Lucifer appeared back in the great hall of Devil's Peak like a ghost. One second he was in that terrible white space, the next he was standing in front of his throne, breathing hard.
His chest was on fire. The sigil burned like a brand.
"Champions," he whispered to the empty room, rubbing the heel of his hand over the pain. "You beautiful, stubborn fools."
A slow, deliberate clapping started from the shadows near the balcony.
"Bravo," a voice said, smooth as spilled wine. "Truly a masterclass in being utterly predictable. I'm touched."
Lucifer didn't even look up. "Loki. You're early."
The trickster god stepped into the dim light, hands in his pockets, a smirk playing on his lips. "Early? Darling, I've been waiting. The cosmic gossip mill is buzzing. 'Lucifer's back.' 'He's in the Trial.' 'His wives are fighting for him.' It's better than soap opera. I brought popcorn."
Lucifer finally looked at him. "I'm not in the mood."
