Dedication:

  Anyone else tired, pregnant…. And HORNY???? This one’s for you. Prologue - Hell  The infernal landscape stretched infinitely, a tortured vista of suffering and despair. 

 Jagged rocks jutted from the ground like teeth, and rivers of molten lava crisscrossed the terrain, their searing heat a constant reminder of the damnation that enveloped all. The air was thick with the acrid stench of brimstone and the distant wails of the condemned. Amid this hellish scene, a vast lake of fire roiled, its surface reflecting the horrors of the mortal world—a window into their realm of chaos and opportunity. 

Standing on the edge of this fiery lake, with its endless expanse of churning flames, was a demon named Zephyron. His form was gaunt yet muscled, his skin a sickly shade of gray marred by scars from countless battles and tortures. His eyes, though, held a glimmer of defiance, a spark that had yet to be extinguished by the unrelenting torment he endured. A sharp crack echoed through the sulfurous air as a whip, studded with jagged metal, lashed across Zephyron’s back, tearing into his flesh and sending waves of agony coursing through his body. He gritted his teeth, his growl of pain morphing into a snarl of hatred. 

“Where is the Heir, Zephyron?” The voice was a sinister blend of silk and steel, its soft tenor tinged with the promise of suffering. The speaker stepped forward, his emerald eyes burning with a fierce, malevolent light. 

His green eyes, like twin flames of envy, bore into Zephyron with an intensity that could melt stone. Zephyron's muscles tensed as another lash of the whip struck him. The pain was excruciating, but it was the humiliation that stung more. He had been through this torture many times before, and each time, his hatred for Saryth grew stronger. One day, he vowed silently, he would see this wretched usurper fall. 

“I don’t know where the Heir is,” Zephyron spat through clenched teeth, as the wounds on his back oozed a dark, viscous ichor. 

Saryth’s lip curled into a cruel smile. “You expect me to believe that? You've had plenty of time to find the brat, yet you bring me nothing but excuses.”

 Zephyron glared at the other demon, his hatred burning hotter than the flames around them. In truth, though, he had not been searching for the Heir. It was a useless endeavor. The child was dead. Besides, his ambitions lay elsewhere—namely, in seeing Saryth stripped of his power and left to the dark hungry spirits that roamed the outer realms of Hell. 

Saryth leaned in closer, a wretched giggle bubbling to his lips.  "Poor, poor Zephyron. You think your life has been bad, a bastard cast off of the Slut herself.” His hand shot out with blinding speed, claws digging into Zephyron’s throat, squeezing until Zephyron’s vision blurred. “But you have no idea how much worse it can get.” 

Saryth's eyes gleamed as he lifted Zephyron effortlessly, muscles straining against the excruciating grip. With a cruel, triumphant grin, he hurled Zephyron towards the edge of the lake, his body skidding across the rough, blistering ground.  As Zephyron lay there, gasping for breath, Saryth loomed over him, a dark silhouette against the blazing inferno of the lake. 

“Find the imp, Zephyron,” he hissed. “The imp will lead you to the Heir. Fail me again, and I’ll ensure your suffering is eternal.”