The faint vibration of the throne had not faded.
Aren could still feel it beneath his palms—a slow, deliberate pulse, like a giant heart buried deep within stone and bone. The lesser demons Lilith had summoned remained frozen where they stood, hunched and snarling, their eyes flicking between him and the women behind them.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy enough that Aren could hear his own breathing.
Then, a new sound broke through it.
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried. Metal against stone.
From the far end of the hall, a tall figure emerged from between two massive pillars. Black armor covered her from neck to heel, etched with symbols that looked less decorative and more like warnings. A long cloak trailed behind her, its edges brushing the floor like a shadow that refused to detach.
Her eyes—dark, sharp, unwavering—locked onto Aren.
Morgana stepped forward.
She stopped several paces from the throne and lowered herself to one knee.
Not hurried. Not dramatic.
Precise.
"The throne is occupied," she said, her voice carrying cleanly through the hall. "And the authority responds."
Her fist pressed to her chest. "I acknowledge the successor."
Aren's breath caught.
This was different. Lilith's presence had been playful, probing, dangerous in a way that smiled while it cut. Morgana's kneel carried weight—discipline, tradition, and something heavier beneath it.
Not loyalty.
Recognition.
Lilith clicked her tongue softly. "Straight to kneeling, Morgana? How boring. You make it sound so official."
Morgana did not look at her. "This is not about interest or amusement. The throne answered him. That is enough to warrant acknowledgment."
Aren shifted slightly, the motion small but deliberate. "You don't serve me," he said carefully.
Morgana's gaze flicked up, sharp. "No."
The word landed like a blade on stone.
"I serve the Demon King's throne," she continued. "Whether that throne will accept you remains to be seen."
Lilith laughed quietly. "See? That's what I like about her. Honest. Cold. Unromantic."
She turned her crimson gaze back to Aren. "Do you understand what just happened, little heir?"
Aren hesitated. "She recognized the position. Not the person."
Lilith's smile widened, pleased. "Oh, you are paying attention."
Before Aren could respond, another presence made itself known.
The air shifted.
Not with heat or pressure—but with wrongness.
A cold tension slid across the hall, subtle but sharp, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
Aren felt it before he saw her.
From a high balcony carved into the far wall, a figure stood motionless. White wings—torn, ragged, stained at the edges—were folded tightly behind her back. Pale hair framed a face too composed, too restrained.
Her eyes glowed faintly gold.
And they were fixed on Aren with open hostility.
"So," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly, "this is what hell calls a king now."
Lilith's expression shifted, amusement sharpening into something edged. "Careful, angel. You're standing in a room that has killed your kind for less."
The winged woman did not flinch. "I am no longer of Heaven. But I will not bow to its opposite either."
Morgana rose smoothly to her feet, hand resting near her sword. "Seraphyne. You were not summoned."
Seraphyne's lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "Neither was he."
Her gaze burned into Aren. "Yet here he sits. Wearing stolen authority."
Aren's chest tightened. Angel. Fallen and angry.
He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I didn't steal anything."
Silence.
Then Seraphyne laughed once—short, bitter. "They always say that."
Seraphyne descended from the balcony, wings unfurling slightly as she landed with a soft, controlled impact on the stone floor. Dust stirred around her boots.
She walked forward without hesitation.
Every step felt like a provocation.
"Look at you," she said, circling the throne slowly. "Human eyes. Human hesitation. And yet the throne pulses for you as if it has forgotten what it once was."
Aren tracked her movement, forcing himself not to shrink back. "If you know what it was," he said, "then you know I'm not him."
Her eyes flashed. "That is precisely the problem."
Lilith leaned against a pillar, clearly enjoying herself. "Oh, this is getting interesting."
Seraphyne stopped directly in front of Aren, close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from her presence. "Tell me, successor. Will you rule through fear like your predecessor? Or will you pretend to be merciful until the blood piles up anyway?"
Aren's fingers curled against the armrest.
The throne responded.
A pressure built, subtle but insistent, urging him forward—Command her. Make her kneel.
He didn't.
Instead, he spoke quietly. "I don't know what kind of king I'll be yet."
Morgana's eyes narrowed.
Seraphyne blinked, just once.
"That," Aren continued, "is the only honest answer I have."
The pressure eased slightly.
Seraphyne studied his face, searching for something—deception, weakness, certainty. Whatever she expected, she didn't find it.
"Hmph," she said finally. "At least you don't lie like him."
She stepped back, wings folding again. "But understand this: I will not serve a demon king. Not you. Not anyone."
Lilith clapped softly. "Rejected already? That might be a record."
Aren exhaled slowly. "I'm not asking you to serve me."
All eyes turned to him.
He met Seraphyne's gaze. "I'm asking you not to judge me for a crown I didn't choose."
Silence fell again.
Seraphyne looked away first.
The lesser demons finally retreated, melting back into the shadows as if dismissed by an unspoken signal. The hall felt… quieter.
Not safer.
Just watching.
Lilith pushed herself off the pillar and approached the throne once more. "Well," she said lightly, "you didn't force her down. You didn't threaten her. And yet, you didn't yield either."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "That takes more control than most realize."
Morgana regarded Aren with renewed scrutiny. "You resisted the throne's impulse."
Aren frowned. "It had an impulse?"
"Yes," she said simply. "That makes it dangerous."
Seraphyne turned away, walking toward the shadows. "Do not mistake restraint for virtue," she said over her shoulder. "I am watching you, successor. One misstep… and I will be your enemy."
She vanished into the darkness.
Lilith smiled, slow and intrigued. "Oh, Aren Blackwell. You're going to be so much trouble."
Aren leaned back slightly, exhaustion finally seeping into his bones. The throne pulsed once more beneath him—not commanding.
Acknowledging.
And for the first time since he woke up, Aren understood the truth:
This throne would not protect him.
It would test him.
Endlessly.