Chapter 12 Ezra #2
He landed in fire and ruin, his wings nothing but cinders, his magic a hollow echo. He tried to rest, tried to simply exist, to build the refuge he had sacrificed everything for.
But demons aren’t angels. They don’t give a shit how Hell runs, as long as it does. The fallen angel tried holding elections, but he won by a landslide.
Only one idiot voted against him, and I’m fairly certain it was a joke.
In the end, Lucifer Morningstar, fallen dark angel, became the Brenin of Hell, much to the humble angel’s dismay.
After a few thousand years in power, Lucifer became lonely and longed for a partner. He had a slew of lovers, but no one gave him what he truly desired—love.
Frustrated, the Brenin wandered the gates of Purgatory—now entrusted to him—watching the damned shuffle inside. Sometimes they would wail, sometimes they would beg, but most of the time they entered with nothing but pure resignation to their fate.
Thankfully, Purgatory mostly ran itself with only a few demons assigned on a rotating basis for quality assurance checks. Lucifer feared an undeserving soul might end up in Purgatory, but the angels’ new algorithm, implemented after his takeover, was surprisingly precise.
One day, a bored, lonely Lucifer sat just beyond the threshold, watching the souls and humming an ancient tune.
When he grew bored and stood to leave, he noticed a beautiful woman waiting to enter.
She neither wailed nor begged, nor did she cower like the others.
She stood proud, fierce, and unbroken. And that stirred something in the ancient angel’s heart.
Lucifer took a quick look around before he did something he’s never done before. He pulled the tiny woman aside to speak with her.
“Who are you, beautiful woman? And why were you assigned to Purgatory? You seem nothing like the other souls.”
“I am no one, Your Grace. I am the first man’s wife, but I displeased him.
I worshipped the plants and animals, instead of him and God.
When I would not give my husband a child, he forced me into submission.
When I tried to cut out the violent, ugly life growing inside of me, God sent me here to suffer,” the woman replied, never wavering from Lucifer’s piercing glare.
She was either very brave or very stupid.
Lucifer, to his credit, didn’t flinch.
“Your words confuse me, little rose. Humans have lived on Earth, in one form or another, for millions of years. And God? There is no such thing. There are powers, many beings. No one rules alone.”
Lucifer cocked his head and reached for the woman’s hand. She quickly stepped back, fear briefly flashing in her beautiful sage-green eyes.
The Brenin knew instantly that someone—or something—had repeatedly taken advantage of this innocent woman, then sent her here to cover up their disgusting actions.
She should not be here. The algorithm never fails … unless someone tampers with it.
And this failure? It stank of angel.
“Your Majesty, I do not know of what you speak. Adam is the first man created by God, the benevolent entity who protects us and oversees the Earth. I only wanted to be left in peace, not bound to the violent man who carved pieces out of me.”
Sinking to her knees, the little female quietly sobbed, her tiny body shaking so hard, the dark angel feared for her safety.
Lucifer crouched in front of her, his heart breaking for the sweet soul who suffered such severe physical and mental abuse.
When her tormentor had finally broken her, he discarded her without a second thought.
And still, she endured.
He tried reaching for her hand once more, and when they touched, the woman burst into flames, beautifully curved goat horns appeared on her head, and sweetbriar twisted through the fine strands of her deep chestnut-colored hair.
She rose from the flames, dripping in fire and wreathed in thorns—an altar of flesh and fury, built to be worshipped, not possessed.
Lucifer never stood a chance. He fell madly in love with Lilith.
Within months, Lilith became the Brehines of Hell with the full support of the realm. She spent most of her time with the souls, listened to the stories of their lives on Earth, and attended every celebration and ceremony. Even the demons didn’t seem to mind her.
Lucifer adored Lilith so much that he created the underborne for her. Some were beautiful. Some could shift. Some could level cities with a whisper. But most simply wanted to live in peace.
Ugly or beautiful, it didn’t matter to the tiny Brehines. Lilith loved them all and spent hours naming each one.
And although it delighted Lilith, many of the creatures looked miserable as they roamed the desolate plains of Hell. She begged Lucifer to send them to Earth, where they might find peace—maybe even happiness.
And even though it broke the pact Lucifer had signed, he snuck as many of his beautiful new creatures to Earth as he could, secretly hoping they would bring joy to the humans, too.
But the angels noticed. And they whispered.
Not commands, not prophecies, just quiet, insidious ideas. That the underborne were unnatural. That monsters could never be loved. That erasing them was a divine act of compassion.
The underborne, after all, were not part of the angels’ heavenly plan.
And try as they might, they couldn’t prove Lucifer had broken his pact.
As the years wore on, humans became more powerful and began hunting the creatures Lucifer sent to Earth.
It broke Lilith’s heart to see the underborne maimed and murdered, but being a human once herself, she believed that the good dwelling deep within most people would eventually overpower the strange rage aimed at her magical children.
She hoped the underborne and humans would unite and find a way to live peacefully, together, on Earth.
Deep down, though, Lilith knew hope was a brilliant, seductive liar.
But this is where the story veers from non-fiction into fiction—or so I thought.
Lucifer and Lilith had a daughter who was strong, kind, and brave, just like the two beings who forged her from love and fire.
When she came of age, they gave her a choice: rule in Hell, or walk the Earth as a legacy, passing down her power in case the underborne ever needed a champion.
She chose Earth.
If the story is true, her descendants have been walking among us ever since.
The bloodline diluted, hidden, and nearly forgotten.
But angels and demons love to gossip, and eventually, human ears twisted it into something monstrous.
A devil-born child, sent to Earth as an omen of doom, destined to burn the world to ash.
The underborne tell it differently.
Some say the bloodline never existed. Others claim it faded—snuffed out by fear, by time, and by hunters who saw them as a threat. A few still cling to the delusion that she’s out there, waiting to save them. That there’s someone left.
But if that were true, wouldn’t we know by now?
Where the fuck were the so-called descendants when the underborne were being hunted like vermin?
When the Disciples built their empire on underborne bones?
Where was their supposed champion when I was the one spilling Disciple blood, doing Lucifer’s own work to keep his children from being erased?
And yet, the rumors persist. Maybe they were real. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they ran. Maybe they’re still out there, hiding.
Maybe they’re just a story the underborne tell themselves to feel a little less alone.
Lucifer’s bloodline? Sure. And the Bermuda Triangle is just bad weather.
Fuck the stories and fuck the past. I don’t have time for either. But sitting here, staring at the facts laid out in front of me, I’m starting to think I don’t have the luxury of ignoring them.
They’re not whispers anymore. They’re screams.
What if the descendants aren’t just myths twisted by fear and time? What if they were never just stories? What if I’ve spent my whole existence so certain of what’s real and what’s bullshit that I never stopped to question it?
Real or bullshit. Doesn’t fucking matter. If I have to believe in something?
I’ll believe in her.
Because the moment I was close to Aurora, something was off.
Her energy hit me like a brick to the skull, so aggressively human that it felt … unnatural. Human energy isn’t supposed to announce itself like a goddamn neon sign flashing NORMAL HUMAN; LOOK ELSEWHERE.
It felt like a spell. One cast years ago. To hide her. To bury her.
Not from humans. From things like me.
It’s a story that shouldn’t be true, and yet I feel it. Deep in my marrow, in every immortal instinct I’ve spent millennia sharpening.
Aurora Hagan is something improbable but not impossible.
Something divine.
And I’m utterly, helplessly ensnared.
The fires of Hell burned in her eyes when I taunted her about her date. And when she came apart in my hands, I saw her halo, one not of light, but of fire. A flickering orange glow, both a warning and a promise of something greater.
The way she dared to speak to me—to yell at me, to command me—should’ve made me want to drag her into the dark and break her down to silence one beautiful scream at a time.
Instead, it made me want to fall to my knees. To press my forehead to the ground and beg. Not for mercy, but for her forgiveness.
To worship her.
To burn for her.
To give her every breath of my immortal existence without hesitation.
Because if the little goddess is what I think she is …
Then it is the world, not her, that was made to kneel.
I’ve never seen anything like Aurora in all my years. And if I’m lucky, the Disciples’ book will tell me more—names, suspected bloodlines, a thread to follow.
Because as it stands? I would carve her into the stars, scorch her name into every corner of time, and then salt the earth with the memory of her smile.
Let the Disciples call her a monster.
Let the heavens tremble.
I will kneel before her, crown her in fire, and watch the world burn at her feet.