In the twilight realm of Purgatory, where the souls of the lost linger, an eternal war rages. Angels and demons fight not with swords alone, but with whispers, bargains, and manipulations, each side vying for dominance over the souls caught in between. Heaven and Hell are bound by an uneasy truce, an agreement forged long ago to prevent all-out destruction. But with every passing moment, the fragile peace grows thinner.
At the heart of this conflict is Caziel, a fallen angel and sworn brother of Lucifer, a warrior and strategist whose allegiance is tested as the tides of war shift. His domain in Hell is vast, his rule over demons absolute, yet his greatest battle lies beyond the infernal gates. With three powerful wives—Morrigan, the Queen of Hell; Thana, the fierce general; and Vespera, guardian of the abyss—Caziel must navigate treachery, deception, and forbidden truths.
As Heaven’s forces strengthen and Hell’s patience wanes, the balance of power threatens to collapse. The final war for Purgatory is at hand, and the choices of one soul could tip the scales forever.
In this dark fantasy of horror and political intrigue, no soul is safe, and no war is ever truly won.
The dining hall of Caziel’s castle was a grand chamber carved from the obsidian bones of Hell itself. Shadows danced upon the crimson banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling, each bearing the sigil of his house—six stars encircling a black dragon. A vast obsidian table stretched across the center of the hall, its surface reflecting the dim glow of the candelabras filled with flickering, ghostly blue flames. The air was rich with the scent of seared abyssal meats, sulfur-spiced wines, and decadent, dark fruits that only grew in the underworld’s blood drenched soil.
At the head of the table sat Caziel, his form regal yet fearsome, his once-divine features hardened by eons of war and rule. His three wives flanked him, each embodying a different aspect of Hell’s dominion. Morrigan, the Guardian of Hell, was poised with effortless elegance, her crimson gown pooling like spilled blood as she regarded the family with sharp, knowing eyes. To his left, Thana exuded an air of controlled brutality, her armored shoulders rigid as she carved into her meal with the same precision she used in battle. Vespera, silent yet omnipotent in her presence, sat at the opposite end, her midnight gaze deep as the black flames she commanded. The three women, distinct in their power, were a balance to Caziel’s rule, each a pillar of his infernal empire, the entire western regions of Hell, known as Mortuus.
Their children, seated with the discipline expected of Hell’s nobility, spoke in measured tones. Though the scene was warm, a quiet authority underpinned every movement and word. There was no frivolous laughter, no idle chatter. The sons, sharp-featured and forged in ambition, discussed the latest shifts in the battle for Purgatory’s dominion. The daughters, no less formidable, debated matters of diplomacy, weighing the subtle machinations of Heaven’s emissaries against Hell’s ever-burning conquest. Every spoken word was a strategy; every silence held the weight of calculated thought.
Despite the rigid order of the gathering, there was a sense of familial unity. Caziel, between sips of his dark wine, would glance at his wives and children with the quiet satisfaction of a ruler whose dynasty remained unshaken. Morrigan occasionally offered a sharp word of counsel, while Thana, ever the warrior, corrected her son’s grip on his blade between courses. Vespera, enigmatic as always, merely observed, her thoughts unfathomable yet ever-present. It was not a scene of chaos, nor of cruelty, but of power—pure, disciplined, and absolute. This was not just a meal; it was a reminder of what it meant to be the royal family of West Hades.
The glow of blue fire flickered over the darkened feast, the light glinting off polished goblets and the silver filigree of Hell’s royal tableware. The air was thick with the scent of charred meats and spiced wines, yet despite the warmth of the hall, there was an underlying weight to the conversation. The royal family of Hell did not simply dine together; they convened, reporting on their dominions as the eternal struggle for control raged beyond the castle walls.
Thana, clad in her battle-forged regalia, set down her goblet and folded her arms. “The Legion of Death remains steadfast,” she declared, her voice sharp as the edge of her blade. “The lost souls grow restless again. There have been whispers of another rebellion, though it is nothing we cannot crush. Our forces are prepared to enforce order throughout Hell, as they always have. And when the day of reckoning comes, we will be ready to claim what is rightfully ours on Earth.”
Caziel offered a slight nod. “As expected. And the diplomats?”
One of his sons, the ever-cunning Abbadon, leaned forward slightly. “Lord Caziel, the emissaries of Purgatory continue their passive resistance. They refuse to declare loyalty, neither to us nor to Heaven, but I have noted their growing hesitance. Their neutrality is untenable. Given time, they will be forced to choose.”
“Then ensure the choice is ours,” Morrigan said, her serene voice settling over the table like a decree.
A measured silence followed, as was customary. Each report was a thread in the tapestry of Hell’s dominion, and Caziel would weave the final decision from the information provided. It was during this pause that Astarte, daughter of Vespera, set down her goblet and spoke.
“Demon Lord Caziel,” she began, her voice steady, though a spark of mischief glimmered behind her gold-red eyes. “Lady Vespera. I bring a request for consideration.”
Caziel raised a brow but said nothing, allowing his daughter to continue. Vespera’s midnight gaze, deep and unreadable, settled upon her child with silent expectation.
Astarte straightened her back, resisting the urge to fidget. “The Land of Black Flames, while integral to our realm, does not fully utilize my talents. As a devoted daughter of Hell, I wish to be of greater service. Therefore, I formally request reassignment to the Legion of Death under Lady Thana’s command. As a warrior, I can better contribute to our dominion than in my current station.”
A ripple of surprise flickered through the siblings, though none dared openly react. Thana, silent for a moment, studied Astarte with a keen, almost amused gaze.
Caziel took a slow sip of his wine. “And what makes you believe the Legion of Death would suit you more?”
Astarte maintained her composure, though her fingers twitched against the table’s surface. “I am swift. I am relentless. The art of war demands a spirit unchained, and I am prepared to prove myself. With Lady Thana’s training, I can be of greater use to our cause.”
Thana smirked. “A bold claim.”
Vespera finally moved, setting down her goblet with a soft, deliberate clink. “Denied.”
Astarte, though expecting it, felt the weight of the single word crash down like a verdict. “But Lady Vespera—”
Vespera’s gaze did not waver. “The Land of Black Flames is your duty. You are my daughter. You will not abandon your station simply because you find it… inconvenient.”
Astarte’s throat tightened. She had crafted her argument carefully, but her mother had seen through her. Still, she knew better than to argue further.
Caziel exhaled slowly, a sign that the matter was closed. His silent approval of Vespera’s ruling was as final as a spoken decree. Astarte lowered her gaze, feeling both disappointment and relief. She had not angered her father. That alone was a victory.
She lifted her goblet once more, masking her frustration behind a slow sip. The night’s discussions continued, the matter of her request already fading into the steady rhythm of politics and war. Astarte had lost this battle—but the war for her freedom was far from over.
At last, as the reports dwindled and the wine goblets emptied, Caziel lifted his hand. At his silent command, the remnants of the feast vanished into nothingness, leaving the table pristine once more. “Dinner is concluded,” he announced, his voice smooth yet final. “You will all return to your stations.”
The family rose in unison, each departing with purpose. Caligo, daughter of Morrigan, stepped away from the table with measured grace. “I will take my leave now,” she murmured, her dark eyes meeting Caziel’s momentarily before shifting to her mother.
Morrigan inclined her head in approval. “Go. Abbadon awaits. Switch shifts accordingly.”
Caligo bowed her head slightly, then turned on her heel. Her destination was clear—the Purgatory Gate, where her cousin Abbadon would be waiting. She moved through the grand halls of the castle, the shadows seemingly bending toward her, as if drawn to the aura of her quiet presence. As she neared the towering obsidian gates that marked the threshold between Hell and Purgatory, the temperature shifted. The oppressive heat of Hell gave way to the eerie, weightless chill of Purgatory’s domain—a place caught between absolution and damnation.
Her casual garments dissolved into black smoke, shifting and curling around her frame as they reformed into her official attire—a long, imposing robe lined with silver and midnight threading. The final wisp of fire dissipated just as she reached the gate, where Abbadon stood. Clad in dark, ceremonial armor that gleamed like liquid night, he was every bit the overseer of lost souls. His silver eyes flicked toward her, his expression unreadable as he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“Caligo,” he greeted, his voice smooth yet distant. “Punctual as ever.”
She met his gaze, her tone cool. “I do not see the point in keeping souls waiting.”
A faint smirk ghosted over his lips. “Neither do I.” He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “How was dinner?”
“Productive,” Caligo answered. “The usual reports. Astarte made a request to be transferred to Lady Thana’s army.”
Abbadon scoffed. “She only wants access to the warrior’s entertainment halls.”
A rare smirk crossed Caligo’s lips. “Most likely.”
As they strode forward, six high-ranking demons fell in line behind them in synchronized movements, two by two, their presence a silent acknowledgment of their authority. The Grand Afterlife Symposium awaited, and the forces of Hell would ensure their dominion was not forgotten.
At the entrance to the Grand Afterlife Symposium, a new presence emerged. From the opposing side, eight angels approached in perfect formation. Leading them was a tall, radiant figure—Galadriel. Her golden-white robes shimmered with an otherworldly light, and her warm, knowing smile stood in stark contrast to the rigid discipline of the demons before her. Her gaze settled on Abbadon, and a flicker of genuine warmth crossed her expression.
“Abbadon,” she greeted, voice soft yet carrying authority.
Abbadon remained still, unreadable, his dark eyes giving away nothing. Yet, despite his icy demeanor, he dipped his head ever so slightly. “Galadriel.”
Her smile remained as she glanced at Caligo, though with significantly less warmth. “And Lady Caligo.”
Caligo did not acknowledge her, keeping her gaze ahead, indifferent to the angel’s presence. The seven angels at Galadriel’s back remained silent, their expressions passive, though their tension was palpable.
Without another word, the two opposing forces fell into step, walking side by side into the Grand Afterlife Symposium, where thousands of lost souls awaited their fate.
