AURELIUS

Aurelius POV

The obsidian walls of the Abyssal Depths bled a slow, black resin that hissed whenever it struck the stone floor. It was a comforting sound. A rhythmic, suffocating backdrop to the screams echoing through my personal interrogation chamber.

I adjusted the signet ring on my right thumb, taking my time as I stared down at the creature chained before me. He was once an archangel’s favored envoy—a radiant, high-ranking light-bringer who had made the colossal mistake of infiltrating my borders disguised as a shadow-trader.

Now, he was barely recognized as anything divine. His white-gold wings were stripped to raw blood and shattered bone, nailed against the scorched iron pillars.

"You're taking too long, brother," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the archway.

I didn't need to look up to know who it was. The sudden spike in heat and the heavy smell of brimstone and iron gave him away instantly. Kaelen, the Lord of Wrath, strode into the torchlight, his massive frame practically vibrating with unspent violence. He cracked his knuckles, a sound like snapping timber.

"He's resilient," I said smoothly, my voice cold, calm, and utterly devoid of effort. " celestial light clings tightly to his marrow. It takes a delicate hand to burn it out without destroying the spirit before it yields."

"Delicate?" Kaelen scoffed. He stepped up to the chained angel, grabbing a handful of golden hair and yanking the spy’s head back. The creature groaned, coughing up a mixture of black blood and divine luminescence. "You always were too dramatic, Aurelius. Let me show you how Wrath clears a throat."

Kaelen pressed his bare palm directly over the angel's chest. Instantly, hellfire—thick, suffocating, and deep crimson—flooded into the captive’s ribs. The spy shrieked, a high, agonizing sound that vibrated off the stone, his eyes turning entirely white as his soul was cooked from the inside out.

"Wait... stop! Stop!" the angel gasped, the words tearing through his raw throat as Kaelen eased his grip just enough to allow speech. The spy’s terrified, gold-flecked eyes locked onto mine. "You... you think you are untouchable, Lord of Pride! You sit on your dark throne while Heaven sets its grand machinery in motion!"

I raised a single dark eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed. "If this is your attempt at a final curse, deliver it quickly. My patience is not as infinite as my power."

The angel spat blood onto my pristine leather boots. "It is no curse! It is a decree! The ancient prophecy... the one the High Council swore to bury eons ago... it has begun! Her soul has returned!"

I paused, tilting my head slightly. "Her soul?"

"The radiant warrior! The traitor Archangel Seraphiel!" the spy wheezed, a pathetic, desperate grin stretching across his blood-stained lips. "She is reborn on the mortal realm this very moment! A fragile, mortal woman walking among dust and mud. And the High Council has already dispatched their silent blades to sever her throat before she can reclaim her light—or before you can find her!"

A low, deep laugh rumbled from my chest, echoing off the iron pillars. It was a dark, melodic sound born of supreme arrogance.

"A prophecy?" I murmured, taking a step toward him, my gold eyes flaring through the shadows. "You expect the High Sovereign of Hell to tremble over a celestial fable? A bedtime story told to frighten young cherubs? The Lord of Pride bows to no one, least of all a reborn bird with clipped wings."

"It is true!" the angel screamed, thrashing against his chains. "The sacred texts do not lie! She lives! And Heaven will butcher her before—"

I didn't bother letting him finish.

With a flick of my wrist, a blade of pure abyssal shadow materialised in my palm and sliced straight through his neck. The angel’s head dropped to the stone floor, his body disintegrating into a cloud of useless, fading ash.

Kaelen wiped a smudge of black blood from his forearm, looking at me with a heavy, unreadable expression. "A bit sudden, wasn't it?"

"He was boring me," I said coldly, turning my back on the ashes and flicking a speck of dust from my lapel. "Clean up this mess. I have a court to run."

The High Hall of the Seven Sovereigns was a massive, gothic sanctuary carved directly from the heart of Hell's black mountain. Six towering thrones of iron, obsidian, and bone sat in a wide semicircle, bathed in the low, violet glow of ethereal torches.

I sat upon the central throne, rested my cheek against my knuckles, and stared down at my brothers.

Almost all of them were assembled. To my right sat Kaelen, his dark eyes still smoldering with the residual heat of the dungeons. Next to him was Dorian, the Lord of Greed, draped in rich velvet and lazily spinning a heavy gold coin across his knuckles. Across from them sat Lysander, the Lord of Lust, lounging back with a silk robe hanging loosely off his shoulders, a wicked, amused smile playing on his lips. Valerius, the Lord of Gluttony, leaned against his high armrest, idly examining a dagger forged of dark bone, while Tristan, the Lord of Sloth, was slouched so low in his seat he appeared half-asleep, his shadowy aura wrapping around him like a heavy blanket.

Only one seat remained vacant. Zephyr, the Lord of Envy, had retreated to his deep, subterranean cavern weeks ago, brooding in isolation as he so often did. I didn't care to summon him; his silence was a mercy.

"So," Dorian spoke first, his voice dripping with smooth velvet. "I hear our guest in the lower levels had a rather colorful story to tell before Aurelius decided to shorten his height."

Kaelen crossed his massive arms over his chest, his voice echoing loudly in the cavernous hall. "He spoke of the prophecy. The old one. He claimed Archangel Seraphiel's soul has reincarnated in the mortal realm."

Lysander straightened up, his silver eyes flashing with sudden interest. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "Recite it, Kaelen. Word for word. You always had a memory for bloody declarations."

Kaelen growled low in his throat, but spoke the words clearly, letting them hang in the heavy air of the court:

"When the Crown of Pride meets the Sovereign of Light,

A soul reborn in ash shall shatter the night.

He who bows to none shall fall to his knees,

And the throne of the heavens shall bleed."

Silence fell over the council chamber. Even Dorian stopped flipping his gold coin.

Lysander’s smile broadened into something sharp and predatory. He turned his gaze toward me, his eyes gleaming with dark intrigue. "A reborn soulmate? An angelic warrior turned mortal, meant to bring the High Sovereign of Pride to his knees? Aurelius, my dear brother, you need to go to Earth immediately. If Heaven is already sending assassins to hunt her down, she must be found before they erase her entirely."

I let out a cold, dismissive scoff, adjusting my position on the throne. "You are all acting like impressionable hatchlings. There is no fated mate waiting for me in the dirt."

"Are you certain?" Lysander purred. "A soul bond forged in ancient light is not something even you can sweep away with a wave of your hand."

"Demons do not have mates," I stated, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the terrifying, absolute authority of the High Sovereign. "We are rulers of the Abyss. We take what we want, we crush what opposes us, and we yield to no one. The concept of a soulmate is a weak, mortal romanticization—a weakness born of fragile hearts. I am Pride. I do not bow, I do not fall, and I certainly do not pine over reincarnated angels."

"You are being an idiot," a quiet, drawling voice spoke up from the end of the line.

I narrowed my eyes toward Tristan. The Lord of Sloth hadn't even opened his eyes, but his tone was filled with lazy, unyielding logic.

"Explain yourself, Tristan," I warned softly.

Tristan sighed, shifting slightly on his throne of shadows. "It doesn't matter if you believe in mates, Aurelius. What matters is that Heaven believes it. If the High Council is dispatching celestial executioners to the human realm, they are doing it because they fear what happens if that prophecy comes true. If you stay here out of stubborn, arrogant denial, you leave a potential weapon—or a massive power shift—entirely in Heaven's hands."

"Tristan is right for once," Valerius chimed in, tossing his bone dagger into the air and catching it effortlessly by the hilt. He looked up at me, his dark eyes sharp. "Think of it pragmatically, brother. If this girl is nobody, you go to Earth, confirm she is just a meaningless mortal, and eliminate her yourself to prove the prophecy false. But if she is the reincarnated Seraphiel, allowing Heaven to butcher her on mortal soil makes us look weak. It makes you look careless."

Valerius leaned forward, his grin dangerous. "Go to Earth. Find the girl. See what Heaven is so terrified of. If nothing else, taking her from right under the archangels' noses will mock their precious High Council far more than sitting on your throne down here."

I remained motionless, letting their words settle in the quiet vault of the chamber.

Tristan was right about one thing: Heaven's fear was tangible. If the archangels were scurrying around Earth like desperate rats trying to hide a secret, then something significant was happening on the surface. My pride would not allow Heaven the satisfaction of carrying out an operation undetected beneath my gaze.

"A brief excursion," I said finally, my voice smooth and dangerous as I stood up from my throne. My black coat billowed around me as dark magic flared around my boots. "I will go to the mortal realm. I will find this pathetic human creature, expose this prophecy as the desperate delusion it is, and tear apart every celestial assassin Heaven dared to send."

Lysander chuckled softly under his breath. "And if she turns out to be everything the prophecy claims?"

I looked down at him, my gold eyes burning like dying stars.

"Then Heaven," I whispered, "will learn what happens when they try to touch something that belongs to me."