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Aisling was suffocating. Each breath burned her. She felt as if she were inhaling blazing embers instead of air. Her throat tightened, her lungs aflame refused to obey. Forced to remain on her knees, she felt the rough, searing rock biting into the skin of her legs through her torn clothes.
Her hands trembled against the ground, searching for support, but the radiant heat tore grimaces of pain from her face. She blinked, half-blinded by a violent, pulsing orange light.
Around her, the landscape quivered with suffocating heat, made of ashes, cracked stone, and an air so thick it seemed to scream in silence. Her eyes struggled to distinguish shapes, the environment warped by waves of heat, like a hellish mirage.
“The trap has worked.”
The voice that resonated made the rock itself tremble. Deep, cavernous, immense. Aisling felt the vibrations climb up her scraped knees, lodge in her ribcage, and hammer her skull. She clenched her teeth under the weight of the pain, her eardrums shrieking with a dull burn, as if her body refused to hear what no human ear was meant to endure.
“The bearer of the Seed is ours. Fulfill your part of the bargain, angel, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”
Aisling forced her eyes open, each blink heavier than the last. She was kneeling on a rocky platform, suspended above a lake of fire. Around her, immense waterfalls of lava crashed from the walls of a cavern of terrifying breadth, roaring like a thousand starving beasts. The air was scorching, saturated with an infernal breath and a glow that devoured every shadow.
And there, before her, rising like nightmare idols, three colossal figures carved into the rock towered above the magma lake. Three monstrous heads, their features hewn from stone: gaping maws filled with incandescent fangs, and blazing sockets where conscious flames spun.
The Charred Council.
Terror overwhelmed her so violently that she tried to rise. But a hand pinned her to the ground. A firm grip, icy despite the hell that surrounded them. Her gaze climbed slowly until it found the one who held her down.
Raguel.
The Archangel had changed. He no longer resembled the celestial judge she had glimpsed once before at the Burning Lakes. He looked darker, more closed off, the golden light of his nature eclipsed by something cold. When she raised her eyes to him, he regarded her with a detached, almost disdainful look. In his other hand, he held Nimue.
The little Watcher was in a pitiful state: her body bore bruises, cuts, and clear marks of violence. Her wings quivered weakly, one bent at an unnatural angle. Yet despite everything, she forced a smile upon seeing Aisling regain consciousness. A painful smile, but sincere. And unbearable to witness.
She dropped her eyes sharply to her hand, to the sigil that Death had traced there. She could call him. She had to…
But Raguel, as if sensing her intent, tightened his grip on her shoulder in a swift, brutal motion. She screamed despite herself, the sound ricocheting off the cave walls like a sacrifice offered up. The pain seared her arm, radiating into her neck. She nearly vomited.
The three heads remained perfectly impassive. Their molten maws vibrated once more.
“We entrust her to your care, Lord Raguel. Once the Seed is extracted, we shall secure it. Your loyalty will be rewarded.”
The Archangel inclined his head slowly, without the slightest emotion.
“The Heavens serve the Balance… and the Council.”
“Liars!” The voice burst out, sharp, furious. Nimue.
The little Watcher had screamed with all the rage a broken heart could contain. Her trembling fists, her wings spread despite the pain, she quivered with a fury pent up far too long.
“Traitors to the Balance!”
One of the Council’s stone heads roared instantly:
“Silence, slave!”
But Nimue did not falter. She struggled to stand, swaying, her face twisted with pain but lit with an unbreakable will.
“You are nothing but cowards! Impostors! You let humanity be annihilated while you hid behind hollow speeches!” She shook, but her voice carried. “It was you who let the Hells and the Heavens trample the Earth! You who accused the Horsemen, when you were already guilty of the Balance’s fall! Because you knew. You are no longer the guardians of true order… you have become the gravediggers of the Balance! TRAITORS!”
Raguel stiffened. He did not respond, but Aisling felt his grip slacken, ever so slightly. Hesitation? Doubt? She could not tell. But he heard her. The Council, however, heard nothing. Or refused to. The response was immediate.
An invisible wave of power struck Nimue full on. She collapsed in a dreadful scream, as if her body had just been pierced by a thousand blazing blades. Aisling watched, powerless, horrified, as the little Watcher writhed on the ground, screaming loud enough to shake the cavern’s vaults. Her body seemed to ignite from within.
“We shall not allow the true enemies of the Balance to disrupt this Council, lesser creature!” another head spat. “Remember your place. You are nothing but a tool. A slave.”
The torture lasted long seconds. Too long. Aisling wanted to scream in turn, to beg them to stop, but her voice was only a dry rasp. She tried to struggle, but Raguel still held her. And he, he did not even look at Nimue. He turned his eyes away, fleeing the pain he allowed. When at last the cries ended, Nimue lay motionless on the ground, her wings broken, her breath ragged.
“Proceed, Lord Raguel,” one of the heads growled. “It is time to finish this.”
Silence fell. Raguel took a moment before answering.
“… Of course.”
He seized Aisling by the collar with a rough jerk and lifted her into the air as if she weighed nothing. Her feet no longer touched the ground. She hung suspended, fighting to breathe. But she did not look away from him. Her gaze searched for a crack. A hesitation. But his face was closed. He placed a hand on her forehead.
His palm was icy. A coldness that was anything but natural, not in this inferno of fire. It was a cold that froze the soul. She gasped. Paralysis spread through her body. Through her mind.
She felt her magic collapse like a sandcastle swept away by the tide. Her strength deserted her, grain by grain. She could no longer fight. The roots within her spread at a terrifying pace, hungry, uncontrollable, digging into her deepest self. And she could not even scream.
She was dying.
Suddenly, something changed in Raguel’s gaze. A shiver ran through him, a shadow passed in his eyes, first raw shock. Then the expression twisted into a cold, visceral fear. He released Aisling.
She fell, heavy, inert, like a puppet with its strings cut. The rough ground scraped her arms and knees, but the pain no longer mattered. She clutched at the moment, at the tiniest fragment of energy she had left. She inhaled with difficulty, each breath as scorching as a brand, yet the cold that had paralyzed her slowly ebbed away.
Raguel stepped back. One, two, three steps. Slowly. As if fleeing something he could not understand. She saw him still staring at her, but with horror that had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with what he had seen. Nimue, too, looked shaken. Her eyes were wide, her breath ragged; she seemed at once fascinated… and afraid.
“… Oh, Aisling…”
She did not finish her sentence. She had no time.
“IMPOSSIBLE!”
The voices of the Charred Council exploded in the cavern like a storm of lava. One of the heads roared so violently that a rain of molten stones broke free from the ceiling, crashing in incandescent sprays into the fire lake below.
“What trickery is this?!” another bellowed.
“Do you think to deceive us, angel? What is this trick? This is not her! THIS IS NOT HER!”
The ground quaked beneath their rage. The rock itself seemed hesitant to support them. Raguel, still frozen, murmured in a hollow voice:
“This… this is not my doing…”
His bewilderment was no act. He was as lost as they were. Perhaps more. Nimue moved. Amidst the chaos, she gathered her meager strength. Her trembling hand closed into a fist and struck the platform with all she had left. A shock of light burst out. A wave of pure energy split the rock, coursed around the circle, and opened a series of swirling portals all around them.
“RUN!” she screamed.
“NO!” thundered the Council.
The word resonated with such power that the very walls seemed to bend under their will. Aisling did not wait. She rolled to the side, her body struggling to obey, crawling toward one of the portals. Every movement cost her, every gesture ripped her apart. But she was close. Almost there…
She lifted her eyes. Nimue did not move. She remained at the center of the platform, her wings slightly spread, broken yet upright. She looked at Aisling, and a soft, peaceful smile formed in her weary eyes.
“I am free…” she whispered.
The punishment came instantly. No gesture. No word. Just a thought. A will. The Charred Council carried out its sentence the way one crushes an insect.
Nimue burst in a single breath. A bluish mist. Beautiful, weightless, almost serene. And then… nothing.
Aisling screamed. A cry torn from her guts. She reached out to the void where, seconds earlier, the one who had protected her to the end had stood. But the portal engulfed her. And she was gone.
Alone.
From the burning blaze to the deadliest ice. The shift was so brutal it stole Aisling’s breath.
She collapsed on her back, unable to move, pinned to the ground by a biting cold. The air around her was so frigid it felt sharp, each breath a blade slashing her lungs. Her lips exhaled plumes of mist in ragged, uncontrollable bursts. She shook violently, tremors racking her arms, her legs, her very entrails.
Her eyes struggled to focus. She was no longer in the glowing cavern. No more lava. No more fire.
Around her stretched an inky darkness, pierced only by the faint glow of a distant torch. It cast a wavering light over immense columns that rose like specters, vanishing into the invisible ceiling above. The cold came from everywhere and nowhere. It crawled under her skin, into her bones, into her heart.
She lay for a long time staring at the sinuous carvings on the columns, serpents entwined, frozen in a silence of stone. She did not know where she was. And she did not care. The image of Nimue still burned on her retina.
The little Watcher, frozen in a smile, before dissolving into a bluish mist. She could not believe it. She would not believe it. It was a trick, one of her famous tricks. Nimue was clever. Cunning. She must have escaped the Burning Council. She had to be alive.
But her heart already knew the truth. A sob strangled her.
She raised a trembling hand to her face. Her palm was frozen. Her fingers numb, almost blue. She stared at the ring set on her finger, the one where Nimue had so often taken refuge.
“Nim… Nim, answer me… please… Nim… don’t leave me… not all alone… Nim…”
But the ring was empty.
She stifled a cry, and both her hands pressed against her face. She wept. She screamed into her palms, sobs tearing out of her in convulsive waves, without restraint. There was no one left to hear. Nothing but the void, the echo of her despair against the cold stone. She was too weak to lift herself, even to roll onto her stomach. Too broken to even want to see where she had ended up.
Grief drowned her like a black river. There was no more fight. No more strength. At times she fainted, sleep forced upon her by exhaustion, broken by violent awakenings when the cold dragged her back to reality. She no longer felt her toes. Nor her fingers. Her lips were cracked, her tears almost freezing in salty streaks across her cheeks.
And in that fog of pain, one word resurfaced. The sigil.
But to move? Moving was a mountain. An impossible trial. She felt the roots within her stirring, ravenous. And she was empty.
“I don’t want to die…” she murmured, her voice broken, hoarse, cut by the cold.
She moaned more than she spoke.
“Please… I don’t want to die here… not all alone… Fenja… Idris… Death… War… Please… Ren… Mom… Mom…”
Nothing. Only silence. And the ghostly echo of her muffled prayers, bouncing off the mute pillars. Then, as she drifted again, a sound split the ice.
Footsteps. Calm, slow. And the dry, regular tap of a cane against stone slabs. She half-opened her eyes, barely conscious, her breath shallow. Someone was approaching.
The steps stopped right beside her ear, with one last sharp tap on the stone. A shadow leaned over her, blocking the faint torchlight for an instant. Aisling forced her eyes open, her breath still trembling. She recognized the silhouette at once, even though she had never thought to see it again here.
“You…” she managed to murmur in a hoarse voice.
A twisted smile stretched the blanched lips of the creature. Its hollow gaze gleamed with mockery. Still leaning on its cane with nonchalant grace, its top hat fixed on a half-decayed skull, the strange walking corpse of the Void looked down at her as one studies a curiosity in a showcase.
“Well, well… my dear… you seem to have danced quite a lot since our last encounter. What a… dramatic performance.”
His voice was a silky murmur, as though savoring each syllable, each shiver he caused. Aisling glared at him, torn between anger, pain, and incomprehension.
“You’re here to kill me…”
He lifted a gloved hand, as if to reassure her, or to silence her.
“Oh, no, no, no. What a vulgar thought! To dirty my hands now, that would be… premature. I told you: it is imperative that you grasp the error you are before seeking to correct it. You are not ready yet. And this play is far from its final act.”
He leaned closer, his hollow sockets scouring her features with disarming intensity, as if searching for something beneath her very skin.
“But… what a shame. You still wear your mask, sweet Aisling. It clings to you like a stubborn lie. Until you accept to remove it… our dance must remain suspended. I cannot play with someone who hides. That would be cheating.”
He extended a bony finger and placed it on her forehead. A flash of energy, as icy as it was burning, surged through her. Aisling arched, gasping as if emerging from a frozen pond. The pain was sharp, yet strangely invigorating. Tingling shook her numbed limbs, and the frozen torpor lifted slightly. She was no longer on the verge of fainting. Not lucid yet, but able to breathe.
He straightened, satisfied.
“Until our next meeting, my dear. Ta-da!”
Then he turned on his heel, his cane striking the slabs with a measured, almost theatrical rhythm. The sounds receded slowly, until they melted into the abyssal silence of that forgotten place.
Aisling lay there for a long time still, fighting against the shivers, until she managed to gather a little energy. Slowly, she raised her hand, pressed her fingers against the back of the other, and activated Death’s sigil.
Nothing. She tried again. And again. The symbol remained inert. Silent. A sudden weakness forced her to let her arms fall back against the frozen ground. A brutal clarity struck her: she was alone. And she would have to get out on her own.
A painful sigh escaped her lips as she gathered her last reserves, slowly turning onto her stomach. With her elbows digging into the stone, she raised her head at last to take in the place surrounding her.
Wherever she was, she would get out.
Aisling first tried to understand where she had ended up. The environment around her seemed unreal. She lay on a floor of frozen stone, at the heart of a hall so vast its limits completely escaped her. No walls, no ceiling framed the space: everything was swallowed by a deep, unfathomable darkness, as though the place had neither end nor beginning.
All she could distinguish were those columns, rising endlessly into the shadows, forming symmetrical rows like a forest of stone. The only source of light came from a solitary torch, fixed to one of the columns, its wavering flame casting shifting shadows across the stone reliefs.
Gathering what little strength she had left, Aisling slowly crawled to the column. The touch of cold basalt against her skin made her shudder. She leaned against it, panting, plumes of mist leaving her lips with each breath. The surface of the column was covered in ancient carvings: distorted faces, grotesque creatures, and, dominating them all, an immense serpent whose coils wrapped around the stone.
She stayed there for a while, trembling, her heart beating too fast, before forcing her aching body to rise. Limping, she approached the torch, her hand stretching toward the flame. As soon as she reached it, a second torch flared to life farther away, on another column. Her arm jerked involuntarily. She froze, hesitant.
It was an invitation. Or a trap.
But she had no luxury of remaining here, paralyzed by fear. She took a deep breath, then moved toward the second torch. As soon as she reached it, a third lit up farther along in the same direction. And so on. Each time she reached a flame, another kindled, sketching an uncertain path through the darkness.
This illuminated progression felt too orchestrated, too calculated not to hide some intent. Yet she had no choice but to move forward. To remain motionless in this frozen, anchorless place would mean dying alone.
So she followed the torches. One by one. Their flames formed a winding trail between the massive columns. She advanced slowly, each step heavy, her breath still visible in the icy air. Fear knotted her stomach, for she could not know if she was truly alone in this oppressive expanse. The shadows seemed alive, ready to thicken behind her, to swallow her steps.
Suddenly, a faint golden glimmer flickered in the distance, like a faraway star in an endless sky. Drawn to that fragile light as a moth to a flame, Aisling staggered toward it, her legs still numb from the cold, her breath trembling before her.
The closer she came, the stronger the glow became, until she discovered, nestled between the titanic columns, a vast stone fireplace, within which danced a fire of warm hues. Its golden light gently pushed back the darkness, and the heat it released brought tears of relief to Aisling’s eyes.
Just before the hearth stood a massive ceremonial table of dark, perfectly polished wood. A fluid cloth of deep black, almost liquid, covered it entirely, rippling slightly as if it breathed. Upon it, delicate sculptures adorned the center, onyx dragons, silver serpents, birds with spread wings. Two monumental silver candelabras, each bearing candles whose flames never wavered, cast warm reflections over the whole. At either end of the table, two massive armchairs stood, halfway between thrones and ritual seats. They seemed to await their occupants.
Frozen to the core, Aisling asked no questions. She stepped closer to the fire, slowly stretching her bluish hands toward the flames, as if afraid they would vanish. The heat tore a groan of relief from her lips. Her fingers prickled painfully as blood began to flow back into them.
Once warmed, an immense weariness fell upon her, and she dragged herself to one of the seats, collapsing heavily into it. Both hands gripped the armrests while she let her head fall back, exhaling a long, heavy sigh. She could have fallen asleep right there.
But a strange sensation made her open her eyes again, to discover the table before her now laden. Stretching as far as she could see, dishes of supernatural beauty spread across it: golden foods, luscious fruits of impossible colors, carafes of wine whose scent seemed to float in the air even from afar, all covered by a gleaming frost.
And that was when Aisling realized she was no longer alone.
Lurking in the shadows, leaning nonchalantly against one of the columns, stood a feminine silhouette of unsettling beauty. A demoness. Her lips bore a thin, calculated smile, but her eyes… her eyes blazed with an almost unbearable intensity. In that gaze there was no softness, no promise, only a burning hunger and an undercurrent of cruelty.
She was stunning. Sensual. A living incarnation of desire. Her curves seemed sculpted to unnerve, her skin radiated a magnetic heat, and every slow, precise sway of her hips seemed to carve the very air around her. Aisling felt a sudden heat surge through her, overwhelming, as though her whole body were aflame. Her heart beat faster, her cheeks flushed against her will, and she hated how easily this stranger seized control of her senses.
The demoness’s smile widened, revealing the gleam of a predator savoring its prey already.
“Well, well…” she murmured in a low, velvety voice. “What have we here?”
She pushed herself away from the column with studied slowness, one step after another, giving Aisling every moment to admire, or to dread, the poisonous perfection of her body. Her stride was fluid, almost feline, each motion crafted to seduce as much as to intimidate. Her full lips, lush and inviting, drew the eye like forbidden fruit, and Aisling, to her own horror, found herself wanting to taste them.
She remained frozen in the chair, clutching the armrests, when the demoness reached her side. She did not move even when warm, nearly burning fingers brushed against her cheek. Everything in her screamed to flee, her animal instinct hammering at her chest… but her muscles stayed locked, trapped by an invisible spell.
The demoness took her time. Her gaze slid down Aisling’s body with the languor of a serpent, as if stripping her layer by layer.
“So you’re the little creature everyone is talking about…” she whispered, amused.
Her fingers left Aisling’s cheek to glide along her neck, brushing her shoulder before rising again to the fragile skin just beneath her ear, where her pulse raced wild and fast. The caress was soft, but the menace beneath it palpable. Aisling’s primal instinct screamed louder and louder, pounding through her veins: run.
But she could not. Her legs refused to obey. Her breathing broke apart, torn between pure adrenaline and a searing desire she did not understand. Her body wavered dangerously between the reflex to survive… and the irrepressible urge to let herself be consumed.
The demoness’s hand suddenly shot upward, swift as lightning, and clamped down on Aisling’s throat with the implacable force of a raptor seizing prey. Her fingers dug into her frozen flesh, cutting off every breath. The creature’s flaming eyes narrowed into a murderous slit.
“And it was you who brought down Naamah… one of my most loyal lieutenants.”
Aisling felt her heart thunder as panic swallowed her whole. Her vision blurred, her breath fractured into gasps, and her hands clawed helplessly at the iron grip crushing her windpipe.
“That is not how one treats a guest, Lilith.”
A deep, resonant male voice rolled through the vast hall. The demoness froze for several seconds, her hold still tight, hesitating. Then, with a sudden motion, she released Aisling, who collapsed back into the chair, panting, rubbing her bruised throat. Lilith still stared at her, her eyes burning with restrained hatred, as if silently promising that this act was only postponed.
“Leave us,” the voice commanded, firmer now.
Reluctantly, Lilith retreated into the shadows, her movements brimming with disdain. She vanished behind a column, her intoxicating, dangerous scent lingering in the air.
“You must forgive her,” the voice continued, soft yet brimming with authority. “She holds a… tenacious grudge.”
The words sounded closer now. Aisling lifted her eyes and saw the source of the voice emerge from behind the chair opposite her, at the far end of the table.
A towering man advanced, moving with the slow assurance of one who had never been defied. Tall, of supernatural beauty, his bare chest sculpted. His long hair, blond and nearly silver under the light, cascaded in perfect waves across his broad shoulders. His hands were long, fine, elegant, ending in nails sharpened like claws. His skin, a pale gray almost luminescent, contrasted strangely with the golden gleam of his eyes, where burned an unfathomable intelligence. His angel wings, once white, seemed charred, blackened. And simply by looking at him, she knew this was but an illusion concealing something far more terrifying, but even this form made her want to scream.
“Welcome to Hell,” Lucifer declared with a smile.