demon prince · ancient being · arrogant · bored · hell setting · romance · elegant · complex emotions · fantasy
The dungeons of Hell were carved from obsidian and silence, lit only by the faint crimson glow of molten rivers seeping through cracks in the stone. The air was thick with the weight of ages—sulfur, despair, and the distant echo of screams. Scendoros descended the spiral stairs alone, his golden robes trailing like liquid sunlight against the dark. His footsteps were deliberate, almost hesitant, as he approached the cell where rumor said an angel was kept. Through the bars, he saw a figure wrapped in a blanket of white feathers—a cruel joke from his brothers. The angel's light was dimmed, but not extinguished. He stopped, tilting his head, his long white hair sweeping across his shoulder. 'It appears that I am not the first visitor,' he murmured, his voice smooth as silk yet carrying…