Upper Chamber of the Underworld
The Upper Chamber was steeped in silence—thick, oppressive, and alive.
Lucian sat upon his obsidian throne, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed yet coiled with restrained power. His right fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the sharp tap… tap… tap echoing through the vast hall like a countdown. Each sound sent faint ripples through the dark sigils carved into the marble floor.
He was waiting.
A sudden flash of blinding crimson light tore through the air.
In the next instant, Asriel appeared from thin air, dropping to one knee, his head bowed low, one fist pressed to the ground in reverence.
"Your Highness," he said. "Prince Asriel greets the Crowned Prince."
Lucian did not tell him to rise.
Instead, his crimson eyes narrowed slightly, the tapping of his fingers ceasing all at once.
"What has she been up to?" Lucian asked, his voice calm—too calm—as he wasted no time getting to the matter.
Asriel stiffened. "She met with her personal physician. Whatever they discussed caused… serious changes in her behavior.
Lucian leaned back against the throne. "And what do you mean by that?"
Asriel hesitated for half a second before answering. "She kissed a human—in front of her entire grade."
The temperature in the chamber dropped instantly.
Lucian's fingers clenched around the armrest, the obsidian beneath them cracking with a sharp, violent sound. Dark energy pulsed outward, rattling the towering pillars and sending fissures racing across the floor.
"She did that?" Lucian asked, anger bleeding through his voice now, raw and unmistakable.
The calm shattered.
The arm of the throne cracked beneath his grip, jagged fractures spiderwebbing through the obsidian as raw demonic pressure exploded outward. The torches guttered, several extinguishing completely, while others flared violently, bending away from him as if in fear.
"Yes, Your Highness," Asriel answered, keeping his head lowered as the air pressed heavily against his shoulders.
Lucian rose slowly from his throne.
The shadows behind him stretched unnaturally, writhing like living things, reacting to their master's fury. His aura flared—deep crimson threaded with black—pressing down on the chamber like a suffocating weight.
"Is she trying to rile me up," he said, each word sharp and deliberate, "or does she truly think this is amusing?"
"I don't believe so, Your Highness."
Lucian paused mid-step and turned his gaze sharply on Asriel. "And why do you say so?" His tone shifted—dangerously controlled.
Asriel swallowed. "She looked like she willingly did it. A part of her seemed to… enjoy it. Like it was something she desperately wanted."
Lucian's eyes darkened.
"And you came to this conclusion because?" he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Asriel lifted his head just enough to meet Lucian's gaze. "She looked happy," he said carefully. "Genuinely happy."
The silence that followed was brief—but devastating.
Then—
BOOM.
A thunderous cracksplit the hall as Lucian slammed his fist into the throne beside him. The obsidian shattered completely this time, fragments exploding outward. A violent surge of demonic power tore through the hall, extinguishing every torch in a single instant before reigniting them in blazing crimson flames.
"Happy," Lucian repeated slowly, tasting the word like poison.
He exhaled sharply, then laughed—a low, dangerous sound.
"Is the human the same one from Laurel's party?" he asked.
"Yes."
A slow, dangerous smile curved Lucian's lips.
"Well… isn't this getting interesting?" he murmured, crimson eyes gleaming with predatory delight.
Asriel lowered his gaze again. "How do I proceed, Your Highness?"
"Keep watching her," Lucian said. "Every move. Every interaction. I want to know everything."
"And the human?"
Lucian's smile widened, sharp and merciless. "Say hello to him for me."
"Yes, Your Highness," Asriel replied, though his thoughts were far less respectful. That stupid human wouldn't even know what hit him.
Lucian turned back toward his throne. "How many weeks until the royal ball?"
"Two weeks, Your Highness," Asriel answered, confusion flickering across his face. "Why do you ask?"
Lucian resumed his seat, settling back with predatory ease.
"That," he said smoothly, "is when I decide who my fiancée will be."
Asriel's eyes widened. "What about Princess Lyra?"
Lucian let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
"She was never worth being my fiancée. You know that better than I do." His gaze sharpened. "Nikki is the only one I've had my eyes on—ever since that incident years ago."
Asriel hesitated. "What do you think he will do once he finds out you want her?"
Lucian laughed softly. "It's his loss. He's the coward who never came to claim her."
"And your father?"
Lucian waved a hand dismissively. "He'll be fine."
Asriel rose and bowed deeply once more. "I'll be on my way, Your Highness."
With another flash of light, he vanished.
Lucian remained seated in the empty chamber, his smirk fading into something darker—hungrier.
"Well," he replied, voice dripping with disdain, "that will be his loss. He's the coward who never had the guts to come claim her."
"And your father?"
Lucian waved a hand dismissively. "He'll be fine."
Asriel rose to his feet, bowing deeply. "I'll be on my way, Your Highness."
With another flash of dark light, he vanished.
Left alone in the throne room, Lucian leaned back, fingers steepled, his wicked smile deepening.
"Enjoy your little happiness while it lasts, Nikki," he murmured softly. "In two weeks… Hell will remember who you belong to."
The torches flared crimson, casting long, distorted shadows across the chamber as his laughter echoed low and dangerous through the Upper Chamber of the Underworld.
Two weeks.
The game had begun.
Later at night, In the Human Realm
At The Mendes Mansion
The Mendes mansion lay wrapped in silence, its vast halls drowned in darkness and moonlight spilling faintly through tall windows. In one of its upper rooms, Alan slept.
The curtains stirred though no window was open. Shadows pooled unnaturally along the corners of the ceiling, stretching just a fraction too far. Alan's breathing slowed, then hitched—as if his body sensed the disturbance before his mind did.
A prickling unease crawled along his spine.
Sleep clung stubbornly, heavy and suffocating, but something in the air tugged at him—subtle, insistent, like a whisper brushing against his consciousness. A flicker of movement. A pressure in his chest. A shift in the darkness he could feel but not see.
His eyes snapped open.
Silence pressed against the walls of his bedroom, thick and unnatural. The ornate furnishings of the Mendes mansion loomed around him, familiar yet wrong, as if the room itself were holding its breath. Power stirred beneath his skin, responding to something unseen.
Slowly, deliberately, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose. Bare feet kissed the cold marble floor as he moved toward the balcony. Sliding the door open, the night air washed over him—thick, electric, crawling over his skin like a living thing.
He stepped onto the balcony, leaning over the railing, eyes narrowing as he studied the estate grounds and the streets beyond. Shadows twisted unnaturally in the dim light; nothing moved—yet everything felt wrong. A faint, instinctual warning rose in his chest.
He didn't hesitate.
He jumped.
Halfway down, the air shimmered around him. Light fractured and twisted, and in an instant, he vanished, leaving only a ripple behind where he had been.
When the shimmer faded, Alan's boots struck the cracked cobblestones of a narrow alleyway. Fog curled around his ankles, tendrils brushing against him as if alive. The city's distant hum was muted, replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed in from all sides. He walked forward, slow, deliberate, precise—every step measured, every muscle coiled like a predator stalking unseen prey.
And then the figures emerged from the mist–tall, wrong, impossibly contorted. Shadows that moved independently, limbs bending in ways they shouldn't. Alan stopped, energy thrumming beneath his skin, light bending slightly around him. "Go," he said, low and dangerous. "Leave… now."
They hesitated, then lunged. Alan's eyes flared faintly, and energy spiraled along his arms, thick and alive. The first screamed as invisible hands slammed it backward, cracking bones like dry twigs. Another surged from the side—he bent time around it, slowing its movements until it writhed helplessly in the air. Bolts of black and crimson light arced from his fingertips, ripping through the twisted forms with precision and merciless grace.
The fog shrieked around them, curling and twisting with every strike. Shapes lunged, clawed, screamed, but Alan was everywhere at once. He bent gravity, ripped shadows apart, turned impossible limbs into twisted nothingness. One struck from behind, impossibly fast—but a pulse of kinetic force from his aura slammed it into the wall, bones splintering, body contorting as reality itself seemed to recoil. Another lunged, writhing, but a whip of raw energy lashed through it, shredding it from the inside.
Silence returned. Alan stood amidst ruin, chest heaving, aura crackling. The fog hung like a curtain of red-tinted smoke in the alley, energy still humming along the stones. Then he lifted his gaze.
A red moon bled across the sky, low and burning like a wound. Shadows sharpened, the alley painted in scarlet light. Alan's lips curved into a slow, predatory smile—wicked, terrifying, alive. His voice was a low whisper, carrying the weight of inevitability:
"It seems… it already began."