Back To Hell
As Lucifer exited the grand hall, the celestial winds whispered through the towering corridors of his domain, brushing against his wings with a chill that carried the weight of unspoken truths. His steps were deliberate, his boots echoing faintly against the polished obsidian floor as he moved through the vast, sprawling palace. The flickering glow of ethereal torches cast shifting patterns on the walls, their light reflecting the faint crease of thought etched across his brow.
His crimson eyes burned brighter than usual, the faint glimmer of irritation mingling with a deeper, quieter unease. Everyone had spoken of Satanael tonight—far more than coincidence could account for. Moronuel's sly provocations, Exousia's soft yet piercing appeals, even Ophiel's hesitant parting words—all had nudged him toward the same thought.
Satanael.