Chapter Fifty-Six
My mother once said that the real Hell is the one we awake to each morning.
Tabitha Wysteria
Mal sighed the moment her boots touched the scorched earth of Hell.
She had never imagined she would be forced to return to this place, and yet here she stood once more.
She wore one of her infamous grey riding dresses, the fabric practical yet elegant, paired with black boots and a wyverian sword strapped firmly across her back.
Whatever waited for her in the depths of this nightmare, she prayed she would still be able to fight and, perhaps, find her way back out again.
She wondered how she was meant to pass through each ring this time. The first journey had been different. Then, she had possessed the guidance of Thanatos.
Now she had no such protection.
She was utterly alone.
Well, almost.
She had Wren, the great white wolf.
Mal frowned, scanning the barren horizon as the uneasy realisation settled in that the wolf was nowhere to be seen.
She stood in the first ring—a vast and desolate stretch of land, every inch of it cloaked in a thin veil of orange dust that drifted lazily through the air.
The souls that wandered here moved with agonising slowness, dragging their feet across the ground as though the weight of eternity hung from their limbs.
Mal noticed someone standing ahead of her, motionless amidst the slow drift of wandering souls. It was strange, unnatural even, for a soul in this place to stand so still, as though watching something far beyond the dusty horizon.
As Mal drew closer and caught sight of silver hair, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her purple eyes widened, and a tremor ran through her entire body.
Wren Wynter stood there, staring into the distance as though the empty air held secrets only she could see.
‘Wren?’ Mal whispered, half afraid the sight before her was some cruel trick conjured by Hell itself.
At the sound of her name, the girl turned.
Her face lit instantly with recognition, her smile bright and unguarded. She opened her arms and rushed forward, throwing them around Mal in a fierce embrace.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mal said, stiff with astonishment as Wren clung to her. ‘You were a wolf, and now you are…’
‘Now I’m me,’ Wren said, pulling back with a grin so wide it seemed it might split her face. Her blue eyes sparkled with lively mischief. ‘Ya can’t imagine how frustrating it is being a wolf, not being able to speak and give Zagreus and Kage a proper piece of me mind.’
Mal’s eyes widened further as Wren finally released her and stepped back.
‘Why are you not a wolf?’
Wren shrugged lightly. ‘No idea. Jumped into Hell and landed right on me arse. And then I realised I had an arse!’ She laughed at the memory.
‘Must be something about Hell, I suppose. But whatever it is, I’m here to guide ya.
I’ll be yer spiritual guide.’ She paused, considering.
‘Or spiritual animal guide.’ Then she laughed again, the sound bright and soft against the endless hush of the dead.
‘Wren…’ Mal felt tears sting the backs of her eyes, but she forced them down before they could fall. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you. I’m sorry you’re trapped in the Underworld, in a wolf.’
Wren’s smile did not fade; if anything, it broadened, bright and untroubled. ‘Don’t be, Mal Blackburn. I’m fine.’
‘I miss you.’
Wren gave a soft chuckle. ‘I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m still right here.’
This time it was Mal who reached forward, pulling Wren into a tight embrace.
She held her there for a moment longer than necessary, hoping the gesture might carry everything she struggled to say aloud—the guilt that gnawed at her, the worry she could not shake, and above all how deeply she had missed her.
‘I never really had any friends growing up,’ Mal said after a moment, once they had begun walking slowly towards the enormous statue looming ahead through the dusty haze.
‘My eyes frightened people, and my father kept me locked within the castle walls. My siblings were always my friends. But I think… you were my first true friend, Wren.’
‘I think ya were mine too, Mal,’ Wren replied easily. ‘Me talking always seemed to put people off. And being a princess meant most folk just worshipped me instead. So I neva really had many friends either.’
‘I wish we could go back,’ Mal said, her jaw tightening. ‘Back to the beginning. When we first met at the drakonian castle.’
Wren only shrugged. ‘But we can’t, Mal.’
As she spoke, Wren seemed to notice her own clothing for the first time and smiled faintly. Mal glanced down as well.
The girl wore wolverian hunting attire: light grey trousers tucked neatly into thick boots, and a long-sleeved blue tunic trimmed with furs at the shoulders. It was practical, rugged clothing made for forests, snow, and the wild places of the north.
‘I don’t feel hot, if that’s what ya were thinking,’ Wren said as they continued their slow march across the dusty plain. ‘I reckon it’s because I’m dead. Don’t really feel heat or cold anymore.’
‘Wren… do you know why you’ve become a wolf?’
Wren nodded lightly. ‘A part of me soul is still alive in da mortal world.’
‘What would happen to you if that part of your soul also died?’
Wren tilted her head, considering the question with quiet curiosity. ‘I suppose I’d finally rest.’
‘You wouldn’t be able to stay as a wolf?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you want to?’
Wren thought for a moment before answering. ‘I don’t really mind. As long as da ones I love are happy, then I’m fine.’
Mal realised then that they had crossed the vast and desolate land with surprising ease.
The last time she had stood in this ring of Hell, every step had felt like dragging her body through chains.
She remembered how the earth itself had seemed to resist her, how Thanatos had eventually lifted her into his arms and carried her across.
‘It’s becas yer da God-Killer now, da rings of Hell won’t affect ya,’ Wren said. ‘And becas he’s waiting for ya.’
Mal frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Da one ya’ve come to meet.’
Wren glanced up at Belphegor.
The King of Hell had not changed in the slightest since Mal had last seen him.
Before them rose an enormous throne, and upon it sat the King of Sloth himself—colossal in stature, his body carved from the same burnt-orange stone that formed the desolate landscape around them.
His beard spilt downward in a heavy cascade until it brushed the ground where his bare feet rested.
Where his eyes should have been there were only empty sockets; hollow voids that nonetheless seemed fixed upon them both.
When he slowly leaned forward, the great crown perched upon his head tilted dangerously, as though it might topple and crash down upon them in a storm of stone and dust.
His vast mouth opened into a silent, cavernous scream.
Wren stepped in front of Mal without hesitation, placing herself between her friend and the monstrous king wrought from ruin. She glanced up at him, small and defiant beneath the towering weight of Hell.
They stood in silence, staring at one another for what felt like an age.
At last, the king’s attention shifted.
Those vast, hollow sockets turned from Wren to Mal, and something within them seemed to stir. An ancient, resonant hum that vibrated through the air itself. The ground beneath their feet trembled faintly, as though the very dust of Hell recognised its master’s stare.
Mal felt the instinct to look away clawing at her, but she refused to yield to it. Instead, she drew herself up, squaring her shoulders, and held her ground.
She would not show fear.
‘We’ve crossed yer lands,’ Wren said at last, her voice carrying through the stillness. ‘We’ve come to visit a king. Da king of all kings.’
Belphegor tilted his colossal head, the slow motion filled with a heavy, ponderous curiosity.
‘We’ve come to make a bargain with him,’ Wren continued. ‘Melinoe, daughter of Hades and Hecate, has come to make a bargain.’
Belphegor leaned forward.
Slowly.
Terribly slowly.
Until those enormous empty sockets loomed before them like dark gateways—vast, endless portals swallowing what little light existed in that desolate place.
For a fleeting moment, Mal wondered what might happen if she leapt into one. Would she vanish forever? Would she become another lost soul trapped within this ring of Hell? It was a question she had no desire to answer.
At last Belphegor leaned back into his throne, the immense movement sending a faint tremor through the ground. Wren wasted no time. She pointed towards the small door set into the base of the throne beneath the king’s enormous feet.
‘We betta hurry before he changes his mind.’
Mal did not argue. Together they hurried forward, slipping through the narrow doorway and into the darkness beyond.
The air inside was thick and lightless, swallowing the world around them.
‘Wren,’ Mal said as they moved deeper into the gloom, ‘do you know who the king is? The one I must visit. The one I was bound to?’
It was difficult to see Wren clearly in the shadows, but there was just enough dim light to catch the curve of her smile.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But we’ve got to jump into da next ring now.
Make sure ya land on yer feet and not yer arse.
Mine’s still sore. Ya’d think I wouldn’t feel such things, wouldn’t ya?
I mean, I’m dead. So why is it that if I can’t feel heat or cold, I can still feel pain?
Seems a bit pointless, if ya ask me. Maybe they do it on purpose.
A way to torture souls. That must be it.
’ She paused briefly. ‘What was yer question again?’
Mal could not help the small smile that tugged at her lips. How she had missed Wren and the endless stream of chatter that seemed to tumble from her without pause.
‘What king of Hell was I bound to?’
Wren’s smile sharpened faintly in the dim light.
‘Da king of all kings,’ she said. ‘Lucifer.’