Southern Frontier: The Serpent's Throne
The air in the lower veins of Hell was thicker, heavier — alive with a pulse that was not its own. Aurora descended through the southern fissure, wings folded tight, guided only by the faint red glow that bled from the stone itself. The tunnels here did not echo; they devoured sound. Every step she took seemed swallowed by the weight of what waited below.
The closer she drew, the more the world shifted. The scent of brimstone gave way to something more intricate — incense, crushed bone, myrrh, and memory. Symbols etched along the cavern walls pulsed faintly with living fire, tracing serpentine shapes that coiled and uncoiled in rhythm with her heartbeat.
It was said that Asmodeus no longer had a throne, only a nest — a labyrinth of flame and thought where reality bent around his will. She had come here once before, long ago, when she had still been his acolyte, and she had left with scars she still dreamt of.
