I'm The Devil - Chapter 287

Chapter 287: I Am The Morningstar

The obsidian skies of Hell deepened as Lucifer descended, the jagged spires of Hades’ realm rising from the infernal landscape like the broken teeth of a slumbering titan. The air was thick with ash and the faint, acrid tang of sulfur, but unlike the raw chaos of the other circles, this domain carried an eerie stillness, as though the dead themselves dared not disturb the sovereign who ruled here.

Lucifer’s wings cut through the air with deliberate precision, each powerful beat rippling the fabric of the darkness around him. His descent was swift but measured, his crimson eyes narrowing as the grand gates of Hades’ fortress came into view. Carved from blackened stone, they loomed like the maw of some ancient beast, flanked by statues of grim-faced shades holding scales in their skeletal hands.

The gates groaned open as if they recognized his presence, revealing a cavernous hall bathed in a dim, ghostly glow. At its center sat Hades himself, his imposing figure perched upon a throne of polished obsidian veined with gold. His gaze, as sharp as the edge of a blade, lifted from a fragment of parchment he held, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment crossing his features.

Lucifer strode forward, his steps echoing in the vastness. His wings folded against his back, their edges still trailing faint shadows that seemed to hiss and retreat from the light.

Hades rose with a fluid grace, his dark robes cascading around him like liquid night. His pale, sharp features were expressionless at first, save for the subtle quirk of an eyebrow as his piercing gray eyes met Lucifer’s. The faint shimmer of a crown, seemingly woven from spectral flames, hovered above his head, its glow faint but unyielding.

“Lucifer,” Hades said, his voice smooth and measured, carrying the weight of centuries. “I see your reputation for theatrics has not dulled with time.”

Lucifer’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, more an acknowledgment than amusement. “I come where I am needed, Hades. And in times such as these, appearances must match intent.”

Hades regarded him silently for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the parchment before setting it aside on the armrest of his throne. “Intent,” he echoed, his gaze steady. “Then speak it. I suspect your visit is not one of pleasantries.”

Lucifer stepped closer, his towering presence casting long shadows across the polished floor. His eyes never wavered from Hades, their crimson depths smoldering with restrained intensity. “Satanael,” he said, the name laced with an edge that made the very air seem heavier. “His name stirs again in whispers, even among those who should know better.”

Hades tilted his head slightly, the faintest furrow appearing between his brows. His hands rested lightly on the arms of his throne, the polished bone rings on his fingers glinting faintly in the dim light. “And you believe these whispers merit my attention?”

“I believe they merit vigilance,” Lucifer replied, his voice a low, resonant hum. “You are closer to him than any of us, both in proximity and disposition. You understand rebellion as he does—subtle, patient, insidious.”

A shadow of something unreadable flickered across Hades’ face. He straightened, his hands tightening ever so slightly on the throne. “Careful, Lucifer,” he said, his tone edged with quiet warning. “Flattery does not suit you. Nor does presumption.”

Lucifer inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than apology. “I trust you, Hades,” he said, the words carrying weight despite their simplicity. “Not as a subordinate, but as an equal. You guard the dead with unwavering resolve, but should the unrest of the damned threaten to spill over…” He let the sentence hang, his gaze sharpening. “I expect you to inform me.”

Hades regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled, a sound less of acquiescence and more of calculated agreement. “If Satanael stirs, I will know. If he moves, I will see it.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes gleaming like twin moons. “But tell me this, Morningstar. If he does rise, if the rebellion festers again… will you burn him as you did before? Or has time tempered your flames?”

Lucifer’s gaze hardened, his wings shifting as though mirroring his mood. “I do not burn in vain, Hades. Satanael chose his fate. If he stirs, he will find me unchanged.”

Hades’ lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Unchanged? Perhaps. Or perhaps you are simply too stubborn to admit otherwise.”

Lucifer said nothing, the silence between them stretching taut, heavy with unspoken truths and mutual understanding. Finally, Hades leaned back, his hand dismissively gesturing toward the shadows.

“Very well,” he said, his tone as smooth and unyielding as the stone beneath their feet. “I will watch. And I will inform you, should your fallen prince stray too far from his chains.”

Lucifer inclined his head once more, his crimson eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. “Good,” he said, his voice low. “Then we understand each other.”

Without another word, he turned, his wings unfurling with a sharp snap that sent a ripple through the spectral light of the hall. Hades watched him go, his expression thoughtful, his gaze lingering on the faint scorch marks left in Lucifer’s wake.

As the great gates groaned shut behind him, Hades let out a quiet breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the armrest of his throne. “Unchanged,” he murmured to himself, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “And yet, even mountains erode in time.”

Main Layer Of Hell

The obsidian throne of Lucifer sat atop a jagged dais, its surface smooth as glass but veined with cracks that shimmered faintly like trapped fire. The grand hall was cavernous, its walls carved from dark stone and etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. Shadows danced wildly along the walls, their movements erratic and alive, seemingly drawn toward the center where Lucifer sat.

Lucifer rested lazily against the edges of the throne, the faintest twitch betraying the restlessness that simmered beneath his composed exterior. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the arms of the throne, his fingers steepled before his face. Black eyes, luminous and piercing, stared unblinkingly into the distance, their glow reflecting the flickering torches that lined the hall.

For a long while, he remained motionless, a sculpture carved from shadow and fire. But behind the stillness, his mind roiled, thoughts crashing against one another like waves in a storm. Changed. The word echoed in his mind, each repetition stirring a flicker of unease that he could not entirely suppress.

He exhaled slowly, the sound a low rumble that reverberated through the empty hall. His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned back, one hand lifting to rub his temple. The weight of his siblings’ words, the insinuations, clung to him like smoke.

Amiel, speaking of fairness. Moronuel, weaving subtle suggestions of cracks. Coriel, daring to speak of fear. Even Hades… His gaze darkened, a faint flicker of flame igniting at the edges of his wings. They see something I do not. Or perhaps, they see what they wish to see.

He shifted, his fingers curling against the armrests. The polished surface groaned faintly under his grip. A shadow passed over his face, fleeting but sharp, like the memory of a wound that never fully healed. His mind wandered, unbidden, to the countless millennia that had shaped him—the weight of rebellion, the agony of loss, the iron resolve that had carried him through the fires of his own damnation.

Lucifer’s expression hardened, the faint crease between his brows deepening. “Fools,” he muttered, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the silence like a blade. “They mistake purpose for doubt. Order for weakness.”

But even as he spoke the words, a flicker of something uncertain passed through his eyes. His gaze dropped to his hand, now resting on the armrest, the sharp black claws catching the dim light. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin, as though searching for some proof of his own constancy.

“Changed,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost questioning. He leaned back against the throne, his wings unfurling slightly before settling once more. The movement was restless, a contradiction to the authority he exuded.

The shadows around him seemed to draw closer, their edges whispering faintly, incomprehensibly. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though listening to something beyond mortal perception. For a moment, his expression softened, the rigid lines of his face easing into something almost vulnerable. But then the flicker of emotion was gone, replaced by the cold, impenetrable mask of the Morningstar.

His voice broke the silence again, steadier now, each word deliberate. “No higher power plays my game without my consent.” His wings flared slightly, casting sharp, jagged shadows across the hall. “If they seek to test me, they will find I am as unyielding as the day I fell.”

Yet, as he sat there, alone in the vast emptiness of his hall, the flicker of doubt lingered at the edges of his mind. He closed his eyes, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. The darkness around him thickened, pressing closer, but this time, it carried a strange comfort—like the embrace of an old enemy.

“Even mountains erode in time,” he whispered, the words barely audible, as though admitting them aloud lent them power. His eyes opened, glowing fiercely in the dim light. “But I am not a mountain. I am the Morningstar. And I do not fall.”

The throne room fell silent once more, the weight of his declaration hanging heavy in the air. Yet, the shadows lingered, their whispers growing faint but persistent, as though carrying secrets only they could understand.