“Ready?” he asks, voice low and threaded with something protective.
“No,” I whisper.
He offers his arm to me anyway. The moment my hand touches him, the curse stirs—warm, insistent, almost relieved. I give him one last lingering look, and then…
We step through.
***
The realm folds around us like warm silk, the portal sealing behind with a soft rush of air. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
Snow—soft as ash and faintly luminous—drifts from a sky swept in swirling ribbons of gold and amethyst. Lanterns float above the pathways like drifting constellations, casting long amber shadows across gardens carved from crystal and volcanic glass. Everything hums with a gentle, resonant magic… a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to this world or mine.
Demons—elegant, dangerous, impossibly poised—move along the obsidian path toward the palace in their formal finery. Not monstrous. Not twisted. Just… breathtaking. Otherworldly. A blur of shimmering fabrics, dark eyes, and ancient power.
Every head turns as we step forward. Not with hostility. More… curiosity, mixed with something deeper. Like the air shifted the moment I arrived and they all felt it.
Slade’s arm tightens beneath my grip, the slightest tension rippling through him.
“Is something wrong?” I whisper.
“They sense the curse,” he murmurs. “And they…smellyou.”
OH. GREAT.
“And what exactly do I smell like?” I ask, voice tight.
He bends just enough that his lips brush the shell of my ear. The breath that accompanieshis words sends heat spiraling straight down my spine.
“Something forbidden,” he says softly. “Rare. Precious. And waiting to be claimed. I thought my scent would hide yours. Obviously… I was wrong.”
My pulse jumps. I swear the lanterns brighten, as if agreeing. Slade straightens, jaw locked, posture turning sharp and regal as he guides me toward the palace.
And though the crowd doesn’t speak aloud, the atmosphere shifts around us—an awareness, electric and unmistakable, following every step we take.
The weight of a hundred eyes settles over me. Some assessing, while some are startled. Other’s are intrigued. Nothing overtly hostile… yet everything too focused for comfort.
“Do not let go of my arm,” Slade says quietly.
I tighten my grip. He covers my hand with his, heat seeping through fabric and skin like a silent vow.
We walk on and let the realm watch.
The palace gates rise before us like carved constellations, sigils flowing across the obsidian surface in liquid gold. They recognize Slade first — bowing open in a slow, sweeping arc, as though the realm itself is greeting him.
Beyond them, the ballroom unfolds like a myth brought to life. A cathedral of midnight glass stretches upward into a sky that doesn’t exist in this world. Chandeliers made from living constellations drift lazily above the crowd, dripping starfire. Music winds through the air — low, ancient, vibrating through my bones like a ritual drum.
Demons of every noble house swirl through the room in gowns and coats that shimmer like molten metal or shadow-woven silk. Some glance our way briefly. Others pause entirely, their attentiondrawn not with malice but with interest… something rising, shifting in the current of magic around us.
And then the room stills. Not loudly, or theatrically. Just subtly — like a ripple passing through a lake.
I follow the shift upward, and almost fall on my face as Lucifer descends the grand staircase.
He is impossible in the way of old things — ageless, calm, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with vanity. His hair is silver, tied back with a black ribbon. His eyes glow faint gold, brightening as he approaches. His suit changes with every movement — shadow, starlight, shadow again.
But what strikes me most is not his appearance. It’s the way every demon in the room subtly inclines their head as he passes. A king without a crown. His gaze reaches Slade’s and warms, amusement curling through it.
“Lord Athalar.” His voice is velvet and fire. “You return to us at last.”
