The King’s Patience Runs Out

The great dining hall of Hell was nothing short of magnificent.

The ceiling stretched impossibly high, carved from obsidian and inlaid with veins of molten gold. Shadows flickered across the polished floors, where a long, ornate table stretched from one end of the chamber to the other, set with goblets of dark wine, platters of exotic meats, and golden candelabras that dripped wax like melting bones.

It was a feast fit for a king.

And yet—

Luciel was the only one at the table.

He sat at the head, his fingers tapping lazily against the armrest of his throne-like chair, his gaze drifting over the empty seats. Something was… off.

His wine, untouched. His food, cooling. The silence.

He had never cared much for company during meals, but tonight—tonight, he noticed.

He set his goblet down with a soft clink.

"Ezekiel."