I gulp and look up the long length of gray, rippling muscle. Long, thick legs lead up to a waist clad in a loincloth, a wide bare torso, and an even wider chest.
A gargoyle of a demon looms before me, his skin gray and cracking like he’s made entirely of stone. Among all the death and decay this world has to offer, it’s his eyes that look alive, pulsing black and red like the very fires of this place live inside him.
He smiles, and it takes all I have not to cringe away from the gesture that seems almost unnatural against his stony face.
I’ve seen him before in the pages of books. But he’d been just a drawing then, a scrap of information me and the others had looked for relentlessly. He’d been far away, a shadow of an ancestor, a relative whose blood runs through my veins and makes me the destructive person that I am.
The Messenger of Chaos looks me over, to the scrap of a gold dress that still clings to my figure, but is tattered and covered in ash and blood with singed ends. Black wings span from his back, leathery compared to the rest of him, black with hellish red veins coursing through them.
Wings like my own that are uselessly spread out beneath me at the moment.
My father looms above me, and when he opens his mouth to speak in a language I hadn’t cared to know, but am now glad I recognize, a shiver races through my body.
“Rhalaal Alrrajah bab, mali groemmel.”
My mind takes a few moments to translate the sentence, and I gulp when I do.
Welcome to hell, mydaughter.
* * *
Probably the shittiest welcome in the history of welcomes. The Messenger of Chaos—I refuse to think of this asshole as my father right now when he sent his lackeys to kidnap me from my first prom experience and yes, I am pissed—turns from me and stomps away in great hulking strides while his little—hopefully not ass—minions sink their talons into me and follow after him.
They crest through hills with hot winds that blow soot into my mouth. I choke on the debris and try to memorize my surroundings, but how one can memorize a vast expanse of nothingness is beyond me. There must be some landmark, some hint of anything other than ash and sand to help guide my way when I plan to escape…
I catch sight of a hint of ivory poking out of the darkness, thick and protruding, like a crumbling remnant of a pillar.
When I squint to get a better look, I realize it’s not a pillar.
It’s the bone of some enormous creature.
I am going to die here.
I don’t let the thought take root in my mind. I can’t afford it to. I can’t afford to let the fear sink in. I shove it all aside and replace it with grim determination. I won’t die here. Ican’tdie here. Because if I do, I’m sure Phoenix, Saint, Malek, and Syko will barge through the portals of hell and destroy this shitty place to the ground. It’ll fuck up the space time dimension continuum, or some scientific shit like that.
Besides, why would I want them here? It’s still unclear as to whyI’mhere. Perhaps my father just wants to chat. Catch up on all he’s missed the past twenty years of my life.
Bastard should’ve started with a postcard.
When we finally reach the first sign of civilization, I almost wish we could just stay out in the dust. I crane my neck backwards as the enormous castle towers before us. It looks to be made of burning paper. The outside is a dark gray, borderline black, that sets off the tiniest hint of red sparks. It’s crumbling and weak, but a massive structure that reaches up to kiss the storming sky.
Winged creatures circle above it like vultures and let out cries that make me go cold all over. Demons that look strangely like gargoyles perch on the edges of the tall castle, wings rustling, teeth glowing in the darkness. A bright sliver of green liquid runs down their teeth and falls, landing right beside my trailing body with an acidic hissing sound.
Before I know it, they’re gliding me through those massive doors and into hallways that are as black as the night sky and still seem to flicker even darker shadows that take the forms of nightmares along the walls. Screams of agony and torture reach my ears and I gulp as we pass closed door upon door that do nothing to muffle the sounds inside.
Then we’re in an open space and slowly, I’m lowered to the ground. Tiny creatures that look like demon pixies scatter away from me, flying like rat-looking mosquitos, leaving behind a trail of chattering noise.
I crane my neck to look.
The Messenger of Chaos is still here, and he clamors up a black marble dais where three thrones rest; the one in the middle is the tallest of them with black steel spikes hammered into the back.
He opens his mouth, and he speaks, but I can’t catch the fast spoken words, I don’t understand them this time. They’re a series of growls, and I was never good at conjugating those in Mr. Jezebel’s class. I should’ve paid more attention.
The Messenger cocks his head in my direction, his elongated ears twitching as if he’s waiting for a response. He sighs, and it sounds like rocks grating together.
He speaks again, and again, each sound different from the last.
It isn’t until he throws out a slew of Ifrit I semi-understand, that I realize he’s trying to communicate in a language I recognize.
