Chapter 41
Korithax
There are days I wish I could tear away the crown and cast it into the void between the realms.
From the moment I took my first breath, I’ve been a symbol, a weapon, a looming heir carved from brutality and expectation.
The Divine Six have watched me like hawks watching a serpent, waiting for the day I’d either snap the neck of fate, or fall beneath it.
I was raised not as a son, not as a boy—but as the future ruler of Hell.
And Hell, in all its brutal honesty, never offered me the luxury of weakness.
Each of the Divine Six has shaped my life in one way or another.
Seraphiel—the Voice of Judgement. Silver-plated justice with blind, glowing eyes and a tongue sharp enough to cleave empires in two.
She never looked at me once without disdain.
To her, I was a ticking time bomb, a creature born of violence.
‘Mercy is weakness,’ she once said, ‘and the King of Hell must never kneel for anyone.’ I’ve hated her since that day.
How would she feel now, knowing I’ve not only knelt, but it was for a mortal girl who holds my blackened heart in her delicate hands.
Amarithe—the Bloom of Light. She smiles when she lies and twists affection like a blade.
With hair like liquid gold and a voice dipped in honey, she’s the most dangerous of them all.
She called my mother unworthy behind silken smiles.
I remember hearing her whisper it, “A flower rooted in ash cannot grow and be strong.” My mother had heard it too.
She just smiled, knowing they had cast her fate long before she got a chance to prove herself worthy.
She was worthy; they were the ones who weren’t.
Calrix—the Spear of Order. The militant bastard.
His every breath is flame, every movement a declaration of war.
He used to spar with me when I was barely tall enough to lift a blade, and every time he knocked me down, he would whisper that I was unfit, unworthy.
His eyes lit with glee when I bled, the smile that would break across his face each time he carved a new scar into my skin would haunt my dreams as a boy.
When I finally bested him, he said nothing.
Just left a sword at my door, as if to say: You’ve earned this.
Finally. Arrogant prick couldn’t even hand me it himself.
Elaron—the Whispering Star. Quiet, terrifying.
His power isn’t brute force, but control.
Controller of dreams, of memory, of thought.
I never trusted him. Once, I awoke with a memory that didn’t belong to me—a garden of stars I had never seen, and a voice I had never known.
I wonder if he’d planted it. I often wonder what manipulation he’s planted, tucked away in the minds of gods.
Mal’Thariel—The Architect. Cold and inhuman. Logic without mercy. He’s the one who reminds us all that we’re dust and design. That fate is not a thing to be fought, but followed. His presence alone bends time. He’s the creator of all, and his presence alone tells you he is not one to fuck with.
And then, there’s Velentha. The Oracle of Time.
She was the only one who had never raised her voice, who had never struck me.
But her silence was somehow always worse.
Because when she looked at me, she didn’t see a boy.
She saw the future… my future. She saw the ‘Child of Ruin’.
Though her tone was soft when she called me it, it carried with it a weight of doom.
I’ve never forgotten that name, the way it makes my skin prickle whenever it’s called.
They all treat my mother like she was never meant to sit beside my father.
Almost like she was a placeholder, a fragile flower in a field of divine flame.
Even as a child, I could see it. The looks, the snide remarks.
Because she wasn’t one born of royalty, she wasn’t worthy.
The way they erased her presence from the castle the second she passed.
And when she had died, I saw no grief in them. Only relief.
If they dare treat Daisy that way—if they so much as look at her with that same contempt, I’ll raze the heavens.
I’ll tear their temple down with my bare hands and drown the stars in their blood.
She’s mine. Not because she belongs to me, but because I would carve out my own ribcage just to keep her safe.
I fear for her. Even as I plot her immortality, I fear they’ll never accept her.
That they’ll find a way to rip her from me, just like they did to the first Queen.
If the stories are true—and I believe they are—the Divine Six destroyed her because she was too beloved, too strong.
And that made her dangerous. They feared an uprising, that the people would follow her, only listen to her, not them.
Their fragility truly shone through when they decided they could have no other that was respected, or should I say feared, in such a way. It was them, and nobody else.
Now, I have offered them a weakness. Because now, I have something to lose.
I never wanted to be king. I’ve said that only to myself.
I never wanted the throne, the rituals, the heavy silence of the court, the mask I wear to keep Hell in order.
I’ve always found joy in the battlefield—leading armies, protecting my realm.
I should have been a soldier. A blade to wield, not a crown.
But when my father stepped back a millennium ago, I had no choice but to.
Peace was fragile then, trade routes unstable.
Tensions with the outer realms were high, almost at breaking point.
But I fixed it, I forged alliances, opened gates, and offered our weapons in exchange for their magic, their ores, their scholars.
And it worked. For the last thousand years, there has been peace.
I was handed responsibility at too young an age, but I made it work.
And yet, all of them—the rulers of the other realms—still dance to the strings pulled by the Divine Six.
Solara is the only realm that resists them openly.
Sariya’s warmth is a threat to them, and they know it.
I’ve always admired her defiance, but even so, she obeys just like the rest of us, despite her resistance.
The others? I’m not so sure. Virena plays her cards close to her chest, Kaelith is a coward, and Vor’Khar just does whatever.
Elyistria is powerful, but secretive, I don’t know where she stands at all.
She knows she’s a threat to the Divine Six, which is dangerous in itself.
But neither have come to a blow as of yet.
Noxthrallia is the only realm the Divine Six don’t bother with at all, leaving it to its dark and dodgy ways.
They gave up trying to police the realm a long time ago and seem to enjoy the chaos they bring upon Earth.
My mind flicks back to Sariya’s words that have haunted me since we left her golden halls.
“When the time comes, you will need me, you will need my soldiers. And I will answer.”
Why would I need her army? Is war coming? If it is… gods help us all. Especially now that I have Daisy. Would they use her against me? Would they come for her, to twist my strength into weakness? They’ve never had a way to wound me before. But now… now they do. And it terrifies me.
She steps out of the bathroom, and I forget how to breathe.
For a moment, everything stills—even the storm outside the walls of Stormravan seems to hold its breath. Daisy stands before me not just like a queen… but a myth come to life. The Queen of Hell cloaked in the grace of light itself.
Her gown is made of flowing silks spun by Lumispires, the rare creatures of Luminaria.
The fabric is pearlescent white with an inner sheen of silver and soft blush, rippling with light magic that responds to her every breath.
Embroidered along the hem and bodice are golden runes of fate, glowing faintly—some of which I recognise as blessings, others I’m not even entirely sure of myself.
The neckline plunges modestly, forming a delicate heart shape framed by curling golden vines that wrap around her shoulders like living jewellery.
Her arms are wrapped in translucent sleeves—slitted from shoulder to wrist—lined with flickers of starlight and stitched with Hellfire thorns in black thread, barely visible unless the light hits just right.
Around her waist is a slim girdle of onyx and gold, inlaid with ruby shards shaped like broken hearts.
From it falls a split overskirt of sheer obsidian silk, cascading over the shimmer of Luminaria’s white fabric beneath—light and shadow dancing with every step she takes.
At her thigh, a dagger rests in a black-lace sheath, the hilt wrapped in a velvet ribbon that bears my sigil.
Her heels are delicate yet deadly—strapped sandals made of molten gold, the edges trailing soft wisps of smoke wherever she walks.
But it’s her crown that ties it all together.
A diadem of white gold rests against her brow, shaped like a twisted halo of light and fire—pearls softly glowing beside ruby tips shaped like demonic horns, merging heaven and hell in one perfect, blasphemous arc.
From the centre hangs a teardrop gem—a piece of glowing Luminaria crystal kissed by demon blood—hovering just above her forehead, suspended by an enchantment.