(Caelum Ashborne)
Caelum walked out of the throne room with the taste of the Devil’s power still in his mouth. It coated his tongue like ash and metal, bitter and electric, as if the command had been poured down his throat and left there to curdle. Each breath scraped his lungs with the afterburn of Apollo’s presence, a reminder that he’d stood too close to something that did not forgive.
The sensation lingered like sacrament gone wrong—an unholy communion he hadn’t asked for, power swallowed without consent, consecrated by threat instead of blessing.
The doors shut behind him with a grinding sweep. Hell’s heat poured down the corridor, heavy, curling around his shoulders with a grip that hesitated. The wards in the walls thrummed with the echo of Apollo’s mood, their faint, red pulse e
