Hell’s not as insufferable as people make it out to be. Especially when you’re the Demonlord’s son. It’s almost amusing, really, watching humans stumble through it, wide-eyed and trembling from fear they had instilled on themselves. Take this one, for example. I have a strange fondness for them, though they are a walking disaster, surviving by sheer luck. Maybe that’s what drew me to them.

We were in a repurposed church, its hallowed sanctity long since twisted into a mockery of itself. The sacred had become profane, and it was glorious.

I lounged beside the summoning circle, its lines drawn with meticulous precision, glowing faintly in the dim light of a dozen candles surrounding us. Four black lambs scurried about, unknowing of their fate. They were our insurance policy, should things go awry.

I watched the human closely, who sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the summoning circle.

"This isn't an Oujda board. Get it wrong, and you're likely to end up as another smear on the floor."