Chapter 6
Korithax
Hell doesn’t burn. Not in the way mortals expect.
It isn’t just a landscape of fire pits and shrieking souls.
That’s Gehenna, a southern wasteland full of lava rivers, boiling stone, and damned screams. But Hell itself?
It’s a continent fractured by purpose—each with its own horrors, laws, and rulers.
A monarchy of monsters held together by threats and blood oaths.
And I sit at the centre of it, awaiting to wear a crown I never even wanted.
I sit alone, lounging on the obsidian throne of Zeriavoss, the northern capital.
My leg hangs over one carved armrest, and I’m nursing a headache that refuses to die.
The throne is too tall, too obnoxious. My castle sits beneath a never-ending sky, with winged sentries on constant guard.
Below, it’s ringed by molten rivers on its outer edges, daring trespassers to try to enter my kingdom.
Gothic spires cast long shadows through the stained-glass windows, and still, somehow, it bores me to tears.
The distant glow of Gehenna’s smoke stains the horizon.
That’s where the newest batch of sinners are likely already burning—priests, liars, and a child-killer.
I used to attend every judgement at the Welcome Circle, where the soulstone cliffs whisper the truth of every mortal to enter our realm.
Now, I leave that to the lesser demons because the screams and excuses are always the fucking same.
Nobody ever believes they’ll end up here, facing the wrath of their wrongdoings.
But it’s always the same beg for mercy, the same desperate, pathetic pleas.
They’re escorted in, placed on the podium, and the circle of judges, normally six of us, sit around them and listen to their sins.
They have a chance to explain themselves, often coming up with bullshit excuses as to why they behaved the way they did, and then their judgement is made.
Some only have to reside in Hell for a period of time, for petty sins that don’t require a lifetime of suffering.
However, some are children, their tortured souls sent to us to help them heal before they are moved on to their final resting places.
They go to the realm of children. A softer western dominion, ruled by Vailith, the Goddess of Mercy.
Children’s souls go there, those broken far too young.
They tend to gardens that have soft winds, where glowing spirit willows dance between the plants and trees.
They’re given power, a choice. Forgive, or punish those who wronged them.
Neither choice is wrong; neither choice makes a difference in their stay here.
And sometimes, the children even choose to stay instead of moving on.
Not out of fear, but because love has anchored them to her little sanctuary.
The only corner of Hell where pure laughter is continuous, and not full of pure madness.
I shift on the throne again, glaring at the carved edges as if I can will them with my mind to be less uncomfortable.
This throne used to belong to my father, Korran.
The High King of Hell and former manipulator.
A man carved from pride and deception, who wielded control with a smile as sharp as his blade.
He handed me this throne not out of trust, but strategy.
A transition masked as inheritance, but built on secrets and blood deals.
Conveniently, his whore of a second wife disappeared after he handed away his throne. Not a shocker that’s for sure.
He still lurks, of course. Creeping around the halls of Hell when he has the energy, advising where he isn’t welcome, whispering to the few allies who still call him king.
He wants me to rule the way he did—with cruelty mistaken for order.
He sees my defiance as weakness, my restraint as failure.
But I am not him, and I never will be. Despite the fact that it was long before my existence, the constant whispers all tell the same story of the betrayal, the lies, the deceit.
And one day, when the right moment comes, I will burn the last remnants of his reign from these walls.
We don’t even speak, not really. I spare him a hello every now and then, but other than that, he may as well be a stranger who lurks the halls with a lopsided crown upon his aging skull.
He may technically still be king, but as far as I’m concerned, he is nothing more than a thief of oxygen whose time is running out.
Removing him from the throne permanently is the only thing that makes me want to take a bride.
But even so, I cannot. Not yet. I have too many things to focus on before shackling a woman to a lifetime beside me.
I have no interest in love or women, other than using their bodies for a quick fuck to release tension.
I lean my head back and let out a slow breath.
I’ve got no interest in any politics today.
No patience for court games or fake smiles.
My thoughts continue to drift back to the girl in the cluttered apartment.
Daisy. Stupid name. Stupid sunshine attitude.
But damn if she didn’t stare at me like I wasn’t the worst thing to ever walk through her door.
The way she didn’t scream makes my skin itch in the most irritating way.
In fact, she was sarcastic as fuck and acted like I was just an annoying inconvenience in her little pathetic life.
Mortals are supposed to crumble when they meet their end.
I’d checked her file. Dead mother. Gambling, drunk of a father.
A girl caught between trying to survive and pretending she’s not breaking from grief.
Death was such a big deal to mortals, something I didn’t understand.
Maybe it was because their lives were so short in comparison to us immortals.
Gone in the blink of an eye. My mother had also died, but I did not mourn or grieve.
Death was a part of the process, even as an immortal.
Or maybe I just didn’t have enough time with her to be able to grieve her.
I barely remember her, only her lavender eyes that sometimes appear in my dreams, like even in death she’s checking on her only child.
Mid thought, the summons arrives on parchment that smells like self-righteousness and stardust. The seal is golden—pressed with their wretched emblem: six interlocked rings.
Six beings who believe their authority is divinely ordained just because they sit higher in the sky than the rest of us.
The Divine Six. The Uppers. The creators and rulers of everything that is and ever was.
They want a word. Of course they do. I let the scroll burn to ash in my hand before stepping through the portal I summoned with a flick of my hand.
The chamber of the Divine Six is made of pure light.
Not the warm kind, but the blinding, blistering, and suffocating kind that scrapes at your skin like it’s judging you the second you walk in.
And gods, does this place give me the feeling it’s disappointed in me.
It shouldn’t hold form the way it does. Pillars stretch impossibly high.
The air here tastes like purity laced with lies.
I absolutely hate it here, and now my headache is so much worse.
They’re already seated, a perfect crescent of celestial arrogance.
Three women and three men, each one glowing in a way that would make you believe they’ve never known shame.
Spoiler: they have. They’re not smiling, they never do.
Miserable bastards. They’re like judges in a cosmic court, yet you can guarantee to never expect fairness when it comes to them.
They say nothing at first; they never speak until they want to.
It’s all power games and arrogance; the delay meant to come across as dominance, but it just comes off as insufferable bullshit.
A whole performance meant to remind me I’m the one they can summon whenever they please, and that they hold my strings like just another one of their puppets in their fucking games.
I don’t offer them the respect they so desperately crave.
I don’t bow, don’t blink in awe like they expect.
Because I don’t give a shit about a single one of them.
Finally, Seraphiel rises like the leader she wishes she were. The Voice of Judgement. Drenched in silver and polished chrome, a helmet hiding what little humanity she might’ve had. Her wings stretch behind her, crystal clear, flawless, and as cold as her dead heart.
“You were summoned. You are late.”
I sigh, already bored to near tears. “I’m here, am I not?” I lift a hand with dramatic flair. “Try not to faint.”
There’s a musical laugh, soft, sweet, and fake as hell. Amarithe. The Manipulator of Light and Reality. She glows like a sunrise made of gold and honey, but underneath the warmth is the chill of illusion. She could stab you with a smile and convince you to thank her for it.
“Still alone, I see,” she purrs. “No partner. No… anchor.”
She doesn’t say bride, none of them do. But it’s what they mean. Because without a queen, I’m just a boy playing king in their eyes. They believe that I am not fit to rule without a queen.
Velentha speaks next—though it’s not speech so much as weeping.
Because, unfortunately, everything with her is melodrama and mystery.
Tears of pure white light train endlessly from beneath her hood, vanishing into the marble beneath her feet.
Time runes twist across her arms in constant motion, shifting futures looping like ribbons around her.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to, because she sees all.
Every possible future and outcome, she knows it.
Of course, fate changes every second, so she sees many possibilities.