The Underworld had never looked more alive.
The golden torches flickered along the obsidian walls, their flas bending and dancing to the rhythm of the drums. The air was thick with incense — a mix of myrrh, smoke, and sothing darker, older, that carried the weight of ancient magic. Shadows curled like silk around the pillars carved with serpent designs, each one gleaming faintly under the firelight.
It was a celebration. A grand one. Souls, demons, and gods gathered alike, dressed in dark gold and crimson robes. They laughed, feasted, and drank black wine from goblets shaped like skulls. Music thundered through the vast chamber — deep drums, haunting flutes, and the eerie hum of spirit-song that only the dead could truly appreciate.
And right in the center of it all, sat Zyran.
He leaned lazily against his throne — or rather, the smaller, less intimidating seat placed beside his brothers. His fingers drumd idly on the armrest as his eyes swept over the dancers twirling before them. Their bodies shimred with oil, movents fluid and hypnotic under the torchlight. Every step was graceful, every sway calculated to please the gods they served.
But Zyran looked... bored.
Of course he was.
This was the third celebration this moon, and they were all the sa — the sa music, the sa dancers, the sa hollow praises offered to the sa gods who didn’t care. His lips twitched slightly, half in irritation, half in mock amusent.
"This is dull," he muttered, swirling the dark wine in his cup. The liquid shimred faintly, reflecting the firelight like blood.
His older brother, seated beside him, chuckled. "You say that every century."
"And I’ll say it every century after that," Zyran replied without missing a beat. "You’d think the Underworld could co up with better entertainnt than this."
Before his brother could answer, a familiar voice chid in.
"Or maybe," said a lilting voice, teasing and bright, "the problem isn’t the entertainnt, brother. Maybe you’ve just forgotten how to enjoy yourself."
Zyran sighed, already knowing that voice.
His little sister, Violet — goddess of mischief and chaos, dressed in a gown spun from shadow and starlight — stood beside him with a smirk that could probably make the moon itself blush. She leaned down slightly, placing a delicate silver cup in his hand.
"Drink," she said sweetly. "Maybe it’ll loosen that permanent frown on your face."
He raised an eyebrow but took the cup anyway. "And what have you poisoned this one with?"
Violet gasped, hand clutching her chest dramatically. "How dare you. I would never poison you... twice in a row."
The brothers around them chuckled, so hiding it poorly. Zyran rolled his eyes, taking a reluctant sip. The drink burned on his tongue — sweet, fiery, intoxicating.
"You’re unbelievable," he muttered.
Violet winked. "That’s what everyone says."
Zyran set the cup down, exhaling slowly. His gaze drifted back to the dancers, but the music, the laughter, the entire room felt distant. It was always like this—noise, chaos, life—yet none of it ever reached him. The won’s hips swayed in ti with the drums, their jeweled anklets clinking, their veils fluttering like ghostly wings, but Zyran’s mind wasn’t here. Not even close.
His eyes followed the rhythmic movents absently, but in his head, he was seeing her.
Isabella.
Her laughter—sharp, sweet, human—had taken up permanent residence sowhere in the back of his mind. Her scent lingered there too, maddeningly warm, like the first touch of sunlight after centuries in darkness. And it was driving him insane.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as if he could physically erase her from his thoughts. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself. "She’s mortal. She’s trouble. She’s..."
He sighed, slumping deeper in his seat. "...perfectly my type."
Violet glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "What was that?"
"Nothing," he said too quickly, forcing a smile.
But inside, his chest was tight. The Underworld always felt too small when she crossed his mind. Too loud. Too suffocating.
He was supposed to enjoy these feasts—to drink, to laugh, to indulge in the beauty before him. But all he could think about was her beauty. The way she looked when she rolled her eyes at him, the way her lips curved when she was about to say sothing she knew she shouldn’t.
And worse—the thought that Kian, that self-righteous lion of a king, might’ve already claid her.
Zyran’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled around the armrest until his knuckles went pale. The thought alone sent sothing primal burning through him. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was fury. The kind that ca from the pit of his chest and coiled through his veins like venom.
He could almost see it now: Kian’s hands on her, his mark on her skin. The thought made Zyran’s throat tighten and his fangs ache. If he returned to the mortal realm and saw that mark—the one thing that would tie her to another forever—he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Would he laugh?
Would he burn the entire Stone Palace to the ground?
Probably both.
He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair. The golden torches flickered against his skin, painting him in molten light, but there was no warmth in him—only irritation, longing, and a dangerous kind of ache that refused to die down.
His brother leaned over lazily, clearly noticing his mood. "You look like you’re plotting to kill soone again."
Zyran smirked faintly, his tone dripping with dark humor. "I might be."
"Father’s not going to appreciate another ’incident,’" his brother said dryly.
Zyran laughed under his breath. "Then he shouldn’t leave the throne room unlocked."
Violet groaned beside him. "You’re unbearable when you’re brooding."
He turned his head slightly, giving her a sideways grin. "And you’re unbearable when you’re sober."
She stuck her tongue out at him and swatted his arm, but Zyran didn’t react. His thoughts were already slipping back to Isabella. The way her golden hair had caught the moonlight. The way she’d looked at him the last ti he saw her—half defiant, half curious, completely dangerous.
He wondered if she was thinking of him too.
He doubted it.
She was probably sowhere laughing, maybe even wrapped up in Kian’s arms—warm, safe, blissfully unaware of how deep she’d gotten under his skin.
He hated it.
He hated her for it.
And he couldn’t stop wanting her.
From the corner of the hall, a low trumpet sounded, signaling his father’s arrival. The crowd straightened, the laughter dimming. Anubis entered, regal and terrifying, and the air instantly bent under his presence.
Zyran rose from his seat, bowing his head slightly with the others. But even as the hall erupted in reverence and the king of the Underworld took his throne, Zyran’s mind was elsewhere.
The celebration ant nothing. The dancers, the wine, the praise—they all blurred together into aningless noise. Because above, in the mortal realm, a lion king sat in his palace with Zyran’s human.
And deep in his chest, sothing unholy stirred.
If Kian’s mark is on her when I return...
He smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Then I’ll just have to replace it with mine.
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