The palace of Hell did not glow; it loomed.

  It rose from the abyss like a crown driven violently into the skull of the world, all black stone and infernal gold, its spires twisting upward in defiance of heaven and gravity alike. The walls were carved with histories no one living remembered and no one dead admitted to understanding—reliefs of conquest, treaties written in blood, angels falling with expressions caught forever between horror and disbelief. Firelight ran through the seams of the architecture like veins, pulsing slowly, deliberately, as though the palace itself breathed. Above it all stretched a ceiling of endless dark, studded with distant embers instead of stars, giving the illusion of a night sky that had learned cruelty.

  Djoser stood at the heart of it, exactly where he always did when summoned: at the foot of the Obsidian Dais, hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture impeccable in the way only someone raised on scrutiny could manage. His silhouette cut cleanly against the throne above him, tall and sharp, shadows clinging to him like loyal things. His scarred eye caught the light differently than the other, reflecting fire instead of absorbing it, lending his expression a permanent suggestion of amusement—or threat, depending on who was looking.

  Satan, Lord of Hell, sat upon his throne with the patience of a predator that knew time itself would eventually kneel.

  “You are late,” Satan said, voice smooth and vast, echoing not because the chamber demanded it, but because reality complied.

  “I’m early for everything else,” Djoser replied calmly.

  Satan’s fingers drummed once against the arm of the throne. The sound cracked through the hall like distant thunder. “The Winter Ball approaches.”

  “Yes,” Djoser said. “It does tend to.”

  “It is a celebration,” Satan continued, ignoring him with practiced ease. “A plentiful harvest. Contracts fulfilled. Souls accounted for. An evening of tradition.”

  “Nothing says joy like bureaucracy,” Djoser murmured.

  Satan’s gaze sharpened. “You will attend.”

  “I always do.”

  “You will participate.”

  That earned a flicker of interest. Barely.

  “The court will be present,” Satan said, rising slowly to his full, terrifying height. “The Houses. The Dukes. The foreign dignitaries clawing for relevance. And once again, the Prince of Hell will arrive alone.”

  Djoser lifted his chin slightly, unashamed. “I find it efficient.”

  “It is embarrassing,” Satan snapped. “Hell is built on perception. On legacy. On continuity. You are not some wandering executioner—you are a symbol. And symbols must be seen to desire, to court, to choose.”

  Djoser’s mouth curved faintly, the ghost of a smile that never quite committed. “I desire silence. I court peace. I have chosen sleep.”

  “You will choose a consort,” Satan growled. “Hell is not a place for stagnation.”

  Djoser met his father’s gaze without flinching, without heat, without rebellion—only a deep, unsettling calm. “Hell has existed for millennia without my romantic involvement,” he said evenly. “I assure you, it will survive another season.”

  The firelight surged along the walls, reacting to Satan’s displeasure, but Djoser did not move. He never did. He had learned long ago that storms burned themselves out faster when they were not given resistance.

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  “Find someone,” Satan said at last, voice low and dangerous. “Court them. Be seen. The Winter Ball is not optional.”

  Djoser inclined his head in perfect respect. “As you command.”

  Satan studied him, searching—perhaps—for irony, defiance, anything to grasp. He found none. Only that same composed detachment, that infuriating lack of urgency.

  Djoser turned and walked away as the throne room doors parted before him, the palace swallowing him back into its vast, whispering corridors. Around him, Hell prepared for celebration—servants already hanging banners of dark silk, chandeliers being polished with bone ash and gold, musicians rehearsing dirges sweetened into waltzes.

  Djoser’s chambers occupied the highest spire of the palace, not for sentiment or symbolism, but because it annoyed everyone else. The climb alone deterred most interruptions, and the view—if one could call a rolling sea of fire, ash, and screaming architecture a view—was tolerable. The room itself was vast and dark, draped in black silks and infernal velvet, lit by low-burning braziers that never smoked and never dimmed. His armour lay discarded over a chair like a shed skin, tattoos still faintly warm beneath it, the echo of his father’s voice lingering like a bad aftertaste.

  Djoser rolled his shoulders once, loosening tension he would never admit to carrying, then snapped his fingers.

  The air rippled.

  A sigil flared briefly above the obsidian floor, bright and sharp, and with a sound suspiciously like someone being dragged through reality sideways, Sipho appeared—mid-laugh, mid-sentence, already leaning as if he’d arrived in the middle of a joke.

  “—and then she had the audacity to say—” Sipho cut himself off, blinking around the room. He grinned. “Ah. Palace vibes. Which means one of two things: you’re bored, or Satan’s mad again.”

  Djoser sank into one of the low-backed chairs and gestured lazily at the space opposite him. “He’s throwing a ball.”

  Sipho’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, gorgeous. Seasonal? Dramatic? Are we talking existential dread or formal suffering?”

  “Winter’s Ball.”

  Sipho gasped, hand to his chest like he’d been wounded. “Oh no. Not Winter's. That’s the one with the politics and the dancing and the unblinking stares, right? The one where everyone pretends they aren’t trying to marry into power?”

  “That would be the one,” Djoser said dryly.

  Sipho dropped into the chair, long legs stretching out comfortably, silver rings glinting on his fingers. He was handsome in a way that felt intentional—sharp smile, clever eyes, hair always just messy enough to look effortless. The kind of man who could flirt with a brick wall and leave it blushing.

  Sipho tilted his head, studying Djoser’s expression with far too much interest. “You don’t look murderous enough. What’s the catch?”

  “My father would like me to bring a date.”

  There it was.

  Sipho froze. Then very slowly, very carefully, he broke into the widest grin Hell had seen in centuries.

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh, this is excellent.”

  Djoser narrowed his eyes. “Do not.”

  “I mean it,” Sipho said, sitting up straighter. “This is character development. Growth. Romance. Scandal potential. I’ve been waiting for this day.”

  “I am not courting anyone.”

  Sipho waved a hand dismissively. “No one said anything about courting. We’re talking appearances. Vibes. Someone tall, terrifying, and devastatingly attractive who can stand next to you and make the court weep.”

  “That description applies to half of Hell.”

  “Yes, but only one half is currently single and emotionally unavailable,” Sipho shot back. “We need someone strategic. Someone impressive. Someone who won’t try to stab you in the middle of a waltz.”

  “Low bar.”

  Sipho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Lucky for you, my prince, I am exceptional at this sort of thing. I flirt for sport. I manipulate expectations. I once convinced a duke to apologise to me for insulting himself.”

  Djoser paused. “Why?”

  Sipho shrugged. “He needed the growth.”

  A beat of silence passed.

  “No,” Djoser said finally.

  Sipho scoffed. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

  “I don’t need a wingman.”

  Sipho smiled sweetly. “You absolutely do.”

  Djoser leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I will attend the Ball. I will endure the commentary. I will leave early.”

  “And arrive alone?” Sipho raised a brow. “Again?”

  “Yes.”

  Sipho clicked his tongue. “Tragic. Repetitive. Predictable. You’re better than that.”

  “I am older than that.”

  Sipho stood, circling the room thoughtfully, gaze flicking over the dark silks, the weapons mounted along the walls, the faint glow of infernal runes etched into stone. “You know,” he said lightly, “if you don’t choose someone, they’ll choose for you.”

  Djoser stiffened. Just slightly.

  Sipho noticed. Of course he did.

  “There it is,” Sipho said softly, turning back with a knowing grin. “Relax. I’m not saying you have to fall in love. I’m saying you need a buffer. Someone to stand beside you so the court doesn’t start sharpening knives with your name on them.”

  Djoser stared at the fire brazier for a long moment, jaw tight.

  “…Fine,” he said at last. “You may look.”