A cruel smile curled Abaddon’s lips. “It’s over.”

  Sariel’s hands curled into fists.

  Was it?

  A whisper of something stirred in her, something fragile yet insistent. That presence—whoever, whatever it had been—had left her with a lingering echo, a sensation she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t redemption. She knew better than to hope for that.

  But it had been something.

  And that made all the difference.

  "Enough delays," Abaddon rumbled, stepping forward. His massive form loomed over her, blackened armor clanking with every movement. "Lucifer tires of waiting."

  Azrael’s grip on his scythe tightened. “She doesn’t answer to him.”

  Abaddon’s molten eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t she?”

  His words were a challenge—a reminder of the truth Sariel had refused to fully confront. She had no place among the righteous. No way back. And in Hell, there was no such thing as neutrality.

  Abaddon lifted his hand. The ground beneath them trembled, splitting apart as chains—thick and smoking—rose from the abyss, slithering through the air like sentient vipers. They wrapped around Sariel’s wrists and ankles before she could react, their searing heat biting into her flesh.

  She gasped, her wings flaring as she struggled. The chains clamped tighter.

  “Stop!” Azrael lunged, but a flick of Abaddon’s wrist sent him hurtling backward, slamming into a jagged rock formation.

  Sariel gritted her teeth as Abaddon loomed closer.

  “You cannot escape what you are,” he murmured.

  The chains jerked, yanking her forward.

  The ground opened beneath her.

  And Sariel fell.

  ---

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  The Throne of the Fallen

  Sariel crashed onto cold marble. The impact sent pain lancing through her body, but she barely had time to register it before she became aware of where she was.

  A throne room.

  Unlike the shattered ruins she had seen throughout Hell, this place was whole, untouched by the decay of the abyss. The floor beneath her was obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the flickering crimson glow of torches that burned with unholy fire. The air was thick with something unseen but suffocating—an overwhelming sense of power.

  And at the far end of the vast chamber, seated upon an obsidian throne, was him.

  Lucifer.

  The Morning Star.

  The First Exile.

  His form was draped lazily over the throne, one arm resting on the armrest, the other twirling a goblet of deep crimson liquid. He was not in his monstrous form, nor did he wear the warlike visage he had shown her before. This was Lucifer as he had once been—radiant, breathtakingly beautiful, his golden hair gleaming even in the dim light. His six wings, darker than midnight, shifted lazily behind him, their edges lined with embers.

  His eyes, however, were the same.

  They burned with an ancient fire, an intelligence so piercing it felt like he could strip away every pretense, every doubt, every flicker of defiance with a single glance.

  A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. “Sariel.”

  She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand.

  He exhaled, setting his goblet aside. “It took you long enough.”

  Sariel glared at him. “I never agreed to come.”

  Lucifer’s smile widened. “And yet, here you are.”

  Abaddon knelt before the throne. “She delayed.”

  Lucifer’s gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable. “I am aware.”

  Abaddon hesitated. “There was… interference.”

  Lucifer’s fingers drummed idly against the armrest. “Yes. I felt it.”

  Sariel tensed. He knew?

  Lucifer sighed, standing fluidly. “I despise interruptions.”

  The weight of his presence intensified as he descended the steps of the throne, each step slow, deliberate. When he finally stopped before her, she forced herself not to recoil.

  He tilted his head. “You felt it, didn’t you? That glimmer of something?”

  Sariel’s jaw tightened.

  His smile turned sharp. “Hope, perhaps?”

  She refused to answer.

  Lucifer chuckled, a rich, knowing sound. “It won’t save you.”

  Sariel glared. “And you think you can?”

  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I think you want me to.”

  She clenched her fists. “I want nothing from you.”

  Lucifer sighed theatrically. “Such stubbornness. But no matter.” He stepped back, spreading his arms. “You will find, dear Sariel, that Hell is not what you think it is. You have been wandering aimlessly through its depths, scurrying like a lost soul. It is time you learn purpose.”

  Sariel narrowed her eyes. “I have no purpose here.”

  Lucifer’s expression darkened—just for a fraction of a second. Then, just as quickly, the charm returned.

  “Oh, but you do.”

  He lifted his hand.

  The chains binding her vanished.

  Sariel inhaled sharply as the searing pain left her limbs.

  Lucifer smirked. “I do not seek your servitude, Sariel.”

  She blinked, caught off guard. “Then what do you want?”

  His smile was slow, deliberate.

  “I want you to choose.”

  The chamber was silent.

  Lucifer turned, walking toward the throne. “You believe yourself trapped. Condemned by Heaven. Unwelcome even among the damned. You feel lost, without direction. Aimless.”

  He turned back to her. “I offer you more than that.”

  Sariel’s heart pounded. “And what, exactly, do you offer?”

  Lucifer’s smile deepened.

  “A place at my side.”

  A chill ran through her.

  He continued. “Not as a servant. Not as a prisoner.” His gaze bore into hers. “But as an equal.”

  Sariel inhaled sharply.

  Lucifer spread his hands. “Think of it, Sariel. No more drifting. No more being cast aside. No more questioning where you belong. Choose me, and I will give you purpose. Power. A future.”

  The air in the chamber felt electric.

  Sariel’s mind reeled. This was not what she had expected.

  Lucifer never gave without cost.

  But his words had struck deep.

  No more wandering.

  No more being nothing.

  She opened her mouth—

  And then the doors of the throne room slammed open.

  A figure stumbled in, their form covered in soot and blood.

  They collapsed onto the obsidian floor, coughing violently.

  Lucifer barely spared them a glance. “Ah.”

  Sariel’s breath caught as the figure looked up.

  It was a demon. Scarred, battered, barely able to move. And in his trembling hand—

  A blade.

  Not of Hell.

  Not of darkness.

  But of light.

  The torches flickered.

  Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his smirk vanishing.

  The demon’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “They’re coming.”

  And then—

  The light exploded.