The red wound had become a mouth.
Lucifer stood at its edge, staring into darkness that pulsed like a heartbeat. The ground around him was soft—organic, like standing on the flesh of something massive. The grey of the Coast had given way to deep crimson, and the air smelled of iron and old dust.
Damaris stood beside him, his wings folded tight.
"The Collector's lair."
Lucifer's shadows stirred.
"It's alive."
"Everything here is alive. Or was. Or will be." Damaris stepped toward the edge. "Time doesn't move correctly inside. We could be in there for years and return to find only days have passed. Or the opposite."
Lucifer didn't hesitate.
He stepped into the darkness.
---
The descent was wrong.
Not physically. The ground sloped downward, wide enough for them to walk side by side. The walls were smooth—too smooth—and warm to the touch. But the feeling was wrong. Like walking down the throat of something that was trying very hard not to swallow.
