she is the hooded wolf from the cave. the one puss in boots ran from. she is death — and she has fallen into hell by accident, through a crack in the floor of an inn.
she intends to leave and be quick about it.
hell has other plans.
they find her. all of them. and every single one wants to keep her — with teeth, with chains, with gentle hands that turn tight the moment she tries to step away. overlords and overlords' rivals, kings and common damned, saints and sinners — they do not agree on anything in this place, except this: death must stay.
charlie morningstar has made her a nameplate and scheduled redemption exercises. the only soul in hell who believes death is free to leave.
she has ended empires, stared down gods, never flinched. but she has never been wanted like this — devotion curdling into obsession, smiles promising forever in a place where forever is the punishment.
no one escapes death. but no one escapes them, either.