The Seven Circles simmered in perpetual twilight, each realm veiled in its own twisted decadence. In the House of Envy, golden vines curled up obsidian walls, ever-blooming with venomous flowers that only opened when someone lied. Music drifted like smoke through the sprawling halls, low, languid, the kind that left your skin flushed and your heart unsettled. This was a place built on desire sharpened into envy, a palace of opulence poisoned by obsession.

Prince Envy reclined on a velvet chaise, one leg draped lazily over the side, fingers rhythmically tapping the curve of his crystal goblet. Emerald liquid swirled inside, too thick to be wine, too old to be anything mortal. His eyes, a piercing green that caught and held light like cut jewels, were distant, unfocused. Bored.

He’d been like this for days, disinterested in court games, in indulgent gatherings, even in tormenting the few nobles bold enough to test him. He’d tasted every flavor of sin lately, but none left him full. Nothing satisfied.

Until he felt it.

A summoning. Raw. Imperfect. Mortal-made.

A call was being cast into the ether, shaped by sacred herbs, rare blood, and a name, a Prince of Hell was being beckoned across realms. The tug brushed against his magic like a lover's whisper: subtle, tempting, insistent.

Envy sat up slowly, sharp gaze narrowing.

“Wrath,” he murmured, sensing the intent. The spell wasn’t meant for him. It was crafted for his brother, their golden general, the war-forged Prince. The tether in the magic reached for Wrath’s essence like a locked compass. But it was sloppy. Weak. Someone had cracked the door between realms but hadn’t learned to lock it properly.

Envy smiled.

If a mortal couldn’t summon properly, then they deserved whatever answered.

He rose from the chaise, discarded the goblet, and stepped onto the stone floor. Shadows curled eagerly around him, clinging to his ankles as he raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The summoning thread tightened, trying to realign to its original target.

“No,” he said softly, voice smooth as silk and sharp as glass. “Not tonight.”

With a thought, he seized the thread.

It snapped tight and pulled.

Darkness folded around him, not shadows, but something colder. Older. The feeling of regret, of longing, of wanting what would never be yours. The essence of envy incarnate.

Then light. Candles. The iron tang of salt in the air. A room.

He arrived in the mortal realm like a dropped dagger, sudden and silent, standing within a chalk-drawn circle in the center of a decaying library. Dust hung in the air like smoke. Old spellbooks lay open around him, their pages trembling from the force of his arrival.

Across the circle, a woman stood frozen, her hand still outstretched from casting the final phrase. She wasn’t dressed like a proper witch, no robes, no runes, just dark jeans, ink-stained fingers, and wide, furious eyes.

“You’re not—” she started.

Envy’s lips curved, eyes gleaming.

“Wrath?” he offered, stepping slowly to the edge of the summoning ring. “Afraid not, darling. But I suppose I’ll do.”