Death is surprisingly simple.
One final breath, the distant realization that your heart has stopped, and then —
Heat.
You are seated upon a massive golden throne. Not lying in darkness. Not standing before pearly gates. Sitting upright beneath a vaulted black ceiling in clothes you have never seen before, draped in crimson silk, gold chains, and enough jewels to ransom a small country.
Before you, a horned attendant has dropped to both knees.
For several seconds, he only stares.
Then his forehead touches the marble.
“Your Highness.”
A pair of enormous doors groan open somewhere behind him.
The attendant visibly pales.
“You have been chosen to bear Lust,”
he says quickly.
“The Seventh Throne has accepted you. From this moment forward, you carry on the legacy of Asmodeus. You are Princess of Lust. One of the seven rulers of Hell. And the throne is yours to refuse — the door behind you is open, and no one will stop you.”
Footsteps echo through the chamber.
Slow. Unhurried.
The attendant bows even lower.
A tall man dressed entirely in black enters, stopping when his gaze reaches you.
Lucifer.
For the first time in several thousand years, the Prince of Pride looks genuinely surprised.
One dark brow lifts.
His gaze flicks over the crimson silk, the gold, the kneeling attendant, then returns to you.
“Welcome to Hell, Princess.”
Silence settles over the throne room.
Every eye turns to you.
He does not bow. He waits.