The letter was written in black fire. Not ink fire. It danced along the parchment in sinuous tongues, writhing as if it resented being read. Lucien Vale held it at arm's length, as one would a venomous snake, and sighed.
"You have been summoned," it said, "to the Infernal Courts. Effective immediately. Refusal is not an option."
He lit a cigarette off the corner of the smoldering parchment.
Refusal hadn't been an option for a long time.
The devil leaned back in his leather chair, his office dimly lit by a cracked neon halo mounted above his desk part irony, part mood lighting. The blinds were drawn, and the city outside pulsed with the usual glow of misery and vice. He liked it that way. Earth was loud, unpredictable, and morally flexible. Just his type.
Lucien had built a decent exile here. A rundown private investigation agency where no one asked questions, only paid in desperation. He liked mortals. Flawed, stubborn creatures. He liked them more than most of his fellow infernals. More than angels, certainly.
A knock echoed at the door, sharp and cold.
Lucien didn't need to ask who it was. They always sent the same guy.
The door opened on its own. Smoke rolled in. So did a tall figure dressed in gray robes that looked more judicial than demonic. Eyes like obsidian. No mouth. The kind of bureaucratic hellspawn that had never once cracked a smile.
"Lucien Vale," the voice came from nowhere, yet echoed in his skull. "You are required at the Infernal Courts. The Trial begins at first bell."
Lucien took a drag. "What trial?"
The figure slid a second parchment across the desk. The name burned itself into his memory the second he read it:
Defendant: Seraphiel, First Sword of the Celestial Choir. Charge: Treason against the Divine Order.
Lucien blinked. Then laughed, low and sharp.
"They want me to defend an angel?"
The figure did not laugh. It did not do anything.
Lucien's fingers tightened around the parchment.
This wasn't just a trial. This was a message.
Hell had never asked him for favors. Not after what happened. Not after he left. And now, they were dragging him back in for an angel, no less.
Seraphiel.
He remembered her. Everyone did. The angel who didn't look away when mortals wept. The one who dared to speak in defense of souls deemed "irrelevant." Compassionate. Dangerous.
And now, condemned.
Lucien stood, cigarette smoldering in his teeth, and grabbed his coat. Black silk, with a torn lining. He hadn't worn it in years. It still smelled of brimstone and old victories.
"Fine," he said to the silent figure. "Let's see what Heaven calls justice these days."
The shadows swallowed him whole as he stepped through the doorway not into the street, but into the endless staircase that spiraled down into the Underworld.
The Trial had begun.
The Chains of Heaven
The Infernal Courts hadn't changed.
Lucien's boots echoed through halls carved from obsidian and bone, lit by torches that screamed quietly as they burned. Pillars lined the corridor like mourners at a funeral, their surfaces engraved with the names of the condemned some divine, most forgotten.
Lucien adjusted his tie, brushing off ash. Formality mattered here. This wasn't the savage chaos mortals imagined when they pictured Hell. No. This was structure. Order. Rules etched in blood and pain, enforced by devils who understood that law, not fire, was the true tool of damnation.
At the grand doors, two sentries nodded blindfolded, horned, and motionless. They pushed the doors open without a word.
The courtroom was vast. Circular. Carved into a hollowed mountain that pulsed with the heartbeat of something ancient and caged. The audience was a blend of demons in robes, angels watching from luminous platforms, and celestials cloaked in gray, silent arbiters of the Trial. Floating tablets recorded every word, every breath, every lie.
At the center, chained to a dais of petrified light, knelt the accused.
Seraphiel.
Lucien felt the world slow for a moment. She hadn't changed.
Wings that once glowed like starlight now hung low, the tips singed. Her armor was cracked, but her eyes those pale, burning eyes still held defiance.
Lucien approached the defense pedestal. His footsteps rang like verdicts.
"Lucien Vale," the judge's voice boomed. Azariel, of course. Neutral Archangel. Impartial. Unsmiling. "The defense has arrived. Late, but breathing."
Lucien bowed with the laziest elegance he could muster. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, your honor. Heaven's judgment is always a spectacle."
A quiet ripple of disapproval passed through the chamber.
He didn't care.
"Let's begin," Azariel declared. "The charges are grave. The consequences… eternal."
Lucien looked to Seraphiel. She met his gaze, then spoke calm, clear, unafraid.
"I interfered," she said, before anyone could speak. "I broke divine law. I altered the fate of a mortal. I do not deny it."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. Bold. Or suicidal.
"But I did it," she continued, "because the law was wrong."
Gasps. Heavenly murmurs. A few hisses from Hell's gallery.
Lucien grinned, teeth sharp behind a wolfish smirk.
"This," he said, turning to the court, "is going to be fun."
Opening Moves
Lucien's voice was velvet, smooth and practiced, as he stepped forward into the Eye the center ring of the courtroom where the trial arguments began.
"The defense acknowledges the facts," he said. "An angel broke divine law. The evidence is not in question."
He paused, letting the silence build.
"But we must ask: what is the purpose of divine law?"
Azariel gave no expression. Neither did Prosecutor Malak, who stood on the opposite side of the Eye, wings folded, robes pure as winter.
Lucien turned to the gallery. "Is it to protect mortals? Guide them? Maintain balance? Or is it simply control rigid obedience, stripped of mercy?"
Malak stepped in, cold and sharp as a blade. "Order is the foundation of creation. Without law, chaos consumes. Seraphiel's actions were not merciful. They were defiant. Unauthorized."
"And if her defiance saved a life?" Lucien asked. "A mortal who wasn't meant to die… but was marked anyway?"
Malak didn't blink. "Fate is not to be debated. It is written."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "By whom?"
Gasps stirred in the higher galleries. The angels above stiffened. Even a few devils stirred with interest.
Azariel struck his gavel. "Control your tone, Advocate Vale."
Lucien offered a half-bow. "Of course, your honor. But I must request access to the Scroll of Destiny concerning the event in question. The alleged interference."
Malak immediately objected. "Those scrolls are sacred. Sealed."
Lucien smiled. "So is the truth, it seems."
Azariel looked between them. "Objection noted. The court will review the request."
Lucien returned to his pedestal and caught Seraphiel's eye. She hadn't moved. But something flickered behind her expression. A silent warning? Or a plea?
He didn't know. Not yet.
But something about this trial reeked. The kind of rot that ran deep beneath Heaven, beneath Hell. Ancient. Deliberate.
And the only way to uncover it... was to keep playing.
Lucien leaned closer to his chained client and murmured, "Next time, let me do the talking."
Seraphiel's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. "I thought you liked theatrics."
He did. But this wasn't just a show.
This was war in slow motion, dressed in robes and protocol.