Page 7 of Hell's Secret Omega

He stands on the edge of the night forest. Beyond the forest stretches a rolling meadow that’s eternally silvered with dawn. Further still, directionless light glimmers off a strip of Hell’s black sea. That sea disappears into the horizon’s haze. What lies on the other side is unknown even to him.

Mezor has never set foot in the meadow, never felt its dew drip down his ankles nor breathed the scent of its delicate blades crushed under his heel. To walk down that slope and into the sea means going into the aether.

Still, his life is split intobeforeandafter.

Before, he couldn’t fathom ever leaving.

He was formed in the beautiful dark and believed he would live there forever, keeping the wilds safe for his brothers to guide the souls of the dead to their final journey.

Then the cataclysm split open the fabric between worlds, and Yden, the realm of angels, came crashing into Hell. Human poison spilled across the land. One by one, his brothers lay down in the earth and turned to stone.

After.Well.

After, his whole being aches when he looks across the meadow.

After, he wonders ceaselessly if he’d find peace by walking into that black water.

He turns his back to the sea. It’s not time—the fate of his world sits like an anvil on his shoulders. He must bear it until the end.

The night forest is silent where once it rang with sweet birdsong. Mezor’s boots quickly blacken with sticky mud as he winds through the trees. The sky’s gradient gleams through the bare branches, illuminating a forest of strange shapes. Trees twist away from the poisoned earth, listing crazily as their roots pull out of the swampy ground. Moss crumbles away to reveal bare rock. Desiccated vines crawl along the high ground, their journey over before it’s begun.

The forest used to be ripe with light and life. Now it’s dead—and worse, corrupted beyond understanding. Like everything in Hell.

His goal is a clearing where a ring of trees surrounds a thick pool of mud. This was a spring that ran clear with pure water. Gracefulizilcame here to drink, and Mezor would linger in the trees to watch them. They fell willingly to his arrow and he thanked them for their beauty.

Now the clearing is rotten and smells faintly of sulfur.

He holds the world seed up to his eye. In his massive paw it seems so insignificant, a speck of light in his world of darkness. Is he doing the right thing, trusting the King?

He has no other choice. Even if Hell can never return to its former lushness, he would give anything to bring a single breath of peace to the land.

He digs the hole next to the muddy pond. His claws blacken and his skin burns from the poison, but he ignores it. He dropsthe world seed into the hole and covers it with earth. From his pocket he takes a vial of water from the Hellspring and uncorks it, tipping its contents over the seed.

Nothing happens.

Mezor’s heart pounds.Did the King lie?

Then the tiny mound of earth trembles. A single shoot erupts from between chunks of soil, pale as the distant dawn.

He steps back.

“It will work,” he says aloud, his firm words filling the clearing. The pale sprout shivers and stretches toward the sky, a single leaf unfurling as he watches.

All he needs to do is plant the rest before the gate gives out.

Chapter 6

CYRUS

Cyrus jolts awake before dawn.The barracks are silent except for the snorts and snores of sleeping demons. He uncurls himself from his now-habitual place on the floor. At least no one seems to bother him here. It’s right next to the door, though, so every morning the Quartermaster sweeps in to crack the whip—literally and figuratively—and Cyrus is the first face he sees. It seems to put him in a bad mood.

It certainly puts Cyrus in a bad mood.

Yesterday he finally escaped the excavation work, after three gruelling days of carrying stones up the tunnel with the other minor demons. Magnus needed him to review the supply chambers in the Garnet Wing, and despite their mutual enmity, Cyrus is the only one who can actually be trusted to take proper stock. Magnus can’t deny his use, even if it infuriates him. Today he’s still exhausted, but a spark of need drives him to his feet. Waking before Magnus arrives gives him precious time to himself. He won’t squander it.

Cyrus checks his coat reflexively to make sure no one stole the arrow while he slept. Its smooth shaft is warm from his body. Touching it conjures an image of the Hunter—or rather, the Hunter’s fathomless, ruby-eyed gaze. He shudders.

What does Mezor do when he’s not in the King’s company? He’s struck with a sudden, intense hunger to see the Hunter with his guard down. To watch him loosing the arrow, his mighty arms flexing, his jaw tight with concentration.

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