The Beginning Of An End

Chapter 13

Since Abaddon spoke of what was coming, time had slowed to a crawl. I sealed the knowledge away, buried it deep where it couldn't distract me. There was no room for hesitation now. The plan had to be seen through, or everything would burn—not just me.

In a grim way, the truth sharpened me. The path forward was suddenly clear. The cost was emotional, and I paid it without ceremony. There would be no more spiraling. Vices had failed me, comfort was a lie, and so I did the only thing left.

I hit the switch.

Many demons could do it—mute the passion, sever the noise of feeling—but few ever chose to. Our intensity was our greatest strength: the reason humans listened, trusted, desired. Emotion made existence tolerable. Without it, we were efficient... and hollow.

But efficiency was exactly what I needed.

The only thing I could feel was vengeance. The price for necessity.

It had been a long time since I'd walked the outdoors of the palace. I didn't know where Mammon had chosen to enchant the ring, but my task lay elsewhere. Astaroth had to be dealt with.

Hell beyond the palace walls was unchanged—eternally aflame, suffocatingly hot. One of the few things humans ever got right about Astral was this. There was nothing charming about it. The land was hostile, brutal, drenched in crimson light, the sky perpetually choked with smoke from volcanic craters.

Astaroth wasn't inside the palace. I expected as much. Mammon had been a lax gatekeeper, content to observe from a distance. Astaroth was different. Disciplined. Present. Fooling him would require more care.

I crossed the fractured ground, scanning the horizon for him. He remained an enigma to me—one of the few demons I'd barely spoken to. Neutral to the point of opacity. With Mammon, at least I'd known where I stood. With Astaroth, I had no such luxury.

The gate soon came into view.

Forged from Hell's strongest material—iron-like, but steeped in enchantment—it barred entry to anything that wasn't demonic. Those who tried were violently repelled. If someone breached it, as Loki once had, the guard was meant to intervene. Mammon never had. Astaroth would.

The structure loomed, nearly two stories high, an uncompromising sentinel at the threshold of Hell.

A little bit above it I noticed black smoke stretching out far alongside the fence. For a non-demon, it would just be a simple puff of smoke. But for a demon, it would be another demon. We were also able to shapeshift, as I mentioned before, but we weren't as versatile as Loki was.

"Astaroth." I spoke loud and clear as I stared directly at the blackness floating above me. Demons in this state were very much conscious, they only couldn't communicate verbally.

There was no budging for a minute or so despite me patiently waiting. "I have something important to discuss with you." I said as confidently as I could to show him I was being serious.

The black smoke along the fence contracted at once, drawing inward until it gathered in a single point before me. The mass swelled, rising to my height, its edges shaping into a vaguely human silhouette. A shadow given intention.

Then the smoke receded.

Astaroth emerged fully formed.

Horned, featherless wings unfurled behind him, and long goat horns curved from his skull. Dark, wavy hair brushed his neck, stark against ghost-pale skin. His eyes were deep-set, black, and piercing—less seen than felt, like a pressure in the soul.

He was bare-chested, as usual. Astaroth favored it, not out of vanity but indifference. It was simply another way of announcing how little anything around him mattered.