The throne room was quiet.
No flames burned. No guards stood.
Just cold stone, crimson banners, and the echo of footsteps that had long faded.
Lucifer sat alone on the throne—high-backed, jagged, shaped from a single slab of black obsidian. It looked more like a weapon than a seat. The same could be said for him.
His arms rested on the edges. His coat hung open, boots crossed at the ankles. Eyes half-lidded, staring into nothing. It had been days since he'd taken the throne. And not once had he given an order.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he didn't know where to start.
Stronger…
The word lingered in his head, heavy and dull.
He had fought beings. Lost cities. Made clans. And yet, when Adam tore the mortal realm apart, he could only watch. Too weak to stop it. Too slow to matter.
And that reality dug deeper than any wound.
Lucifer leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His hands hung down, relaxed, but his jaw was tight.
