Chapter one: Two in Hell, Three That Fell

A slow shiver, laced with something other than mere unease traced the length of Levistus’s spine as he crossed the threshold into the grand hall. He instinctively drew himself up, then caught the impulse, his shoulders briefly tensing beneath the heavy brocade of his court attire. The fabric, usually a symbol of his station, now felt like a heated weight, the threads a silken graze against his skin. It was as though the suffocating opulence of Asmodeus’s court possessed a tangible presence, a gilded cage that shimmered with unspoken promises and threatened to ensnare him with its allure. A charnel chill indeed, but one that hinted at a feverish anticipation, a dangerous thrill that both cautioned and enticed.

Within the palace of Malsheem, the very core of the Infernal king’s dominion, wealth transcended mere currency; it was a honed blade, a palpable emblem of absolute, crushing power. Polished gold floors, gleaming with an almost liquid sheen, mirrored the torchlight in a hypnotic, disorienting swirl, while towering columns, encrusted with crimson jewels seemed to throb with a malevolent, internal light, like the beating hearts of fallen stars. The walls, draped in tapestries of forgotten horrors and lined with canvases depicting empires consumed by the void, offered unsettling glimpses into the abyss that yawned beneath their feet. The air hung heavy, cloying with the mingled scents of decay and incense, a thick, almost tangible miasma that spoke volumes of the insatiable avarice festering within this infernal sanctuary.

“Not so different from the celestial halls, is it?” Azadiel quipped at his side, his gaze as sharp and fractured as shattered glass, his smile a touch too practiced, too bright. 

This was his friend’s initiation into the Infernal palace, a place where only the irrevocably fallen would tread. Levistus watched him closely, wondering if Azadiel’s apparent nonchalance was genuine or merely a carefully constructed façade, a brittle shield against the oppressive atmosphere.

Once within the throne room, courtiers began to swarm around them, their faces grotesque masks of ambition and desperation, each one clawing and preening, desperate to outshine their rivals for the Infernal King’s favor. Their voices, a discordant cacophony of sycophantic whispers and hollow pronouncements, crashed over Levistus, each glittering bauble and oily word a sharp pinprick against his refined sensibilities. He felt the weight of their predatory gazes, like a flock of carrion birds circling a wounded beast, their hunger palpable, their intentions clear.

“We adhere to the strategy,” Levistus stated, his voice a precise blade slicing through the raucous din. While the reason for the summons remained cloaked in secrecy, the objective remained starkly clear and simple: discern Asmodeus’s true intent, avoid involvement, and depart with whatever sliver of honor they could salvage.

“Right, just… show up, do… something…,” Azadiel muttered, his usual easy grin twisting into a frustrated scowl.

“The primary directive,” Levistus corrected, his tone laced with pointed emphasis, “was to avoid doing anything.” 

He followed Azadiel’s gaze. A succubus, her beauty a lethal weapon disguised as delicate enticement, moved with a sinuous grace, each sway of her hips a slow, deliberate invitation to damnation. The air around her shimmered with an almost palpable heat, dark energy radiating in waves, promising oblivion wrapped in exquisite pleasure.

“Exercise extreme caution around the denizens of the third circle – they are masters of seduction and matrons of madness,” Levistus warned, his voice a low, guttural rumble, barely concealing the dread gnawing at his insides. “One taste of a lilim’s passion, and you’ll soon beg for the sweet release of death, but you’ll not find it.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned…” Azadiel muttered, his usual bravado faltering as a flicker of genuine unease crossed his face. His cheeks flushed, not with anger, but with a disconcerting vulnerability. The lilim’s cruelty was legendary,  all knew the chilling tales of celestial paladins reduced to whimpering shadows by the allure of these creatures.

“Too late, we’re both well and utterly damned already,” Levistus replied dryly, his gaze fixed on the succubus. “But let’s not compound our errors,”

Levistus’s own fall from grace was a well-known tragedy, a public humiliation that had stripped him of his former glory. But Azadiel’s recent fall remained shrouded in mystery, a tightly guarded secret. As the celestial warrior Michael, once a paragon of valor, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with Uriel and Chamuel, leading vast armies in the cataclysmic war that had torn Heaven asunder. What devastating betrayal, what unbearable burden, could have driven such a being to this shadowed realm? Levistus wondered, but he knew better than to ask. Some wounds were too deep to be touched.

Azadiel shifted uncomfortably, as if sensing Levistus's probing thoughts. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, a nervous gesture that betrayed his unease. Perhaps the suffocating miasma of the Infernal palace had finally worn down his defenses. Whatever the trigger, Azadiel chose that precise instant to voice one of the many unspoken burdens that weighed upon them both.

“Everything’s shifted in the Heavens since Lucifer vanished,” Azadiel began, his voice heavy with a weariness that went beyond mere words. A tremor of fear, stark and raw, flickered in his eyes, betraying a hidden depth of anxiety that Levistus could only begin to fathom. Unlike the Morningstar, Asmodeus didn’t meddle with Heavenly affairs, allowing the celestial Triad to seize absolute control, their authority over Heaven and earth unchecked, their ambitions boundless.

“Any word from our Heavenly Father?” Levistus inquired, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. 

“Nothing. Just… nothing,” Azadiel mumbled, his gaze dropping to the floor, his voice thick with grief. Levistus had grieved that very same loss, until he’d come to the devastating realization that God had forsaken all of his children.

Levistus’s gaze drifted, almost reluctantly, to Asmodeus, who remained enthroned like a gilded effigy, his bored countenance a thin veil over the ceaseless machinations of his mind. 

“The Triad’s profound incompetence was laid bare when they bestowed the Infernal Crown upon him,” he remarked, his voice edged with a disdain that bordered on contempt.

“Has he faltered in his appointed task?” Azadiel inquired, a subtle challenge lacing his tone. His question was not merely curious; it was a sharp probe, aimed at uncovering the hidden currents beneath the surface.

“No, he’s surpassed it. With disturbing efficiency,” Levistus stated, his gaze locking with Asmodeus. A sudden chill enveloped him, a premonition of doom. A shiver, involuntary and stark, traced the length of his spine as he met Asmodeus’s glacial stare. It was akin to staring into the fathomless abyss, a chilling void that threatened to unravel his very being. “He possesses… a dangerous lack of restraint.”

“He’s seen us,” The words were a mere breath, almost swallowed by the hall’s clamorous din. Azadiel’s hand, typically as steady as stone, now trembled as it hovered near the hilt of his sword. The gesture was not solely defensive – it was a desperate, primal attempt to ground himself, to find an anchor amidst the swirling chaos. He would soon learn the futility of such instincts, for within the Nessus, against the might of Asmodeus, all defenses were ultimately rendered meaningless.

“He has been aware of our presence since we dared set foot inside this gilded cesspool,” Levistus retorted, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The weight of Asmodeus’s gaze was a tangible force, a crushing pressure that seemed to steal the very air from his lungs. “Tell me, Azadiel, how in the nine hells do we explain your conspicuous presence here?”

Azadiel’s response was a low, frustrated growl. “Just… look at these.” He gestured sharply at his wings, the movement jerky, almost violent. “Kind of hard to miss, wouldn’t you say?” His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek jumping erratically. He tried to fluff his already ruffled black feathers, but the gesture morphed into a flinch, a pathetic, almost involuntary attempt to conceal the ragged edges. Like Levistus’ own, Azadiel’s wings had once been radiant white, tipped with gold, symbols of their celestial grace, The sight of them now was a brutal reminder of what they had lost, a constant, agonizing echo of their past glory. “Why must I confess my sins when I already carry their stain upon my body?”

Suddenly, a palpable ripple of unease spread through the assembled courtiers, prompting a chaotic retreat. Like a school of fish scattering before a shark, they surged and shifted, creating a clear path between them and Asmodeus. He stood at the far end of the makeshift aisle, a monolithic figure silhouetted against the infernal gloom. His hand rose, not in a gracious welcome, but in a slow, deliberate gesture that was both dismissive and utterly commanding. The air crackled with unspoken fear and forced obedience, every eye fixed on him with a mixture of idolatry and fear.

“Michael, you’re a sight I never thought to see again.” Asmodeus's voice was smooth, like polished obsidian, but there was an edge to it, a razor-sharp glint hidden beneath the surface. There was a hint of something predatory in his tone, as if he were a cat toying with a cornered mouse.

“Your… majesty.” Azadiel bowed jovially, yet the smile he wore didn’t reach his eyes. It was a mask, a facade as well-crafted and artificial as those worn by the infernal court. Levistus, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his disdain. He kept his back straight, his expression impassive, his pride stung as he reluctantly bent knee before the infernal throne. “Michael was my name in Heaven. Here, I am Azadiel.” Azadiel’s words were a declaration, a defiant assertion of his new identity, yet Levistus could hear the underlying pain, the lingering ache of what had been lost.

“Did your descent ignite the flames of mortal persecution?” Asmodeus's voice was smooth, almost silken, yet his eyes held a glint of amusement that bordered on cruel mockery. “Should I crown you, Azadiel, as the harbinger of war?”

Levistus had masterminded the mortal holy wars, a calculated gambit to solidify his standing within the infernal hierarchy. Azadiel, his ever-loyal lieutenant, had been the executioner, the first to strike, the first to spill blood. 

“I was but an instrument,” Azadiel replied, his voice flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “A blade wielded by another’s hand.”

“Nevertheless, I’m offering you a position among my generals.” Asmodeus's words sent a ripple through the court, a collective gasp echoing with envy and wrath from those who had long coveted such a position. “Consider this an… elevation in status,” Asmodeus purred, his eyes glinting with amusement. This wasn’t a reward, Levistus knew, but a command, a meticulously laid trap.

Before he could think, Levistus heard himself declare, “Azadiel cannot swear loyalty to you, for he is bound to me, as my Herald.” The words burst from his lips, unplanned, forceful. 

His heart pounded, a frantic drum against his ribs. He hadn't intended to bind Azadiel so irrevocably to his fate. Yet, the words hung in the air, a challenge thrown down. His voice, though firm, trembled slightly, betraying the desperate gamble he was taking. The silence was heavy, each eye in the hall a weight upon him, amplifying the consequences of his impulsive declaration.

“Is this true?” Asmodeus's eyes narrowed, a subtle movement that sent a chill down Levistus’s spine. They weren't merely narrowing; they bored into him, probing, dissecting, searching for any hint of deceit. Serpent’s eyes, cold and calculating, promising swift and decisive retribution. The air thickened, the scent of incense and decay suddenly overwhelming. The distant music faltered, then resumed with a discordant edge, mirroring the rising tension.

“Yes,” Azadiel affirmed with unwavering conviction. “Levistus is my liege lord.” 

His words confirmed Levistus's claim, but there was an undercurrent, something unspoken. Was it agreement? Resignation? Or a flash of surprise at Levistus’s audacity? Their fates were now intertwined, a bond Asmodeus couldn’t sever without risking a larger conflict. The unspoken agreement between them hung in the air, fragile yet unbreakable.

“I see.” Asmodeus's voice, deceptively calm, sent a shiver down Levistus's spine. Beneath its smooth surface, Levistus detected a dangerous current, a promise of retribution that hung heavy in the air. Asmodeus paused, drawing out the silence, letting the tension coil tighter. The room crackled with unspoken threats, barely concealed anger radiating from every corner. 

“I just so happen to have a newly vacant position in my court for you, Levistus.” The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. This wasn’t an offer, it was a calculated checkmate, a move designed to remind him of his place, to underscore his precarious standing within this infernal court. They were well and truly trapped, caught in Asmodeus’s web like flies in amber. And so they remained, as hours bled into one another, each moment a slow, agonizing drip of humiliation and frustration. Time seemed to stretch and distort, each second a torturous reminder of their powerlessness.

**

“I swear, if I have to endure one more ode to Asmodeus’s ‘magnificent jawline’ or the ‘perfection of the arch of his brow’, I'm going to spontaneously combust,” Azadiel complained, rubbing his temples vigorously as if trying to put out a fire in his head. “My stomach is revolting, and it’s not from hunger.” 

His stomach rumbled loudly in agreement, a sound that could be generously described as disgruntled thunder. They followed the giggling imp, who seemed to find their misery utterly delightful, deeper into the Malsheem’s labyrinthine hallways, a black mirrored funhouse of horrors. 

“And this place!” Azadiel exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the endless reflections. “It’s as though it was designed specifically to give ex-angels a migraine and an existential crisis. Are we ever going to escape this soul-crushing labyrinth?”

Azadiel wasn't just in a foul mood – he radiated a palpable storm cloud of discontent. 

Levistus hesitated, the words of apology catching in his throat. “Azadiel,” he began, finally finding his voice, “I must apologize. Binding you to my fate... it was never my intention.” After centuries in Hell, after committing sins that blurred into a hazy, uncountable mass, Levistus had believed himself immune to guilt. Yet, here it was, a familiar, unwelcome knot tightening in his chest.

“Look,” Azadiel shrugged, the attempt at nonchalance not quite reaching his eyes, “I’m stuck here either way, aren’t I? Might as well be stuck with you. I was bound the moment Asmodeus recruited me to this infernal legion. If I’m destined to be a lackey, I’d rather it be under your command than his.”

Rounding another unmarked corner, the air suddenly shifted. The sterile chill of the corridors vanished, replaced by an intoxicating wave of exotic spices that danced on their tongues. They stepped through a doorway, expecting another shadowed passage, but instead found themselves blinking in the sudden brightness of a bustling banquet hall. Music swelled, boisterous laughter echoed, and the sight of a sprawling feast unfolded before them. 

“Fuck.” 

The imp's mischievous grin, as it lingered at the edge of the banquet hall, was all the confirmation Levistus needed. They had not been granted exit. This was another layer of Asmodeus’s game. The torment, it seemed, was far from over.

The banquet hall was a riotous assault on the senses, a racket that could only exist in the depths of Hell. It was as if a rogue orchestra, composed entirely of discordant instruments, was determined to play every piece at once. The heavy aroma of roasted meats fought a losing battle against the cloying sweetness of exotic perfumes, while spiced wines and overripe fruits engaged in a pungent olfactory duel. Underneath it all, the unmistakable tang of brimstone hung in the air, a constant reminder of their infernal surroundings. 

Golden goblets clinked together in a chaotic rhythm, punctuating the raucous laughter and the undeniable moans that echoed through the hall. Demons, male and female and everything in between, sprawled across the overflowing tables, their naked forms adorned with grapes and pastries, turning themselves into decadent, living centerpieces. 

Azadiel surveyed the scene, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his lip, as if he were watching a particularly bizarre theatrical performance. 

“Well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, “this is certainly… unique catering. He plucked a particularly plump grape from a demon’s shoulder, examining it with exaggerated seriousness. “These grapes... are they locally sourced from the River Styx? Because I’m detecting distinct notes of... existential dread, with a subtle aftertaste of... is that pure, unadulterated despair? Oh, a truly bold vintage.”

Then he pointed with exaggerated flair at a demon who seemed to be wearing an entire bakery as an outfit. “Behold! The pastry demon! Oh, a vintage piece, truly. Is that a 'Seven Deadly Sins' strudel I spy? Or perhaps a 'Regret-Filled Raspberry Tart'? Either way, I insist on acquiring the recipe. And a full-body hazmat suit. Possibly two. Just to be safe.”

Azadiel's stream of ludicrous commentary was, of course, utter nonsense. But it was his nonsense, and it was strangely comforting. A small spark of genuine amusement flickered through Levistus while listening to his friend’s rambling, a defiant ember against the overwhelming dread. It seemed Azadiel was determined to find the humor in this infernal absurdity, even if it killed him – or, well, you know.

He leaned conspiratorially towards Levistus, a mischievous glint dancing in his gaze. “Honestly,” he murmured, voice low and conspiratorial, “for a place that's all about eternal torment and gnashing of teeth, they’ve really gone all out with the hors d’oeuvres. I’m starting to think we’ve completely misunderstood the assignment?”

As their banter subsided, a sudden, unnatural stillness descended upon the hall. It wasn't the respectful hush of a gathering, but rather the ominous silence of a predator, the quiet before the inevitable strike. The air, now thick and cloying with the mingled scents of blood and incense, prickled the hair on Levistus’s neck, a visceral warning of the hidden dangers lurking beneath the veneer of infernal revelry.

“Levistus, come!” Asmodeus's voice boomed, shattering the tense silence like a thunderclap in the oppressive stillness. “Claim your rightful place amongst the Infernal hierarchy.”

Finally. A place among the regents of the Nine Hells, a tangible increase in power. Yet, a cold dread coiled in his gut. At what cost? And whose fall would pave his path?

“Baalzebul,” Asmodeus's voice, smooth as silk yet sharp as a honed blade, sliced through the air. His forked gaze, black as the abyss, pierced the demon lord. “Yield your seat to him.”

A strangled gasp escaped Baalzebul's throat, the bravado he usually wore like a second skin dissolving into a tremor that rattled the very bones of his horns. His goat-slitted eyes, once gleaming with arrogant confidence, now bulged with terror, darting like trapped insects. A slick sheen of sweat beaded on his brow, tracing grotesque patterns down his face. He flinched, unable to meet Asmodeus’s gaze, instead fixing on a point somewhere beyond the obsidian walls, a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable. 

“Your... Your Majesty,” he choked out, the words barely a whisper, “I... I have served you... faithfully, have I not?”

“Lilith remains at large,” Asmodeus's voice cut through Baalzebul’s stammering, each word a shard of ice. “And what of Asurim? You promised to deliver that realm to me. Your so-called loyalty is worthless in the face of such spectacular failure.”

“The Sumerian pantheon—” Baalzebul began, his voice a desperate plea, but his words were drowned out by a sickening squelch. The sound of bone grinding against bone ripped through the hall, a visceral violation of the silence, followed by a shriek that clawed at the very soul.

“Excuses bore me, Baalzebul,” Asmodeus said, his tone flat, devoid of all warmth, a chilling indifference that amplified the horror.

Then, the transformation began. Baalzebul’s form convulsed, flesh twisting and inverting with grotesque fluidity, a living nightmare unfolding before their eyes. His screams echoed, not just of pain, but of something far worse – utter annihilation, the erasure of his very being. The once-imposing demon lord became a writhing horror, a living testament to Asmodeus’s unfathomable power. The other demons recoiled, their eyes wide with a sickening mix of terror and a morbid, almost hungry fascination.

“Merciful father…” Azadiel’s whisper was a mere breath, his voice choked with horrified awe, as if the very air had turned to ash. “We should’ve turned back. We should have never come here.”

Levistus schooled his features into a mask of serene indifference, but his gut churned with a tempest of conflicting emotions. With practiced grace and eyes averted from the perversion of flesh that once was Baalzebul, he moved toward the offered seat, each step a calculated performance. They need to see power. Show it.

“Reigning houses of the Hells!” Asmodeus's voice boomed, a triumphant resonance that sent shivers down spines. He raised his goblet, a malicious glint in his eyes. “To Prince Levistus, the new… ruler… of Stygia!” The emphasis on ‘ruler’ was a subtle, cutting barb, a reminder that Stygia was not a coveted kingdom, but a frozen wasteland, a prison where the souls of the wrathful were buried in ice, those of the sullen eternally drowned in the icy waters of the Styx.

With what he hoped was a pleased grin, Levistus inclined his head, acknowledging the toast with a measured nod. His mind, however, was a frantic whirlwind of calculations. Outmaneuvered. The word stung, a bitter taste on his tongue. Stygia. Prestigious, yes, but a frozen, desolate wasteland. A prison, not a kingdom. Yet, it was true power, and power was all he needed in this damned place.

“To Prince Levistus!” The court’s echo reverberated, a discordant blend of sycophantic flattery and the sharp prickle of thinly veiled animosity. 

Among the many gazes, one stood out with particular intensity. Zariel, Archduchess of Avernus, fixed her gaze upon him. It wasn't a casual glance; it was a dissection. A knowing glint, sharp as fractured ice, flickered in her eyes, a silent accusation that sent a chill down Levistus's spine. She sees it. The thought solidified in his gut, a cold, leaden weight. She sees the shadow of her own rebellion, mirrored in my intentions. 

He’d anticipated the start of the infernal revelry, the cacophony of demonic music, the grotesque dance of power to truly begin. But before that could unfold, a crystalline, feminine voice, unexpected and bright, chimed through the stillness.

“Asmodeus?”The lone word, echoing through the vast hall, was like a star piercing the oppressive darkness. 

A nearby demon hissed, “A voice from the celestial sphere,” the words a ominous proclamation that clung to the air. 

Levistus's senses sharpened, a cold dread settling in his bones. Something was terribly wrong.

“Oh no…” Beside him, Azadiel slumped, his face ashen. Weakness. Levistus’s lip curled. Showing vulnerability before the regents of Hell was a fatal error.

“What in the blazes is the matter with you?” he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

“I didn’t think she would…” Azadiel muttered, his eyes wide with horrified understanding.

“Who?” Levistus demanded, his curiosity battling with a growing unease. “Do what?”

“Benzosia,” Azadiel breathed, the name a choked whisper, thick with a dread that seemed to leach the color from his face. “My sister... she believes herself to be... in love.”

The name struck Levistus like a physical blow. Benzosia. It echoed in the hollow chambers of his memory, a phantom chime of celestial beauty. An angel of light, of such radiant grace that she had occasionally flickered through his darkest dreams, a vision of untainted divinity. All that was pure, kind, and utterly beyond his reach. His throat constricted, suddenly parched, as if he’d swallowed dust. 

“And? What of it?” he managed, the words rough.

Azadiel’s gaze darted to Asmodeus, then back, a flicker of horrified understanding in his eyes. “She believes herself in love... with him.” 

Thoughts became silent, his entire being filled with one  desperate plea, that he had heard his friend incorrectly.

“Come to me, my angel.” Asmodeus’s voice, a velvet caress laced with the sharp tang of dark triumph, resonated through the cavernous hall, a declaration aimed at the abyssal void that served as their twisted sky. 

A subtle ripple stirred the stagnant shadows, a disturbance that snagged Levistus’s gaze. And then, she was there. A figure stood silhouetted against the infernal gloom, but bathed in an ethereal luminescence that dared to defy the very essence of Hell – Benzosia. Her golden hair cascaded like liquid sunlight, each strand a captured ray, and her wings, impossibly pristine, seemed to push back the encroaching darkness, radiating a pure, celestial light that made Levistus’s heart ache with a forgotten longing.

“You’ve kept me waiting for nearly two hundred years.”  She flowed towards Asmodeus, not with the hesitant steps of a supplicant, but with the assured stride of a lover claiming their due. Her embrace was a testament to unadulterated joy, a beacon of incandescent light against the encroaching darkness, a defiant declaration of love in the heart of damnation.

“A Seraph, a celestial luminary, forsaking paradise for me,” Asmodeus murmured, his voice a low, silken caress that resonated with dark amusement. His fingers traced the delicate curve of her cheek, a possessive brand against her flawless skin. “A sacrifice of such magnitude… it transcends mere devotion. It is… almost poetic.” His gaze, dark and knowing, held a predatory glint, a silent declaration of his absolute power, a testament to the intoxicating allure of his dominion.

“For our love,” she declared, her voice a soft yet unwavering melody that echoed through the hall, “I am willing to face any trial, endure any torment.” Her eyes, pools of celestial cyan, held a resolute devotion, a burning faith that defied the very essence of Hell.

Levistus watched, a bitter draught of envy burning in his throat, a corrosive acid that ate away at his resolve. He admired her courage, her unwavering faith, yet her devotion to Asmodeus fueled a dark, possessive rage that threatened to consume him.

Unworthy. A being so foul and corrupted, a creature of shadow and deceit, should never be allowed to lay hands on a being so precious, so utterly divine.

“You fell for me,” Asmodeus’s gaze flicked towards a point in the shadows, a predatory smile twisting his lips, a cruel display of his triumph. “As was foretold, it seems.”

“Does this mean you found my brother?” Benzosia’s voice, though soft, carried an undercurrent of urgent hope.

“I fear you’ll have to be more specific, dearest.” Levistus watched her turn, following the demon king’s cobalt gaze. 

Her cyan eyes widened, shock and disbelief warring within them. “Micheal?”

“It’s Azadiel,” Azadiel hissed, his voice a desperate plea, a broken whisper of warning, “What have you done?”

“What I have done?” She retorted, her voice rising in disbelief, the celestial light within them flickering dangerously. “What have you done? You’re here! In Hell!” The hall held its breath, the whispers of the regents a low, venomous hum. “How dare you speak to me of falling, when you yourself are standing in the depths of this infernal pit?”

“I… it’s not what you think,” Azadiel stammered, his face a mask of shame, his voice lost in the rising din of the hall.

“Then what is it, brother?” she demanded, her voice laced with a bitter disappointment, cutting through the whispers like a shard of ice. “Enlighten me. How did you, a celestial being of light, find yourself chained to the shadows?”

“I was betrayed,” Azadiel said, his voice a low growl, barely audible above the rising murmur of the crowd. “Forced.”

“Forced?" Benzosia scoffed, her voice dripping with scorn, the sound amplified by the sudden silence that fell over the hall. “We are not children, Azadiel. We know the price of our choices. You chose this path, just as I’ve chosen mine.”

“This is not a choice, Benzosia! This is madness!"”Azadiel cried, his voice laced with desperation, the words echoing through the hall. “You came to bind to him, to Asmodeus! You’ve thrown away everything!”

“He is everything I ever wanted,” she retorted, her voice filled with a passionate resolve, silencing the regents again. 

“Your sister loves me, Azadiel, more than she loves herself.” Asmodeus’s smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes, a flicker of dark triumph. His fingers traced the delicate feathers of her wings, a possessive brand, a silent claim of ownership. “A devotion I find… exquisitely pleasing. A rare and precious gift.”

Levistus’s anger simmered, a dark, churning tide, a tempest of possessive rage. He yearned to snatch her from Asmodeus's grasp, to claim her for himself, to shield her from the darkness that threatened to consume her in this damned place. 

“Benzosia, I'll make you my Queen Consort,” Asmodeus murmured, his voice a possessive whisper that echoed through the hall, a dark promise and silent declaration of his absolute dominion. “My wife, mother of my children.” His eyes gleamed with dark triumph.

“Levistus,” Azadiel's plea was a ragged edge of despair, each word a shard of shattered hope, “intervene. Please.”

A foreign ache, long buried beneath layers of infernal ice, bloomed within Levistus's chest. It was a cruel awakening, a discordant symphony of emotions—desire clashing with duty, rage battling resignation. 

His voice, when it came, was a brittle whisper, a confession of his own chains. 

“I cannot.” 

The words were a bitter pill, a stark admission of his impotence in this infernal game. A dark tide surged within him, a tempest of possessive fury threatening to break its banks. He imagined tearing Benzosia from Asmodeus’s grasp, shielding her radiant light from the encroaching shadows, claiming her as his own. But the moment was not yet his. 

“Not yet.”