Chapter 3
The devil paced around the obsidian walls of the gaols in agitation, his blood a simmering cauldron beneath his flesh, he burned within, he drowns in carnage with every throat he slashes every soul he crushes beneath his wrath, the kingdom trembles with his fury but matter how much blood he spills those memories assail , she's the red that stains his hands, her scent mingles through the blood soaked air, the ghost of her touch lingers on his skin ...
The heavens wept. Or perhaps it was the world itself mourning alongside him. The sky, once untouched in its majesty, now burned crimson as storms of fire and shadow tore across the land. The ground cracked beneath his feet, opening into jagged abysses, swallowing entire villages, forests, and rivers. The winds howled with voices not their own, carrying the echoes of his rage and sorrow to every corner of existence.
Lucifer stood at the edge of oblivion, his wings spread wide, blacker than the void itself. His breath came ragged, his chest heaving—not from exhaustion, for he could not tire—but from the agony that clawed at his very being.
She was gone.
His queen. His light. His curse.
His love.
For all his power, all his dominion over darkness, he could not hold onto her. She had slipped through his grasp like the finest sand, vanishing into the cruel hands of fate. The moment her heart had ceased to beat, something inside him had shattered. Something ancient. Something boundless.
With a roar that shook the heavens, he reached for the nearest celestial body—a distant, insignificant moon. His fingers clenched into a fist, and the celestial rock imploded, crushed by his fury, sending fragments spiraling into the cosmos.
The oceans trembled at his anguish, waves rising like hands reaching toward the sky, only to crash down upon cities with merciless force. The earth itself seemed to grieve with him, splitting open, swallowing temples, kingdoms, and all who dared whisper her name in vain.
The angels, even in their divinity, did not dare intervene. The demons cowered in their pits, whispering prayers—prayers!—for the storm of his sorrow to pass. But Lucifer did not hear them. He heard only silence. The silence of a world that no longer contained her voice.
He fell to his knees, the once-proud Morning Star now a broken specter in the ruins of his own making. He clawed at the ground where she had last lain, fingers tearing into the ashes of what had been. The fires around him cast eerie shadows, flickering with whispers of her memory. He could almost see her, standing there, smiling as she once had—before death had taken her away.
His fingers curled into fists, and a deep, guttural sound tore from his throat. It was neither rage nor hatred, but something far worse.
Grief.
A grief so consuming it turned gods into ghosts.
And so, the world burned, because the Devil mourned.