Chapter 15 #2
By the fourth day of being awake, I’m begging to go home, despite enjoying my time here more than I should.
It’s strange that despite the trauma, despite everything, there’s something about Zeriavoss that calls to me.
Maybe it’s the sky, so vibrant and always with skittering crimson lightning.
Maybe it’s the gardens: lush, filled with spiralling obsidian statues, emberfruit trees, and an assortment of flowers that are breathtaking.
The trees look like those back home, but are so much more vibrant, growing the most intoxicating fruit I’ve ever tasted.
It’s so sweet, with a hint of smokiness that makes me groan every time I bite into it.
Aran must’ve picked up on my restlessness because he’s been taking me around the palace several times a day, even letting me venture into the kingdom gardens to get some air. Today, he’s taken me to the outer balcony, high up in the palace. From here, I can see nearly all of Korithax’s realm.
“Ready?” Aran says, gesturing for me to join him at the edge of the stone railing.
I nod and step forward, resting my hands on the warm Blackstone ledge. The view almost knocks the breath out of me.
Below, and far beyond the cliffs Zeriavoss sits upon, stretches a world unlike anything Earth could ever hold. To the south, far off in the distance, an ominous red glow pulses like a heartbeat.
“That’s Gehenna,” Aran says, following my gaze.
“Where Lucifer rules. The traditional Hell—lava pits, screams echoing through canyons. Mortals think it’s all like that, but as you can see, it’s just one region.
The place was built for justice, though it’s grown twisted over the millennia.
Torment isn’t chaos there; it’s structured. Ritualised.”
I shiver. “Sounds… horrifying.”
“You’d be correct.” He responds.
He shifts, pointing west. “See the white spire glinting near the horizon? That’s the Realm of Children. Vailith’s territory. It’s quiet there. Peaceful.”
I blink, looking at him with my mouth popped open. “Children?”
He nods. “Souls who passed young. There are gardens, willow spirits that glow. It’s a place of healing. They’re cared for until they choose what comes next. Some choose to reincarnate, some ascend. A few stay to help others. Vailith offers them the one thing life didn’t.”
My chest twists at that. Aran turns slightly, gesturing to a jagged stretch of pale cliffs between the southern and eastern reaches. They shimmer faintly, like lightning frozen in stone.
“That’s the Welcome Circle. Where all new souls arrive. The cliffs whisper your name, your sins, your truths. Nothing is hidden here. Lower judges determine where a soul belongs. It isn’t a trial, it’s more like a sorting. Stripping everything away until what’s left is real.”
“What about that forest?” I ask, pointing eastward, where a sprawl of gnarled black trees seems to writhe in place.
Aran’s expression hardens. “The Whillowing. A forest that eats everything. The Moirvath live there—bark-skinned beings with too many eyes. They don’t take kindly to trespassers.”
Noted. No forest strolls.
“The black desert just beyond that,” he continues, “is The Shuddering Waste. A no-man’s-land for broken souls. Sand made of bone dust. Night beasts. The Diminished wander there—souls who’ve lost everything, even their names.”
“Why does it exist?” I ask.
He looks at me. “Because some people don’t belong anywhere else.”
I shudder again and turn to the southeast, where something dark still looms. A chasm. Inverted towers spiralling downward into the abyss. The sky above twilight, despite it being day.
“Nox’Thraxis,” Aran says softly. “The Shadow Realm. Ruled by the House Nytherian. The sun never touches that place. It’s cold and silent. The Shadowfolk feed on secrets and regret. They serve as spies and interrogators. But they’re not an evil species, just curious.”
I don’t say anything. There are no words, only awe. Closer to Zeriavoss, I spot something more normal. A village. Smoke from chimneys, the distant sound of laughter.
“That’s Cinderspine,” Aran explains. “Our civilian hub. Bakers, smiths, merchants, and a school. The forge is down there, powered by soulfire. It’s where our Ember-born make enchanted weaponry.”
“Wait, there are schools? Bakers?”
Aran smiles. “Hell is more than torment and fire. It’s a civilisation, a kingdom. Even those who’ve sinned still live lives here—some reformed, some rebuilding.”
I don’t realise I’m smiling until I catch the warmth of it on my lips.
“And that,” Aran says, gesturing southwest. “Is Sovarith. The Council Spires. Where bureaucracy lives and dies. Every soul contract, every ancient law—it’s all written and archived there.
The Obsidian Codes sit in the highest spire.
They say it knows the name of every ruler who’s ever held Hell’s crown…
” His eyes meet mine, “And everyone who will.”
I take a step back, completely overwhelmed. Everything I thought I knew about Hell has unravelled. This place isn’t terrifying; it’s incredible, beautiful, alive. Not like I really believed a place like this existed anyway.
“Well,” Aran says gently beside me, “when you’re feeling up to it, I’d be honoured to show you around properly. Cinderspine is always lively around dusk. But for now…” he nudges a small cloth-wrapped bundle into my hands, “you do need to eat more.”
I unwrap it and bite into a warm coal-coloured cake filled with what Aran says is ashberry jam.
Gods, it’s divine. As I chew, I stare out across the realm again.
Smoke. Flame. Forests. Villages. Secrets.
Hell. Somehow, impossibly, it doesn’t feel so much like a prison anymore.
But it doesn’t feel like I belong either, because I’m no resident.
I’m a mortal, brought here by a demon who seems to hate me for reasons I can’t explain.
By the sixth day of being awake, I’ve decided that I’ve had enough. As amazing as this place is, I want out.
“Take me home,” I demand, arms crossed, even though I still look like I’ve gone five rounds with the Reaper.
Aran just gives me this soft, exhausted sigh that says, ‘I wish I could.’
“There are… matters to be settled first,” he says delicately.
His voice tells me the decision isn’t his to make and I decide not to push. Not because I’m feeling cooperative, but because I can’t bring myself to be an ass to him.
It’s the seventh day when the shift comes.
It feels like the magic that constantly surrounds the air changes.
It thickens, like walking through syrup made of static and dread.
It crawls under my skin, curling around my lungs, and every instinct in me is suddenly screaming to run.
The hairs on my arms rise before I hear the knock, like my body knows something bad is coming.
Aran enters, wearing a dark robe over his suit, stitched with glowing silver thread.
His face is set in a way I’ve never seen before, somewhere between reluctant and deeply apologetic.
“They wish to speak with you,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “Who?”
His pause is just long enough to twist the knife. “The Divine Six.”
I freeze, my breath faltering. “Korithax—”
“Will not be there.” He says gently. A little too gently, in a way that has my stomach in knots.
Aran doesn’t say anything as he walks me through the winding halls.
The castle is truly beautiful, shimmering black obsidian that reflects the light shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the corridors.
There is no beauty in the silence that accompanies us, though.
Only dread. Each step echoes too loudly, each corridor feels longer than the last.
Eventually, we stop before a massive door, pulsing with soft golden light. Aran turns to me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders.
“You answer only what you must. Be honest, and do not anger them. You are about to enter their realm, Daisy. I cannot help you, but I will be with you, okay?”
The door opens before I can nod and light floods everything, making my eyes squint as it consumes me.
It’s pure and sharp in a way that feels wrong.
Like the light itself is measuring me and finding me lacking.
The chamber feels like it’s carved from pure energy, looking like it was shaped in a dreamland.
Six thrones arc in a cresent, arranged like a celestial tribunal.
And on them sit six beings that don’t belong in any reality I know.
They’re not beautiful, not really. They’re unreal.
All carved from crystal, flame, shadow, time, light, and god-knows-what-else.
And I hate them. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it.
But something deep in my soul hates them with a fire so pure it burns through me, causing my hands to shake.
They don’t look at me with welcoming warmth as I walk into the centre of the room with my head held high, despite feeling the smallest I have ever felt.
I’ve memorised Aran’s rundown of who’s who.
Seraphiel, Judgement. Amarithe, Light. Velentha, Time.
Calrix, Order. Elaron, Dreams. Mal’Thariel, Fate.
Seraphiel speaks first. Her voice is strong, like a verdict being handed over to me without a conviction. “You should not be here.”
I swallow. “I didn’t ask to be.”
“And yet, you are,” Amarithe says, eyes cold despite her golden glow.
“The soul was returned,” Seraphiel continues. “You do not belong in Hell.”
“Returned?” I repeat, confused. “What do you—”
“Korithax gave it back to you,” Elaron says, almost gently, his starlight hair fluttering around his face. “He burned your contract. Your soul is no longer claimed.”
My heart thuds, my head spinning at the information so casually given to me, like my entire world has not just been flipped. Again.
“Why would he do that?” I whisper to no one in particular.
“It was his choice,” Calrix says, his voice like thunder given form. “But it raises questions. Too many questions.”
“You are a contamination.” Mal’Thariel grates. His voice is like broken stone grinding against glass. “Your presence distorts the laws of the underrealm.”
My fists clench at my sides. The fear that was once rooted in me bubbling into something much hotter.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I snap. “I didn’t ask to be sold, I didn’t ask to be dragged to Hell. Or to survive when I didn’t want to.” My voice breaks slightly at the end, much to my horror. But none of them react.
“And yet he did save you,” Amarithe murmurs, fingers lacing under her chin. “Curious, isn’t it?”
My eyes drift to Velentha, the one who hasn’t spoken. The one with glowing runes up her arms and an expression that feels… off. She’s staring at me, and her lips part, the whisper too soft to anyone but me. “She remembers the ash, even if she does not know why.”
I wouldn’t have caught it if I were not watching her. I frown at her, waiting for somebody else to respond to her mumbles. The room goes deathly still, all of them seeming to stiffen at her words.
Seraphiel’s head turns slowly towards her. “What did you say?”
“Nothing of importance,” Velentha replies smoothly.
But her eyes don’t leave mine. The runes crawling down her arms seem to pulse brighter, trembling, as if something inside her is trying to break free.
“You do not belong here, Daisy Sandoval,” Seraphiel says again. “When your body heals, you are to return to your realm on Earth and stay there. You are not to cross the veil again.”
“For your own safety,” Elaron adds.
“And ours.” Mal’Thariel growls.
I nod, though my jaw aches from clenching it. My legs tremble, but I refuse to fall under the strain. Aran steps forward from the shadows. “It’s time to go.” He says gently.
I turn to him, relieved. But before either of us can take a step, the door explodes inward.
A shockwave of heat and smoke slams through the chamber, and Korithax storms in like a supernova given form.
His eyes are pitch black, wings stretched wide, and his face looks like it has been carved from fury itself.
His gaze locks on me, then shifts to them, filled with nothing short of pure hatred.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with her?”