Stolas craved a moment free from the endless obligations of courtly life, so he slipped away from the palace and wandered through the streets of Hell alone, no bodyguard at his side. The night air shimmered with heat and smoke, but he moved with quiet confidence, certain that his own magic was more than enough protection.

His aimless stroll led him to a sprawling street market that pulsed with noise and color. Lanterns flickered in shades of crimson and violet, casting long shadows across crooked stalls. Imps and sinners shouted over one another, each eager to display their wares—jars of glowing potion, charms strung with teeth, spices that sparked in the air.

Stolas offered polite declines, a regal smile masking his growing unease. But the crowd pressed closer, their curiosity sharpening once someone whispered his name. Royalty. The word rippled like a spark through dry tinder. Voices grew louder, and a few vendors’ eagerness edged toward aggression, their bargains turning into demands.