Chapter 28
"Hell's Schemes"
The Infernal Court burned with restless fire.
From the vaulted ceiling, chains of molten iron hung low, dripping sparks onto the obsidian floor. Rows of thrones carved from demon-bone stretched along the great chamber, each occupied by nobles cloaked in shadow and fire. Their voices clashed like blades, a hundred growls and hisses echoing through the cavernous hall.
The ripple of power had reached them all. None could deny it. None could ignore it.
"A presence we thought long erased!" snarled a noble with scales for skin, his forked tongue flickering between words. "The serpent coils once more."
Another leaned forward, her hair a cascade of embers, her claws tapping against the throne. "Ouroboros," she whispered, the name dripping like poison. "The old blood of fate itself. If he rises unchecked, he could shatter the balance."
"And if he can be bound?" rumbled a third, a hulking figure with four arms and tusks that scraped the floor. His grin split wide. "Then we wield fate as our weapon. Heaven will tremble."
A murmur swept through the court. Fear warred with hunger in their eyes. The memory of primordial power still lingered in their bloodlines. To seize such a creature would be to rewrite their standing in Hell itself.
At the head of the chamber, upon a jagged throne of fused skulls, the Overseer of the Court raised a hand. The chamber fell into uneasy silence. His face was hidden by a helm of iron, but his voice carried with dreadful clarity.
"The ripple has been confirmed. The serpent stirs." He leaned forward, shadows coiling around him like smoke. "But his location eludes even our sight. That concealment is no accident. It reeks of the divine."
Gasps and snarls rippled through the assembly. Divine concealment—the kind only fate itself could weave.
"Then he hides in Heaven?" one noble demanded.
"No." The Overseer's voice sharpened. "Were he there, their trumpets would already sound for war. He lingers elsewhere… unseen."
Far from the main court, in a chamber lit by the glow of a soul-fire brazier, Voldrack stood before a circle of questioning nobles. Their eyes burned into him, searching, prying.
"You were close to the fringes when the ripple struck," one hissed. "Did you see it? Did you feel its direction?"
Voldrack bowed low, his aged horns scraping the stone floor. "I felt it as you did. Overwhelming. Unfathomable. But fleeting. It left no trail for me to follow."
"And yet," another said, her wings twitching, "your knowledge of primordial lore exceeds most. Do you deny knowing more than you admit?"
For a moment, silence stretched. Voldrack's withered lips curled into a faint smile. "If I knew where Ouroboros rose, would I stand here, questioned by you, instead of kneeling before him?"
The demons hissed, but his answer held weight. One by one, they leaned back, suspicion dulled by logic.
"You may go," the first finally said, though his eyes lingered long on Voldrack's bent frame. "But know this—if we find deception in you, not even the serpent you serve will save you."
Voldrack bowed again and withdrew, the weight of their gaze still burning across his shoulders.
On a balcony overlooking a chasm of fire, Zaratul leaned lazily against the rail, his humanoid form draped in shadows, a serpent's grin splitting his face.
"You play a dangerous game," he murmured as Voldrack approached. "Lie too smoothly, and they'll know. Lie too poorly, and they'll gut you."
"They already suspect," Voldrack said, his voice low. "But suspicion is not proof. And without proof, they cannot act." He gripped the railing, staring into the abyss. "Still, if they keep digging, if they send their hounds sniffing through Earth, they may find him before he is ready."
Zaratul's grin widened. "Let them try. By the time their claws reach him, they'll find more than a serpent. They'll find the devourer of their chains."
"You gamble too easily," Voldrack warned. His eyes, old and weary, glimmered with unease. "Hell devours its own children. Prodigies rarely survive long enough to rule."
"And yet this one will," Zaratul hissed, eyes flashing. "Because he is not merely prodigy. He is inevitability."
Deep within the bowels of Hell, where iron doors the size of mountains sealed the ancient prisons, something stirred.
Behind one cracked gate, a voice slithered out, faint yet poisonous.
"So… the serpent rises again." The sound was neither whisper nor roar but something between. "How long I have waited to hear his name in this pit."
Chains rattled. Clawed hands scraped against stone.
"To the nobles above," the voice mocked, "you are prey. To Heaven, you are blight. But to me…" The laughter that followed shook dust from the cavern ceiling. "…to me, you are promise. Rise, Ouroboros. Rise, and I shall see whether fate can be devoured."
The chains tightened, dragging the voice back into silence.
Back in the Infernal Court, the Overseer rose from his throne.
"The serpent is hidden, but not forever. Hell does not wait. We will act."
A wave of anticipation surged through the chamber.
"Dispatch a hunting party," the Overseer commanded. "Scour the mortal world. Seek signs of corpses stirred, rivers disturbed, threads of fate unraveled. Wherever he hides, bring me whispers. Bring me proof."
The nobles bowed, their hunger barely restrained. Already, shadows began to slip from the chamber, racing toward the veil between realms.
Above the roar of the molten seas, the Overseer's voice carried a final decree:
"Ouroboros belongs to Hell. And if he dares resist…" The helm tilted slightly, the faint glimmer of a smile beneath. "…then let him learn why even serpents can be broken."
Far from their schemes, hidden within mortal flesh, the serpent himself sat quietly in a schoolroom, rain pattering against the windows. A faint smile touched his lips as though he could hear the distant plotting.
But he was not listening to Hell.
He was listening to fate itself.