Kael didn't ask if she was ready.
He wrapped an arm around Elara's waist and the world collapsed.
The forest tore apart like rotting fabric, reality splitting open beneath their feet. Heat swallowed them whole—searing, suffocating, alive. Elara screamed as the air turned thick and metallic, her lungs burning with every breath.
Then—
They landed.
Stone cracked beneath them, veins of molten fire pulsing through the ground like a heartbeat. The sky above was not a sky at all, but a churning mass of smoke and flame, screaming faces trapped within its depths.
Hell.
Elara staggered, collapsing to her knees.
She retched, hands digging into obsidian stone slick with blood that was not hers.
"This place hates me," she gasped.
Kael stood beside her, unbothered, eyes scanning the horizon. Towers of bone and iron rose in the distance, wrapped in chains the size of mountains. Screams echoed constantly—not loud, not quiet—endless.
"It hates everything," he replied. "You'll survive."
That wasn't comfort.
That was a verdict.
A group of infernal guards approached, spears lowered, eyes glowing with recognition.
They froze when they saw her.
A witch.
In Hell.
One dropped to a knee instinctively. Another recoiled in fear.
Kael felt it then—the shift. The pressure. The sudden attention of something vast and ancient.
His father.
Elara clutched Kael's coat, nails digging into leather. "He knows, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
Her throat tightened. "Will he kill me?"
Kael looked down at her.
Slowly, deliberately, he cupped her face.
"Not yet."
That was worse.
They walked through the gates of the Infernal Citadel, whispers following them like a plague.
Blood Witch.
Abomination.
The Prince's sin.
Elara's skin burned under their gazes. The magic inside her writhed, reacting violently to Hell's proximity—hungry, furious, alive.
She stumbled again.
Pain tore through her chest—sharp, unbearable.
Kael caught her instantly.
"What's happening?" she cried.
He went still.
Her magic was feeding on Hell itself.
Drinking.
Binding.
"That's impossible," he muttered.
The walls around them cracked.
Chains rattled.
Somewhere deep within the citadel, an alarm began to sound.
Low. Ancient. Terrified.
Elara gasped as power surged through her veins, her eyes burning silver-black. "I can hear it," she whispered. "The blood. The laws. They're screaming."
Kael held her tighter.
"You're anchoring to this realm," he realized.
Her breath hitched. "Is that bad?"
He didn't answer.
Because if she anchored fully—
Hell would never be able to expel her.
And if she died here—
Hell might die with her.
The doors to the throne hall creaked open.
A presence slammed into them like a physical blow.
The Devil King sat upon a throne of living flame, eyes like collapsing stars fixed entirely on Elara.
"A witch," he said, voice echoing through bone and fire. "In my realm."
Elara trembled.
Kael stepped forward, placing himself between them.
"She is under my protection."
The Devil King smiled.
Not with amusement.
With anticipation.
"How interesting," he murmured. "My son brings me the very thing I eradicated."
His gaze sharpened.
"Do you know what she is, Kael?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what she will become?"
"Yes."
The Devil King leaned forward.
"Then kneel," he commanded, "and hand her over."
Silence.
Elara's heart pounded so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.
Kael didn't move.
He drew his blade instead.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
The Devil King laughed—a sound like worlds breaking.
"Oh, my son," he said softly. "You've already damned us all."
Elara felt it then.
The bond.
Thin. Fragile.
But unmistakable.
And as Hell itself shuddered beneath her feet, she realized the truth—
She wasn't trapped here with devils.
They were trapped here with her.