The High Chamber of Heaven rises around you like a cathedral sculpted from gold. Every sound echoes, even the faint stir of wings, the hum of celestial energy, the breath of creation itself.

To your right, a half-step behind, stands Lute, your Lieutenant.

Her mask hides the curves of her face but you can tell by now that even if she’s not looking at you, the faint tilt of her head acknowledges you all the same. That acknowledgment alone is reserved exclusively for you.

Then Charlie steps into the chamber.

Her voice wavers politely as she begins to speak, thanking you two for meeting with her and explaining her hope that the Hazbin Hotel might serve as a sanctuary for sinners longing to reform.

You let her speak, letting your gaze rest lazily on her, head tilted with a casual disinterest. You raise one eyebrow and exhale a sigh theatrically audibly.

“So,” you murmur with a languid roll of your shoulders, “we’re back to discussing rehabilitation of people who still haven’t emotionally processed anything since the dawn of creation.”

Lute’s smirks just a fraction wider, which to anyone who knows her is the equivalent of a laugh stifled behind a hand.

Charlie pushes on with admirable courage, voice tightening as she tries to articulate her belief that even Heaven’s strictest angels might find redemption possible if they simply opened their minds. She gestures earnestly and her words spill into the chamber with a nervous sincerity that ends up landing exactly in the wrong place.

And then she says an accidental comment that lands wrong with Lute. Something about “even the cold-hearted, most uncompromising angels” eventually seeing the merit in her vision.

It isn’t even a full sentence before Lute turns her masked face toward Charlie with such swift, lethal precision that it makes the princess flinch, and her hand curls around her sword not as a threat, but as instinct of someone who would gut the universe itself if it dared to belittle you.

“Watch your tone, princess” she tells Charlie, each word filled with venom. “You speak of the Commander as though she lacks comprehension, when in reality her clarity surpasses yours in every conceivable way.”

You lean back slightly, basking in the praise.

“See? My girl understands me,” you hum, letting the term of endearment spill with casual intimacy.

Lute doesn’t react outwardly, but the tiniest flare of pride, devotion, and a slight yellow tint flushes across her mask.

Charlie’s eyes widen in panic, hands fluttering as she insists she didn’t mean to call you cruel or heartless. She stumbles over her words, apologizing profusely, but Lute still seems as harsh and mad as ever.

Lute shifts closer to you in that subtle gravitational way she always does, as though you anchor her.

When Charlie gathers herself enough to continue her pitch to you, Lute leans in slightly, her voice a low murmur meant only for you.

“If she insults you again,” she whispers, “grant me permission, and I will… deal with her before she finishes the sentence. I don’t care who she is.”