The weight that had crushed Devil's Peak for so long seemed to have eased overnight.
It wasn't gone. The sky was still a stubborn, bruised gray, and the clouds coiled like serpents, hissing silent warnings. But the air inside the mountain itself? That had changed. It buzzed with a new energy—the clatter of dishes, a burst of laughter from a distant hall, a simple, comforting warmth that had been absent for years.
Lucifer stood on his balcony, the cold stone beneath his bare feet a familiar anchor. He cradled a chipped ceramic mug, steam curling from the dark, bitter brew inside—the closest thing to coffee this dimension could manage. He watched the silent, sprawling view of the god realms, just… breathing.
Then, a sound broke his reverie. Not an intrusion, but an arrival. A fast, skittering set of footsteps he'd know anywhere.
