The spiral staircase seemed endless. Each step clinked with the sound of metal on stone, echoing back from the void like footsteps chasing him. No walls. No railings. Just the black glass winding downward, coiled like a serpent's spine through the dark.
Lucifer didn't breathe.
Didn't think.
He just moved.
At the base of the stairs, the space widened. A circular arena carved from polished obsidian, smooth like liquid but hard as death. At the center, a single stone brazier lit itself—fireless flame, white as bone. Then shadows crawled out from the edges.
Six of them.
Then twelve.
Then more.
Figures emerged, skin pale, armor torn. Eyes missing. Throats slashed. Some headless. All dead.
But moving.
Wights. Fallen vampires.
Not feral like the first.
These ones remembered who they were.
They circled him, dragging blades, some with claws, others with warhammers or staffs crusted in dried blood. Not a sound from them. Just the soft scrape of death reborn.
Then they ran.
