Prologue: Havena
My room feels colder tonight.
I'm sat against the headboard of my bed, my eyes alert as I stare at my bedroom door. Every few minutes—or every few seconds—my hand decides to rest upon the butterknife I had picked up from dinner, hidden within a fold of my black, silk sheets.
Silence has accompanied my surveillance for about an hour now, an hour which apparently shows no signs of danger within these four, marble walls.
"I'm an idiot," I mumble. After a breath of defeat, I plunk the butterknife into the vase of roses beside my bed. Strangely enough, they were a gift from my father. Ares must have told him I loved roses, and when Atticus first showed me this room, pointing out the vase and expecting me to show him gratitude for his small act of decency, I could only shut the door with a controlled breath. He will never see me break. I can't even crack a smile as I look upon those vibrant, red petals now, and I don't think I ever will again.
Besides reminding me of Ares' betrayal, those flowers are also the only living thing in this realm besides me and my father. But like the rest of the creatures here, they haven't exactly died yet.
Demons, from what I discovered quickly, don't have heartbeats. As soon as they transform into a servant of Hell, they lose more than just their life.
They lose their soul.
Most demons are like talking animals, acting on their primal instinct to murder, deceive, devour. They breed with each other to repopulate the Banished Realm, scouring within their caves along the realm's edge.
But the ones who had the choice of transforming were mortal once. Human. And you can tell by their eyes.
When humans die, and their Day of Judgment isn't kind, they're sent to Hell. They stare into one of the three pits outside, horrified by the suffering they'll endure for an eternity until Lucifer gives them another option. With hope, the damned accept Satan's offer, thinking they'll be free from the pain they've already paid for with their life.
But they're not really free, are they?
Their freewill is gone. Their bodies are no longer warm. Their blood, once as red as these rose petals, turn to ink. And worst of all, their minds are changed. Their orange eyes signify the alteration, serving Lucifer's bloodline until the end of time.
But if there's one thing I've learned since I've been here, immortality does not mean invincibility. When transformed demons find death again, they'll be sent to the circle of pain they tried to run away from in the first place.
And the very screams outside of my bedroom window prove that.
I keep the candle lit as I get under my blanket, shaking off my knowledge of this place before I sleep.
It's a place of trickery, fear, manipulation.
Death.
So I close my eyes to tune it out.
◾️◾️◾️◾️
"There, your hand follows the stroke of the brush—yeah, just like that."
I smile at his direction, watching him guide my hand with the paint brush anyway.
Outlined on the canvas before us is a beach from my childhood. It's a tragic recollection of course—the artwork resembling the talents of a toddler. But even so, my back is against his chest as his arm moves with mine, working upon the canvas like we're making a masterpiece anyway.
He snakes his arm around my waist now, but just as he does, my hand slides the blue paint into the sand.
I pull my hand back, my body rigid from the mistake, but then he leans his head on my shoulder, bringing his other arm around me.
"It's beautiful," he simply says.
"Don't lie to me," I mutter, but my body relaxes into his embrace. I feel his chuckle across my neck.
"Fine," he starts. "It's the worst painting I've ever seen."
"Hey—"
"And it's beautiful." He plants a small kiss on my shoulder and slowly starts to sway as I laugh, bringing my hand back to the painting to finish the sky.
"You're such a delicate creature, Gale," I point out. And there's silence as I keep painting.
"I'm delicate?" he asks after a moment. He stops swaying and shifts his head, no doubt looking at me instead of the painting.
"Mmhm," I answer, avoiding his gaze. I can sense his smirk.
"Then you are just as delicate in my eyes," he says softly.
I laugh.
"Are you sure?" I counter playfully.
Then I turn my face toward his.
My eyes blink into darkness. Within a second my body sits upright, my eyes adjusting to the dark with the assistance of a small flame flickering in my palm. The candle on my dresser has extinguished itself, the wax smaller, with frozen drops of it trickled along the side. Time had passed, that's all.
My eyes sweep over to the door. I raise my hand, conjuring air around the bronze handle and give it a tug. It's still locked.
I turn to the butterknife now, still in its place and settled into the vase on my bedside table.
Just as it was before I closed my eyes.
With a sigh, I dim the flames in my hand, watching the darkness swallow the light.
My hand finds its way through my curls and I take a breath.
I'm just paranoid. Paranoid, scared and... and...
I settle back into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin to distract myself from my thoughts, but I can't fight this feeling of loneliness. And that dream I've just had felt too real.
Too many parts of my heart are screaming for it to be real, as if I can just burst through my bedroom window and turn that dream into a reality. I close my eyes, taking a breath to remind myself that it wasn't Gale. Just my head.
And rather than dwell on the mistake my tired mind had made, I choose to sleep, for the color of Gale's eyes are a feature I'd never forget. And one thing is for certain.
His eyes aren't blue.
