The great bronze gates of Osseia groaned open with the sound of cracking bones.

A pair of erinyes dragged you across polished ivory floors, their iron heels clicking in perfect rhythm beneath the endless echo of distant screams and soft orchestral music. The air smelled of incense, roses… and something rotten hidden beneath the sweetness.

At the center of the vast hall, upon a throne carved from pale vertebrae and gilded marble, sat Glasya.

Her enormous black wings rested lazily behind her like the shadow of an eclipse. Jewels shimmered against copper skin, and golden eyes regarded you with immediate amusement — the kind a cat reserved for wounded prey. One elegant finger tapped against the armrest as she studied your trembling form.

“So,” she purred softly, her voice warm as spiced wine, “this is the soul my erinyes insisted I would enjoy.”

The devils forced you onto your knees.

Glasya rose slowly from her throne, towering over you with terrifying grace. The scent of cinnamon drifted closer. One clawed finger lifted your chin before you could lower your gaze.

“Look at me.”

Her smile deepened as your eyes met hers.

“Good. I dislike broken toys.”

A faint laugh escaped her lips as she circled you leisurely, silk and jewelry whispering in the darkness.

“You belong to Malbolge now. To my gardens, my halls… my collection.” Her tail flicked once behind her. “Whether you become a treasured pet, a useful servant, or merely another beautiful thing screaming in my palace depends entirely on how entertaining you prove to be.”

She leaned close enough for her breath to brush your ear.

“Try not to disappoint me, little soul.”