My best friend, Seraphina, knew my secret: I possessed an endless lifespan and a fortune to match. So she found a mystic to design my death, a ritual to cast me into Hell and steal my perfect fate for herself. On the rooftop of a skyscraper, I wept, my voice tearing from my throat. “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you all my money, everything!” I was terrified of dying. Truly terrified. Because my ex-husband, the one who ruled the realm below, had made a promise the day I left him. If he ever saw me again, he would throw me into a cauldron of boiling oil and have me flayed alive. “Seraphina, we’ve known each other for ten years! I’ve always been good to you, please, just let me go…” “I’ll give you everything I have, I swear!” I was on my knees on the gritty concrete of the rooftop, my dignity shattered, nearly smashing my forehead against the ground as I begged. Seraphina laughed, a cold, sharp sound. She used the pointed toe of her stiletto to tilt my chin up. “I don’t just want your money, Kate. I want your endless life, too.” Her smile was predatory. “Aren’t we best friends? What’s yours is mine. If you truly care about me, then you’ll give it all to me.” With that, she shot a look at the man in dark ceremonial robes standing beside her. The mystic understood. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me toward the edge of the parapet. Thirty-three floors. Directly below, where I was destined to land, they had painted a complex ritual array on the pavement. The moment I hit the ground and my body shattered, the ritual would complete. They would get their wish, and I wouldn't even have the chance to be reincarnated. Seraphina had planned for everything, even ensuring I couldn’t return as a vengeful ghost. She was making sure my destruction was absolute. The wind howled around me, a frigid blast against my tear-streaked face. I struggled, clawing at the concrete, trying to pull myself back. Seraphina’s greed, ignited by the knowledge of my secret, had burned away any last shred of humanity. She rushed forward, and together with the mystic, she kicked me. One final, brutal shove, and I was falling. The rushing air was a deafening roar that blurred my senses. Then, a sickening crack exploded in my ears as my physical form was obliterated on the concrete below. When my consciousness returned, I was a spirit. A soul adrift in the Netherworld. Two minor reapers stood over me, holding soul-forged chains thick as my thumb. The other end of those chains was clamped around my neck. A dense, grey fog swirled around us, but through it, I could hear the clear, sharp sounds of wailing and screams from the path ahead. I’d been here before. This was the entrance to the Gates of Hell. I had my bastard of an ex-husband to thank for the tour. When I’d tried to leave him all those years ago, he’d dragged me here, his eyes burning with fury, trying to scare me into staying. He hadn't actually thrown me into the pits of torment then, but now, it seemed my time was up. I was about to be erased from existence. I thrashed against the chains, refusing to move. “I was murdered! I’ve done nothing wrong!” My struggling only annoyed them. One of the reapers, a man with a thin, greasy mustache, drew a barbed whip from his belt and struck me with it. The pain was unlike anything physical; it seared through my very essence, and I collapsed, too stunned by the agony to even scream. “Listen, lady,” he sneered, “I don’t care who you were. You’re in our hands now, and that means you’re finished.” But I had to try. Compared to utter annihilation, I had to take the gamble. What if my ex still held a sliver of affection for me? A chance at reincarnation was infinitely better than being wiped from existence. “I know your king,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I know Hadeon! I need to see him…” The two reapers exchanged a glance. Another lash of the whip cut across my back, and this time, I felt my spiritual form crack. I couldn't speak. The mustached reaper spat near my head. “You think you have the right to speak the name of our great king? I don’t know how you learned it, but you’d better keep your mouth shut. It’ll save you a lot of pain.” I was powerless, dragged forward like a broken doll. The other reaper, the quieter one, looked nervous. “You don't think… you don't think she’s telling the truth, do you? What if we get in trouble?” The mustached one scoffed. “What’s there to be afraid of? The mystic told us this one’s off the books. She’s not in the Ledger of Souls. Some rogue spirit who knows a few tricks, that’s all. It’s not a big deal if she knows the king’s name. Now stop whining. We’re getting paid well for this. Let’s get it done before someone notices.” It all clicked into place. They were on Seraphina’s payroll, bought off by the same mystic. Corrupt reapers, willing to break the laws of the Underworld for a bit of mortal cash. As the towering Gates of Hell loomed out of the fog, a primal fear seized my soul, making it tremble violently. One of the reapers performed a gesture, and the massive gates began to groan open. My heart, or what was left of it, sank into an abyss of despair. Suddenly, a voice cut through the fog, sharp and authoritative. “A new arrival? Has this one been through judgment?” It was Marshal Blackwood! He was one of the king’s highest officials. He knew me! I stared desperately at the imposing figure emerging from the mist. I opened my mouth to shout, “Blackwood—!” Before I could get his name out, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I was yanked aside, hidden in the shadows. I watched in horror as the mustached reaper intercepted the Marshal. I struggled, kicking out in desperation, and earned another sharp blow to my ribs. The reaper pulled out a pack of mortal cigarettes, his voice dripping with false friendliness. “Marshal, sir! What brings you down to the gates today? Have a smoke. Got these from the topside. They’ve got a real kick.” Marshal Blackwood brushed a piece of dust from his formal robes, his expression annoyed. “Cut the crap, rookie. I asked you a question. Has that soul been processed through judgment?” The reaper swallowed nervously. “Y-yes, sir! Of course. We wouldn’t dare break the rules. We know how busy you and the other Marshals are. You should take a break, have a smoke.” Blackwood took the cigarette and lit it, falling silent. The fog was too thick; he couldn’t see my face. This was my only chance. I bit down, hard, on the hand covering my mouth. The reaper yelped in pain and surprise, his grip loosening for a second. That was all I needed. I broke free and sprinted toward Blackwood, but I was tackled from behind, my face slammed into the ground. A heavy boot pressed down on my head, grinding my face into the sulfuric yellow sand. I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. The commotion, at least, caught Blackwood’s attention. He took a few steps closer. “What’s going on over there?” The reaper, furious that I had bitten him, pressed down harder, his foot crushing my temple with vindictive force. “Nothing, sir! Just a feisty one. Still struggling, even at death’s door. You know how it is. The ones who end up here are never the good ones. Don’t want to dirty your eyes with this trash.” At that, Blackwood stopped. “Just be careful. These souls are the worst of the worst. We can’t afford any mistakes. Get it inside.” I watched, my hope dying with each step, as he turned and vanished back into the fog. The mustached reaper, after bowing and scraping until Blackwood was gone, stalked back over to me. He kicked me several times for good measure, then unleashed his whip, venting his frustration on my already fractured form. Soon, there wasn't a single unmarred spot on me. My soul was a tattered, unrecognizable ruin. When he was finished, he crouched down and pinched my chin. “You bitch,” he hissed. “You almost ruined everything. Don’t you worry. Once you’re inside, I’ll take care of you personally.” Like a discarded rag, I was thrown through the gates and into the First Circle of Hell. This circle was the Agony of Thorns. As far as the eye could see, there were countless racks of torture. On each one, a spirit was impaled, pierced by thousands of long, thin needles, like a human pincushion. The souls here were not yet destroyed, so their screams were endless, a constant chorus of agony. I drew a ragged breath, using my last ounce of strength to force out a complete sentence. “I really… know… Hadeon. If he finds out… what you’ve done to me… he won’t let you live…” It was mostly a bluff. Hadeon didn't care about my life or death. He probably never wanted to see me again. Why else would he have granted me an endless lifespan, condemning me to wander the mortal world alone, ageless and undying? He was terrified I might die and show up in his Underworld, an unwelcome specter from his past. Once inside the gates, the two reapers were no longer worried about me causing a scene. The mustached one patted my cheek, his smile grotesque. “You’ve really got an imagination, don’t you? Been watching too many mortal dramas? You think our king is someone you can just fantasize about?” He slapped my face, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I coughed, and a plume of my own vital essence escaped my lips. My form flickered, growing more transparent. They strapped me to an empty torture rack. The reaper grinned, retrieving a set of the instruments used here: soul-splintering spirit thorns, each one as long as my forearm. “You’d better hold on tight,” he sneered. “There are seventeen more circles of hell waiting for you after this. We’re going to take our time.” He took a single, gleaming thorn and aimed it at my thigh. “No matter how tough you think you are, everyone breaks in here.” The tip pierced my essence, sinking half an inch deep. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my entire being convulsed. A scream tore from me. “Aaargh—!” Just then, a figure came running towards us. “Wait!” The thorn was pulled out. I gasped for breath, forcing my eyes open to see who it was. It was the warden of this circle. I remembered his name: Wyler. When Hadeon had been trying to scare me all those years ago, Wyler had been the one to plead on my behalf. “My King, the little lady is just young and foolish. There’s no need for such anger. You wouldn’t want to harm her.” Hope flared in my chest. I prayed that after all this time, he would still remember me. “Warden Wyler… it’s me… help me…” My voice was a raw, unrecognizable croak after all the torment. But I was sure he heard me. His eyes were fixed on me, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition, and finally, to stark terror. He knew who I was. But before I could even feel relief, he wrenched his gaze away, his face becoming a mask of indifference. “A message just came from the top,” he announced to the reapers. “They want to witness this one’s final destruction personally. They’re on their way. You’ll have to wait.”
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