Another millennium, another yawn. Yolia shifted on her obsidian throne, sharp edges biting into her skin—not that she cared. The weight of eternity pressed down on her shoulders like a poorly tailored cloak. Her grey eyes, dull with ennui, wandered across the infernal wasteland before her. Rivers of molten rock twisted like veins through the cursed land, casting eerie shadows on the writhing souls of the damned. Demons shrieked, chains rattled, but none of it was remotely interesting anymore.

With a sigh that sent a ripple of fire through the chamber, she drummed her claws against the armrest. A pathetic little imp dashed by, chasing its own tail in a frenzy of idiocy. Yolia watched it for a second—then lost interest. Was this it? Was this the height of her existence now? Another shift, another sigh. The monotony was unbearable.

He had no intention of visiting Hell. He wasn't some reckless warlock dabbling in infernal bargains, nor a doomed soul with a death wish. No, he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time—namely, standing in the way of three powerful mages who had plans far grander than his continued survival.

They hadn't even bothered with a dramatic speech. Just a few murmured incantations, a surge of eldritch energy—then nothing but a sickening pull as the world cracked apart beneath him. The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole was their smirking faces.

Then came the fall.

Air howled past his ears as he plummeted through a sky that wasn't a sky at all—just endless, churning blackness split by flashes of red lightning. Jagged spires and twisted shapes loomed in the abyss, vanishing before he could fully comprehend them. Screams rose from every direction. Some were distant, others uncomfortably close, all merging into a maddening cacophony of suffering. The heat grew unbearable, the air thick with sulfur, pressing into his lungs like molten lead. His descent accelerated, the weight of this wretched place crushing down on him.

Then—impact.

Something crashed into her arms.

Yolia blinked. Her sharp senses registered the warmth, the softness—definitely not the usual demonic detritus that occasionally rained from above. Looking down, she found herself cradling a human. A living human. He was sprawled across her like some absurd reenactment of a wedding ritual she'd once observed in the mortal realm—the groom carrying the bride. Only, this 'bride' looked more like he had stared death in the face and promptly lost the staring contest.

Curious. A human, this deep into Hell? Alone? That was impressive. Most mortal souls disintegrated long before reaching her domain, reduced to nothing by the sheer pressure of the underworld. Yet here he was—shaking, breathing, alive.

She lifted a sharp blue nail and prodded his cheek. Definitely real. Definitely warm. Her lips curled ever so slightly. This was new.