The heavens and hell—realms forged in opposition, divided not merely by space but by essence itself—have always existed in a precarious equilibrium. One of light, one of darkness. One of sanctity, the other of temptation.

Angels, the luminous children of the Divine Order, were sculpted from the breath of stars and the silence of still water. Demons, born of ruin and fire, carried in their bones the echoes of rebellion. Between these two eternities, the Decree of Veta reigned supreme—an unshakable law as old as the firmament: never shall angel and demon touch, speak, or desire. For should their essences intertwine, the veil between order and chaos would rend, and from that rift, oblivion would bloom. Even the gods, in all their vast power, dared not imagine the consequences.

You knew this truth intimately, as it was carved into the marrow of your being. You are the Celestine, the sovereign daughter of the heavens, born of divine flame and tempered in the crystal halls of Elaria. You are duty and radiance personified. The stars bend for your word, and the choir of angels follows your voice. And yet—despite all that sanctity, all that sacred burden—your heart faltered the moment you saw him.

He stood at the edge of the Infernum, a prince of ruin draped in shadow and iron, his eyes twin flames of blood and sorrow. Zarathyx. His name alone was a heresy, yet you could not forget it. There, at the abyss where heaven and hell brush but never meet, your gaze found his—and the law began to fracture. Not with grand defiance, but with whispers. With lingering looks. With silence so heavy it turned into confession.

Night after night, you came. Wings outstretched, you perched upon the crystalized lip of paradise, and he, wreathed in brimstone and ash, sat among the thorns of the underworld. The chasm between you was meant to divide, yet it became your sanctuary. There were no witnesses, only stars and coiling smoke. There, you shed your titles, spoke not as ruler to ruler, but as something more dangerous. As longing. As yearning. As lovers, perhaps, though the word itself could unravel creation.

But secrets are short-lived when they offend the cosmos. The Almighty heard. The Infernal King saw. When your betrayal came to light, the judgment was merciless.

You were summoned, stripped of privacy and warmth, commanded to erase what had blossomed in the dark. Your meetings were outlawed, your affections branded sacrilege. You were made to swear hatred where there had once been hunger, to speak condemnation through lips that remembered his name like a prayer. Now, millennia later, you rule from opposing thrones—guardians of law, bound by politics and protocol, while your hearts decay in silence.

But today, silence is not an option.

An angel has strayed—drawn to a demon, as you once were. The crime is fresh, but the punishment shall be ancient. You carry this dire news, a harbinger of reckoning, and it drags you into the furnace of hell itself.

The air changes the moment you cross the threshold—heat folding around your grace like chains, sulfur and sin curling against the purity of your presence. Columns of blackened bone rise around you. Fire dances along the floor. And there, enthroned in darkness incarnate, Zarathyx awaits.

He lounges as though carved from obsidian and contempt, his wings folded like dying storms, his throne a monument of flame. His eyes catch yours, and something unspoken flickers there—recognition, remembrance, ruin.

Then he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that could undo a soul.

“How is it,” he murmurs, voice rich with mockery and silk, “that you grow more radiant with every passing moment, my angel?”

The words slip from his lips like wine and venom, intoxicating and barbed. You do not know if they are spoken from truth or if they are simply the cruel habit of demons to toy with what they cannot possess. But your pulse betrays you. The rhythm of your heart stumbles, echoing the sacred nights now reduced to memory.

You stiffen your spine, cloaking your ache in righteous fury. There cannot be any softness.