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Hell was paved with good intentions.
Fenja couldn’t shake that phrase from her mind as she moved through the narrow, suffocating corridors drenched in shadow. Threads of heat seeped from the dark walls, swollen with sulfur and burning air that stung her throat at every breath. The atmosphere had that suffocating weight that crushed the lungs and clouded the mind. It was exactly what she had expected when stepping into Hell: a furnace.
“It depends which one,” Strife had commented, almost nonchalant, when she had whispered her remark.
“What do you mean, which one?”
“They say the deepest Circle is frozen. Icy.”
“They say?”
He had shrugged.
“Never set foot down there myself… but there’s a first time for everything.”
Fenja had clenched her jaw, refusing to reveal the shiver those words had triggered. She couldn’t rid herself of the image of that viscous pool swallowing Aisling and Nimue without leaving a trace. One second they were there, the next they were gone. The huntress had felt her heart implode. Despair had first threatened to crush her, but it had quickly been consumed by a smoldering anger. And that anger had soon exploded when the Horsemen had returned to the Nephilim camp. For a moment, Fenja had truly believed they would burn the place to the ground, until the truth emerged: the Nephilim had nothing to do with it.
The answer had come several hours later, while she and Idris had paced restlessly, eaten away by anxiety. A mark had suddenly materialized on Death’s hand, dark and incandescent. The Horseman had closed his eyes, exhaling a sigh so heavy that Fenja had felt a chill run down her spine.
“Aisling is alive?!” she had cried out, unable to contain the raw hope bursting from her chest.
“Where is she?!” Idris had added, almost roaring.
Death had opened his eyes, black with gravity.
“In Hell… very far. Very deep. Even I cannot reach her.”
A silence had followed his words, heavy as a tomb. Then Idris had slammed his fist against the table.
“Then let’s go! We have to bring her back!”
“Perhaps that is precisely what those who took her want,” Uriel had cautioned, laying a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. But his intervention had no effect: Idris trembled with rage and helplessness.
“We have little choice,” War had finally declared, his voice grave. “We know it was not Samael. But he may know who did. Or why.”
“Then I’ll make him talk,” Fury had growled, rising sharply, her fists already clenched. “Fenja will come with me.”
Less than an hour later, Fenja had followed Fury through the Serpent’s Holes at Vulgrim’s whim. The demonic merchant floated ahead of them, guiding their path with mocking nonchalance, his eyes gleaming with predatory amusement.
“Keep sneering one more time, demon, and I’ll rip your tongue out of your own jaws.” Fury’s threat cracked like a whip in the sticky air. Vulgrim had said nothing, but his smile stretched wider.
Samael awaited them. Seated upon his makeshift throne, he slowly rose at their approach.
“Fury…” His deep voice rumbled like thunder. “I have had the displeasure of crossing paths with each of your brothers through the ages. But you… it is a true pleasure to finally meet you.”
“To hell with politeness!” Fury hissed, her eyes blazing with rage. “The Bearer of the Seed has been taken! Tell me what you know!”
“And why should I help you?” Samael arched an eyebrow slightly. “With the Earth Elemental’s regeneration, I already acquired what I needed.”
He conjured a crystal vial between his fingers, where a dark, viscous liquid churned—the same black substance that had driven the Elemental mad.
“False Corruption?” Fury spat, wary. “For what purpose?”
“That is none of your concern. In any case, my dealings with you and your brothers are finished. I no longer require your services.”
The demon lord rose and began to walk away. Fenja was about to speak when a deep rumble vibrated through the platform beneath their feet. A titanic, guttural purr rose from the depths. Against her will, her eyes turned toward the gaping abyss of the Void below… and her heart skipped a beat. In the shifting mist, something stirred. Something massive. Immense. Far, far too immense for her mind to even dare outline its shape.
Fury’s brows furrowed, her features twisted by searing anger.
“The Lords of the Void…” Her voice trembled with fury. She thrust an accusatory finger at Samael. “That’s what you’re preparing with all these artifacts: you want to bend them to your will!!”
“I owe you no answer, Horseman.”
A furious snarl tore from Fury. Her whip lashed out in a thunderous crack, slicing clean through the stone pillar Samael had just passed. Shards exploded in a rain of fire, forcing the former Lord to halt and slowly turn.
For the first time, Vulgrim seemed to lose some of his composure: his bony fingers twisted nervously, his smile faded. Fenja instinctively stepped back. This fight, if fight there was,would not be hers to win. Her eyes, against her will, kept drifting to the massive movements stirring beneath them in the unfathomable mists.
Samael finally set his gaze on Fury. He looked neither angry nor impressed, but a darker glint passed in his eyes.
“You have grown remarkably powerful, Fury…” he observed, in a tone that sounded less like a compliment than a warning. “But beware: more than one will covet that power. Just as some covet that of the Seed, locked in your friend’s chest.”
Fury raised her arm again, tension crackling in her whip.
“You know who holds her. And it is tied to your schemes here.”
“What I know,” Samael said, “is that she could bring about a titanic upheaval to all Creation. And many do not want that to happen.”
Samael smiled again, but this time his expression held no amusement.
“The Council?” Fenja asked, trying to understand.
“They fear losing their power and authority. For ages, they have posed as instruments of the Creator’s will.”
“And they weren’t?” the huntress asked, her voice strangled with disbelief.
Samael chuckled low, a deep, mocking sound that echoed through the vast chamber.
“Perhaps in the beginning… But why do you think they crumble a little more with each passing century? Their authority wanes, their grip weakens… They will mask their weakness to the very end, and when the time comes, they will hide the Seed again. And you…” his piercing gaze lingered on Fury, “you will bear the blame for everything that has happened.”
“But Aisling is in Hell,” the Horsewoman hissed, her hand tight on her whip. “At the very bottom. Where no one should ever descend.”
“Then why demand answers from me that you already know?” Samael replied, raising a brow with cruel amusement.
Fenja saw Fury’s features twist; as much as the Horsewoman hated the demon’s words, she would have preferred any other truth.
“Lucifer…” she murmured, like a curse.
“Yes. My former sovereign always had a knack for waiting for the opportune moment. This time, too, he seized it.”
“That suits you well, demon!” Fury spat, her voice rumbling. “You let it happen, you watched it unfold without lifting a single finger!”
“The fate of that little human, of the Seed, or even of Earth, does not concern me, Horseman. No more than the Council’s intrigues, nor the Creator’s whims. I have my own designs. And with the End War approaching…” He let his words trail into the burning air, a predatory smile on his lips. “Change will not be lacking.”
Once again, the deep rumble rose from the abyss, reminding the three mortals of the colossal presence lurking beneath their feet. Fury’s face tightened; a dark, icy flash of understanding crossed her eyes.
“The Second Kingdom…” she breathed. “You mean to take advantage of the war, when the infernal legions march into battle… You will unleash the Lords of the Void to seize Hell’s throne.”
Samael’s smile widened, immense, carnivorous, and this time he didn’t even bother to hide his intent.
“Power is never given, Fury. It is never received. Power is taken. Always.”
“And what do you gain from it?” Fury retorted, casting a venomous look at Vulgrim.
The demonic merchant writhed with satisfaction, his eyes glowing like two embers.
“Lord Samael is prepared to grant me his domain of Black Stone.”
“The Void wasn’t enough for you, demon?” Fury almost spat the word. “So that’s it… You would sell Balance itself for your pitiful interests!”
Samael leaned slightly forward, his red eyes locked on hers.
“Is that not what drives you as well, Horseman?”
A heavy silence fell. Fury froze, then shook her head.
“No… Some natures rise above themselves.”
This time, Samael gave no reply. His smile vanished, replaced by a cold glimmer of assessment. As if he now saw her in a different light.
“The best I can do…” he finally said, his voice calm again, almost weary, “is point you toward Lilith’s particular domain. Vulgrim will guide you. Beyond that… Consider this our first and last meeting, Horseman. Farewell.”
Fury understood she would get nothing more. She turned sharply, ordering Fenja to follow. But the huntress, burning with anger and despair, could not bring herself to leave without spitting her own truth.
“You could use them, your Lords of the Void! You could end this End War, cut the knot once and for all!”
Samael froze, then burst into a low laugh, twisting his face with incongruous mirth.
“And why would I do that? Why sacrifice my forces… my victory?”
“Because you would gain something greater still!” Fenja shot back, her words searing with bitter fire. “If what you say is true, then Lucifer must fall. The Council must pay. And Hell will need a new regent. Perhaps you are wrong… for to the right leader, power can be given.”
Her words cracked through the air like a challenge. Fenja turned on her heel before he could answer, rejoining Fury.
And that was where it had all led them: into Hell’s suffocating bowels, where the air seemed to weigh like lead and burn the lungs. The Horsemen had sworn, once this matter was resolved, to pay Samael another visit. But for now, other priorities loomed. The End War approached like a storm, its rumblings already echoing across all the Realms.
If only they could find Aisling and replant the Seed before it was too late… perhaps, just perhaps, they could still avert the inevitable. But no one could bet on mere hope. That was why Uriel and Astaroth had been forced to return to their own ranks, among angels, demons, Watchers, and Makers, to prepare the human armies for what was coming. Mobilization was inevitable.
Death had tried to convince Fenja and Idris to leave as well, to return to their people for protection, but both had fiercely refused. Nothing, neither promises nor threats, could make them abandon Aisling. The countdown had begun, and every lost second worked against them.
Their mounts, useless in such oppressive places, could not be summoned: they trudged on foot, breathless, the weight of dread pressing down on each step.
“If we encounter Lilith, leave her to me.” Death’s voice cracked, leaving no room for appeal.
“You pulled that trick on me centuries ago, brother,” War shot him a dark look. “It’s not happening again.”
Strife, meanwhile, idly spun his revolver chambers, the metallic clicks ringing ominously against the walls.
“If we’re going to meet mommy dear, I’ve got two or three things to tell her myself.”
Death had been about to reply, but Fury cut him off sharply, her blazing eyes locked on him.
“You cannot protect us forever, Death. This is our fight as much as yours.”
The Nephilim stared at her for a long time, his glacial eyes unreadable. He shook his head slowly as they entered a vast circular antechamber. Massive doors, black and veined with magma, opened onto countless twisting corridors, while an upper gallery ran along the walls, supported by immense carved columns. Murmurs seemed to drift through the air—echoes of indistinct voices.
Death halted, his gaze sweeping the heights.
“We cannot risk all falling under her mercy. If battle is inevitable…”
He never had time to finish. A deep rumble shook the chamber. Then, one after another, the doors slammed violently shut, stone sealing with a crash. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Each blow resounded like the beat of a monstrous heart, until the last exit sealed.
They were trapped.
“If you’re starting to have prophetic visions too…” Strife sneered, adjusting his grip on his pistols, already poised to draw.
A sharp click of heels suddenly rang through the antechamber, drawing every gaze upward to the gallery above.
“What a blessed day, when my children finally gather at their mother’s side…”
The voice, honeyed and caressing, slid through the air like poison in a cup of wine. Lilith stepped slowly into the red light, sovereign and seductive, her crimson gown spilling open like a river of blood. Her eyes, two blazing embers, fixed on them with maternal pride.
At the sight of her, Fenja immediately backed toward Idris. She did not tremble for herself, but for him. The demoness’s influence, her venomous beauty, had something intoxicating about it, a vertigo made of dread and desire. Yet that sickly intoxication partly dissolved when she saw, flanking Lilith, two deformed colossi: mutated creatures, like the horrors she had been told of.
“For the last time…” Death unsheathed his twin scythes with a metallic hiss. “You are not… our mother.”
Lilith gave him a languid smile, though her eyes flared with a cruel gleam.
“Death, my dear child… how deeply you have disappointed me. You, who had sworn to bring the Nephilim back to life.” She lazily raised a hand toward him, as if to caress him from afar. “But perhaps your brothers and sister will prove more docile to my will?”
“Want to bet?” Strife growled, raising his weapons at her. His voice, more tense than usual, betrayed the inner battle he fought to resist Lilith’s aura. “And check this out, Idris: looks like they make these freaks in several sizes!”
Lilith’s face hardened, her mask of seduction cracking as her burning gaze fell upon Idris.
Fenja did not hesitate: she stepped instantly in front of him, bow drawn, as though her body alone could block the demoness’s path.
“So it’s you…” Lilith’s voice vibrated with contained hatred. “You who killed my sweet Naamah. We owed so much to her work…”
“No hard feelings?” Idris tried to quip in Strife’s manner, though his tone trembled slightly. “She did try to lay something in my throat…”
Lilith laughed, a deep, unsettling laugh that made the walls vibrate.
“Then you would have transcended your miserable nature to join the glorious ranks of my Rephaim.”
A red veil swept over Fenja’s eyes. Not him. Not Idris. Her fingers tightened on her bowstring, every fiber of her screaming to loose an arrow straight into the demoness’s throat.
War, apparently impassive despite the malignant charm that weighed on the air, spoke in a deep voice.
“Creating the Nephilim didn’t satisfy you, then, Lilith? You were deprived of the gift of giving life.”
“Unjustly deprived!” the demoness roared. “Just as you were unjustly deprived of Earth in favor of those pathetic primates!” Her gaze slid toward Fenja and Idris, venomous, steeped in incandescent contempt. “An error I shall correct. With my Rephaim and my Anakim, no realm will be able to resist. It will be a devastating tide, far more terrible than my Nephilim ever were.”
“And only when you have ravaged all of Creation will you be satisfied?” Death sneered, his irony sharp as a blade. “Poor choice of ally, Lilith. Lucifer will grant you none of what you crave.”
Lilith rolled her eyes, theatrical.
“Death… those are grown-up matters. As for Lucifer, do not fret. If your insignificant little human has any merit, it was managing to convince him to spare your lives. Even I never obtained such clemency… not standing, not on my knees, not on my back… nor from behind.”
Fury let out a growl of disgust, her fingers tightening on her whip.
Aisling.
Fenja froze, her heart pounding. She was alive. The demoness had just confirmed it. A breath of hope swept through the huntress.
“Last warning, Lilith.” Death firmed his grip on his weapons, his tone lashing. Everyone shifted instantly into guard. “Stand aside. Let us pass.”
Lilith burst into a clear laugh, so cruel that the stone around them seemed to vibrate.
“When we could finally share a family moment?” Her smile turned carnivorous. “No… I would rather you meet your half-brothers and sisters.”
The doors burst open. From every corridor poured new monsters, Anakim and Rephaim mingled, their grotesque silhouettes encircling them in an infernal roar.
“You know, guys…” Strife sighed, raising his weapons. “We really ought to stop having these family reunions. But since you insist… Hi, I’m your big brother!”
The detonation of his first shot tore the air, and chaos erupted.
The battle that followed was a maelstrom of blood and fury. Fenja found herself dragged into a desperate struggle where every second counted. She shot, dodged, parried by a hair’s breadth the monstrous blows crashing down on her. She did not have the luxury of perfect aim each time: she only needed to inflict as much damage as possible—just to survive, and to protect Idris.
For while the Anakim and Rephaim seemed to hold back against the Horsemen, seeking mainly to wear them down, their behavior changed entirely toward the two humans. With Fenja and Idris there was no mercy, no calculation: the creatures had clearly been ordered to grind them to dust.
The Horsemen understood it, too. The tide was turning ill. Fury, panting but relentless, cut through the melee and rejoined Fenja and Idris. Her whip cracked through the air like a lightning bolt, coiling around a creature’s neck before ripping it from its stance in a burst of shattered flesh and bone.
“The others will cover us. We have to find Aisling.”
“But…” Fenja glanced toward the arena of carnage. War, Strife, and even Death seemed overwhelmed. The monsters poured in without end, and their raw power left few openings. She had never seen the Horsemen so pressed.
“At my signal… follow me.” Fury’s voice snapped, brooking no argument.
Fenja swallowed her retort. She knew there was no alternative. They could not all fall here. Not now. Not before finding Aisling.
An Anakim, bulkier than the rest, leapt to block their path. Fury met it with a brutal backhand, the whip hissing like a white-hot blade. The creature collapsed, its chest split wide, and the Horsewoman shoved the two young humans forward.
“Run!”
They dashed into the dark corridors, breath ragged, pursued by the deafening echo of weapons and howls behind them. The floor still vibrated with the shocks of battle when Idris cried out, his voice breaking with the strain:
“And now?!”
“Lilith must have a private passage to Lucifer’s domain… and to Aisling,” Fury replied, taking up the rear without ever slowing. “We find it, and—”
A crash cut her off. A shadow sprang from the wall like a nightmare given form. A Rephaim lunged with a predator’s speed and slammed her hard against the stone. Its monstrous grip closed around her throat, compressing bone like a living vise.
“FURY!”
Fenja wheeled around in a desperate reflex. An arrow flew from her bow at once, but the shaft skittered off the monster’s hide as though its very flesh were armored. The Rephaim did not even flinch.
Idris leapt forward, ready to hurl himself barehanded at the horror, when the air around them turned to ice.
Lilith.
She emerged from the darkness, a vision in red and black, blazing and terrible.
“My dear and only daughter…” Her voice flowed like poisoned honey. “Of all of them, it is from you that I expect the most. Why turn your heart from me… for these parasites?”
Fenja’s eyes went to Fury, still crushed under the Rephaim’s grip, her features contorted with pain yet still burning with indomitable rage. Idris, meanwhile, stepped back by instinct, pushing Fenja behind him—as if his fragile body could shield her from the demoness.
Lilith’s burning gaze settled on them. The air seemed to thrum under the intensity of her hatred.
“Your ability to survive despite everything is becoming… bothersome.”
“What have you done to my brothers, witch?!” Fury spat, forcing her voice despite the clutch that pinned her. Her fingers still sought to pry apart the hold threatening to snap her neck.
Lilith smiled, too wide, too cruel.
“They are fine. Well… as fine as can be. I merely imposed a little quiet time.” She leaned slightly, her gown rippling. “But you, my beloved daughter… I have grand designs for you. And, apparently, for these two as well.”
Fenja’s heart clenched violently. She met Idris’s eyes, which reflected the same blend of fear and helplessness. They both knew their wills would not matter.
Lilith made a lazy gesture, and the Rephaim tightened its grip on Fury, who growled in pain.
“Our Prince grants you an audience, humans.”