The heat rolled over the landing like waves from a furnace.
Lucifer stepped out into the open, the Demon Realm sprawling in every direction—rings of jagged mountains, rivers of fire winding like veins, towers leaning at impossible angles.
Ruka stayed quiet beside him, but the way his eyes scanned the horizon said enough. This place wasn't just chaotic—it was alive, restless.
Lucifer took a slow breath. The air burned, not painfully, but with a strange pull, like it was trying to get under his skin. The taste of it sat heavy on his tongue, familiar and foreign at the same time.
He stopped walking.
Something in his chest stirred—a thrum low and deep, like an old drumbeat buried under years of silence. His fingers flexed. He didn't know why, but the urge was there.
The magic in the air reacted to him.
His shadow stretched, warping across the blackstone beneath his feet. For a second, it wasn't his shape anymore.
Lucifer's brow furrowed. He let it happen.
