The throne-room of Hell was a masterpiece of power and dominance—towering obsidian pillars stretched into the shadows, their jagged edges glowing faintly with embers trapped in their cracks.
The floor, polished to a wicked sheen, captured the fiery crimson of Luciel's hair.
At the heart of it all, an immense throne of blackened bone and molten gold sat elevated on a dais, a cruel, elegant contrast of destruction and divinity.
Luciel moved through the room with unbothered grace, his long crimson hair flowing like spilled wine, the red-silver strands catching the firelight as he walked. He wasn't in a hurry.
He never was.
The Devil did not rush—he allowed the world to catch up to him. His sharp nails drummed idly against the armrest of his throne as he sank into it, stretching out his long legs with lazy elegance.
He chuckled. A low, amused sound that slithered through the air like a whisper of something dangerous.
