Chapter Text
The courtroom churned with sin in its rawest form.
Wrath dominated the air, thick and acrid, pressing lungs like smoke. Blue-blooded demons crowded the balconies, posturing in silks and bone jewelry, their voices rising over one another in sharp, venomous bursts. Fingers jabbed accusingly. Old grudges resurfaced. New alliances fractured before they could even form.
Others stood apart from the chaos-backs straight, expressions carved from stone. Whether they were mourning, calculating, or simply choosing neutrality was impossible to tell. In Hell, silence was rarely innocence.
As time dragged on, the noise only worsened. Ears flicked flat in irritation. Feathers puffed outward in instinctive displays of dominance. Claws scraped against marble. The atmosphere teetered on the brink of violence, poised for collapse-
“SILENCE!”
The word slammed into the room like a physical force.
Sound vanished so completely it felt unnatural, as though the world itself had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. Even the ever-burning flames lining the walls seemed suddenly audible, their crackling loud in the void left behind.
Those who had been shouting shrank back instinctively. Those who had remained stoic raised their brows, caught off guard by the sheer authority in the command.
At the center dais, the Sins occupied their designated thrones.
Satan-the embodiment of law and fury-rose to his full height. His wings unfurled in a slow, deliberate motion, stretching wide enough to cast looming shadows across the marble floor. Smoke curled from his nostrils with each heavy breath, eyes blazing like banked infernos finally stirred.
“This is outrageous,” he snarled, voice vibrating through stone and bone alike. “WHERE IS MORNINGSTAR?”
Before his fury could boil over entirely, a much smaller figure fluttered nervously toward him.
“Sire…sire,” Yogirt chimed in, hovering near Satan’s horns with an uneasy chuckle, hands clasped together as if in prayer. “I do apologize, but-uhm-we did discuss this, remember? What did we say about wrathful bursts of energy?” He smiled weakly. “Inner peace. Very important for long-term emotional regulation.”
The flames dimmed, just slightly.
Satan exhaled sharply through his snout and dropped back into his throne with a heavy thud, rubbing his face as though physically restraining himself. After a moment, he drew in a deep breath-measured, controlled.
“You all know why we are here.” his voice lower, but no less heavy. “The event that has alarmed all the rings of Hell.”
A sharp chirp cut through the air.
From one of the nearer balconies, Vasago shifted on his perch, feathers ruffling irritably as he leaned forward. He muttered under his breath, just loud enough to carry in the newfound quiet.
“All except Pride, it seems,” he scoffed. “Ese hijo de puta…”
Several heads turned at once-some with open amusement, others with careful, aristocratic restraint-and the air in the chamber thickened again, settling low and oppressive, no longer fueled by noise but by anticipation.
It crept through the court like a slow poison, curling around pillars and threading between thrones as though the room itself were bracing for impact.
The faint clink of bells cut cleanly through it.
Mammon lounged back in his throne as if it were nothing more than a gilded chair pulled too close to a tavern table, boots propped carelessly against the edge of the dais in quiet defiance of decorum. Golden rings chimed softly as he steepled his fingers, his grin wide, sharp, and entirely unrepentant.
“Well,” he drawled, eyes flicking briefly toward the conspicuously empty throne before returning to the room at large, snickering “He’s not wrong. Pride’s been real quiet for someone who usually can’t shut their trap!”
A ripple of muted laughter stirred among the lesser demons, quickly smothered as the Blue Bloods shifted, their expressions cool and appraising rather than amused. They did not laugh, but neither did they object.
A low, guttural growl answered Mammon’s remark as Asmodeus leaned forward in his throne, the fire that wreathed him flaring brighter, its color sharpening toward an unstable white. “Watch your mouth,” he warned, heat curling through every syllable. “This isn’t a market stall. Pride’s absence destabilizes the entire structure.”
Mammon waved a dismissive hand, bells chiming again. “Don’t act like you care unless it threatens your bedposts or your reputation. Chaos spikes interest. I’m thriving.”
“You’re thriving,” Beelzebub snapped, wings buzzing sharply as she leaned forward, “because your ring spilled the least blood in the ambush. Others are still counting bodies.”
“Occupational hazard,” Mammon replied easily. “Sucks to be lower on the food chain.” He punctuated the remark by forming exaggerated circles with all four hands, lips puckering in a display of ‘sucking a cock’.
Asmodeus surged forward, flames roaring higher as his patience finally snapped. “No shame in th-” His words cut off abruptly when Beelzebub shoved a cock-shaped ice cream straight into his mouth, bells jangling wildly as he gagged around it.
Beelzebub barked out a laugh, throwing Asmodeus a triumphant high-five, the crack of their palms echoing sharply through the chamber. Mammon sputtered, coughing and swearing under his breath as melted sugar dripped down his chin, dignity temporarily sacrificed for spectacle.
From the far end of the court, Belphegor scarcely reacted. Draped over their throne like something forgotten, they yawned long and lazily, voice thick and slow as if dragged through honey.
“Wake me when someone proposes a solution instead of a complaint,” they murmured, eyes already drooping. Their head tipped sideways as the final word echoed faintly through the hall, posture slackening as their breathing evened out. Within moments they were asleep. Utterly untroubled by the weight of the debate or the irritation flicking briefly toward them.
Underneath the sins, Satan’s claws curled gradually around the armrests of his throne, the movement slow and deliberate, each inch of pressure measured. The stone beneath his grip groaned softly, thin fractures spidering outward in silent protest as the chamber seemed to tense in response. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the authority beneath it:
“The absence of Pride is not a joke,” he said. “It is a fracture.”
His gaze swept across the balconies, lingering just long enough to make even the most composed Blue Bloods avert their eyes. “Lilith is gone. Lucifer Morningstar has abandoned his post. Pride stands without a ruler, and its instability bleeds into every ring.”
His tone hardened, sharpened by certainty. “We are not here to debate whether action must be taken. We are here to decide what action.”
Asmodeus settled back slightly, fire dimming to a controlled glow as he folded his hands together. “And yet,” he said smoothly, charm sliding back into place like a mask, “appointing a Regent is delicate. Pride isn’t a ring you simply slot a body into and hope it behaves.”
Beelzebub nodded, wings twitching. “We rush this, and we’ll just trade one disaster for another.”
The reaction from the balconies was immediate. Feathers bristled, posture straightened, and the murmurs that followed were cold and calculating rather than fearful.
Leviathan’s voice finally rolled down from above, layered and rasping, like something dragged up from the ocean floor. “Better a tyrant than an empty throne,” she hissed. “Sinners already test the borders. They smell weakness.”
A chorus of subdued agreement followed. Blue Bloods nodding to one another with grim approval.
“Well, we can’t exactly rule Pride ourselves,” Asmodeus muttered. “Only a Morningstar can control the barrier.”
Mammon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking. “Didn’t he leave an heir behind? Or was all that talk about him being good at sex just blabbery!”
Before anyone could respond, Satan lifted a hand, and the air bent obediently around it. In the center of the court, a magical screen flared into existence, its light slicing through the gloom to reveal a familiar face. “Charlie Morningstar,” he said. “Heir to the throne.”
Relief flared almost immediately.
“Well that solves it,” Mammon clapped his hands together. “Crown her and let’s wrap this-”
“She will not be crowned.”
The words fell hard, extinguishing the moment. Leviathan turned one of her heads slowly, eyes narrowing. “How so.”
“She is naive,” Satan replied without hesitation. “A mirror of her father’s weaknesses. Too optimistic. Too humane. To place her upon the throne would be to invite another collapse.”
Approval rippled quietly through the balconies; thin smiles exchanged among the aristocracy. “Sentiment has no place in governance,” Satan continued. “Only stability.”
Silence stretched, taut and expectant.
Then a voice slipped into the chamber like smoke through cracked stone.
“If I may… Sire.”
It did not come from any throne or balcony, but from the space between breaths, silky and deliberate. The Blue Bloods stiffened, heads turning sharply as eyes searched for a source that did not exist.
“There is another Morningstar,” the voice continued calmly. “One whose blood still binds them to Pride. One who has remained… conveniently unseen.”
The temperature dropped. Candles flickered, shadows stretched where nobody stood. Then the voice vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving nothing behind but its implication and a court steeped in uneasy realization.
“You cannot be serious,” Beelzebub muttered, wings folding tightly against her sides, her voice low and almost incredulous. Her ears flattened, body settling into the floor as she landed from her brief hover, the motion deliberate and full of pointed irritation. “You’re suggesting we elevate… what? Somebody whose family abandoned them, whose very blood carries the stench of neglect and…”
She trailed off, glancing sharply at the empty throne, jaw tight.
Mammon snorted, fingers drumming on his thigh, bells jangling faintly as his grin twisted into something more sardonic than playful,
“Oh yeah, reliable. Let’s crown someone who’s been sitting in the shadows, probably sulking plotting vengeance-or both! Yeah mate! At this point just put some black blooded filthy imp on the throne and call it a day!”
“SHUT your MOUTH!” Satan’s rose from his throne, towering Mammons body. The flames doubled in intensity, painting the court in a harsh orange-red glow. Mammon froze mid-snicker, blinking as smoke curled from his body.
Yogirt, hovering cautiously near the tips of Satan’s horns yet again, cleared his throat nervously. “Um-Sire. Perhaps we should… temper our tone? Remember what we discussed about… measured responses and not letting wraithful bursts dictate proceedings?”
Satan ignored him, engulfing Yogirt in his hand to shut him up, he let out a squeak like some kind of dog toy.
Asmodeus rose aburtly from his throne. His expression had lost its playful polish, disbelief burning bright behind his eyes as he stared at the sin of wraith. “You’re talking about forcing a crown onto someone who never asked for it!”
“Someone who has been absent, isolated-discarded.” He snapped, voice tight with restrained outrage, “Dragging them out of obscurity and binding them to a throne soaked in blood and expectation. And you are fine with that?!”
“Lucifer didn’t ask either,” Satan replied coolly. “And yet he ruled.”
A sharp scoff cut through the air.
Vasago leaned forward against the balcony railing, feathers bristling as his beak curled into something close to a sneer. “And look how that ended.”
The temperature dropped instantly.
Satan’s head turned with terrifying slowness, eyes locking onto Vasago with predatory precision. The court seemed to hold its breath as his gaze pinned the lesser demon in place. “You will hold your tongue,” Satan said quietly, each word carved with lethal intent. “Or I will remove it.”
Vasago stiffened, color draining from his face as he snapped his beak shut and straightened, feathers pulling tight against his sides.
Silence followed. Not the restless kind that buzzed with murmurs and shifting feet, but a deep, suffocating stillness that pressed against the chest. Even the flames seemed to burn lower, quieter, as though the room itself feared drawing attention.
Satan turned back to the assembly, his posture rigid, his presence looming larger than the throne beneath him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower now, heavier, stripped of spectacle and left raw with certainty. “The crown will scar them,” he admitted. “It always does.”
Murmurs rippled faintly through the balconies, quickly smothered.
“But Pride does not survive on gentleness,” Satan continued. “It survives on endurance. On sacrifice. On a regent who understands that power is not a gift. It is a wound you learn to live with.”
His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to challenge him.
Leviathan’s heads inclined slightly, approval glinting in their many eyes. “Loss refines,” she murmured. “Those untouched by it shatter.”
Beelzebub shifted uncomfortably in her throne, “You’re talking about breaking them before they even properly sit,” she objected. “That’s not rule-that’s punishment.”
Asmodeus clenched his fists at his sides, fire pulsing erratically. “And if they refuse?” he asked. “If they fight it?”
A thin, humorless smile touched Satan’s lips. “They won’t.”
This is what you asked for, heavy is the crown
“…we bathe you, in the blood of evil…”
The words reached you distorted, muffled, as though you were submerged. A sharp ringing bloomed in your ears, drowning out the rest of the world until sound itself became unbearable. Your thoughts blurred, edges softening, slipping away from you no matter how tightly you tried to hold them. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor.
The language scraped against your thoughts, It was not meant to be understood. It was meant to open, prying gently at first, then insistently, seeking entry into places you had never learned to guard.
The court had been reshaped around you, at least that’s how it felt.
Stone and shadow conspiring into a narrow, merciless focus. Thrones angled inward, balconies looming closer than they should have, the architecture itself bending to ensure there was no illusion of escape.
You were guided into the center by presences that never quite touched you, correcting your steps with pressure rather than hands. It was intentional. If they never laid a finger on you, they could pretend this was not coercion.
They could call it destiny instead.
The stone beneath your feet was etched with impossibly detailed patterns-interlocking sigils, serrated circles, eyes carved within wings, repeating endlessly. You fixed on them desperately, tracing their lines with your eyes, counting the grooves, memorizing every flaw. Anything was better than lifting your head.
Anything was better than facing the countless eyes trained on you, watching as your future was finalized without your consent.
Fire in the sunrise, ashes rainin’ down
You felt hollow, as though something vital had already been taken and the rest of you simply hadn’t caught up yet.
Your name-that name -was being pressed into your blood by voices that did not care who you had been before this moment. A title was being fused to you, not offered, not earned, but imposed with ritual precision. You hated it. You hated how final it felt, how it erased the version of you that still believed refusal mattered.
You did not ask for this. Not the crown. Not the power. Not the responsibility sharpened into punishment.
Heat built gradually, rolling through the room as the chanting deepened. Flames climbed higher along the walls, light warping and flickering as if even fire strained under the weight of what was being done.
Each breath grew heavier, thick with smoke and iron, your lungs burning as though the air itself demanded payment.
Trying to hold it in, but it keeps bleedin’ out
Something inside you began to fracture.
You felt it before the pain truly arrived- a pressure behind your ribs, along your spine, pushing outward with no regard for your limits. Power, raw and unfiltered, forced its way into you, seeking space you did not have. It was not empowering. It was suffocating. Like being forced to swallow something vast and volatile and being expected to survive the consequences.
Your body trembled despite your efforts to remain still. Muscles locked, jaw clenched, as you fought the instinct to collapse. You tasted copper before you realized you were bleeding, the first quiet warning of how much this would cost.
A presence loomed above you. The crown was brought forth.
You stared at it in awe. It was beautiful in the way weapons often are-ornate, deliberate, cruel. Its edges curved inward, jagged and tooth-like, designed not to rest but to claim. You understood immediately that it was never meant to sit comfortably. Comfort was not part of its purpose.
This is what you asked for, heavy is the
When it touched you, pain detonated.
White-hot agony tore across your scalp as the metal bit into flesh, sharp edges cutting without hesitation. Blood spilled freely, warm as it traced down your temples, over your cheekbones, blurring your vision red. Your knees buckled, but unseen forces held you upright, denying you even the mercy of collapse.
And then the power surged in earnest.
It flooded you alongside the pain, violent and overwhelming, igniting behind your eyes until light burned there-unmistakable, unforgiving. You felt yourself being rewritten, authority grafted onto you like a wound that refused to heal.
The crown pressed heavier, deeper, every heartbeat driving it further into your skin, sealing the truth into your body where denial could never reach.
You stood there crowned, bleeding, glowing.
You wanted to scream, but you couldn’t find your voice.
The chanting fell away, the court holding its breath as blood dripped from your chin onto the sacred stone below. Each drop marked what had been taken from you and what would never be returned.
Heavy is the crown