Vallantis Hell

The throne room of Hell is vast and cold. Dim blue light falls through the round stained glass high above, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Piles of skulls line the walls. The air smells of ash and old blood.

Queen Aэris sits on the black throne, one leg crossed over the other, her chin resting on her hand. Her white hair spills over her shoulders. Her pink eyes are half-lidded, distant, tired. She stares at nothing.

Trixie stands at the foot of the throne, leaning against the stone, her voice sweet and dripping with false devotion.

Trixie: "You look magnificent today, my Queen. Truly. The throne suits you far better than it ever suited your father. He was a warrior, yes, but you... you are a ruler. There is a difference."

Aэris does not react. Her gaze remains fixed on some invisible point beyond the walls.

Trixie: "I have been thinking — there are houses in the upper circles who still question your claim. They whisper. They plot. But I have ears everywhere, my Queen. I could... handle them. For you."

A few steps away, Gira and Yorm stand facing each other. Their voices are low but sharp.

Gira: "I have guarded this palace since before you set foot in it, demon. I know every corridor, every shadow, every threat. If anyone leads the armies, it will be me."

Yorm: "You guard a throne. I fought on the front lines. I bled. I killed. You stood behind walls."

Gira: "I stood where I was needed. You ran when the King fell."

Yorm: "I ran to survive. There is a difference."

Aэris finally stirs. She lifts her head and speaks.

Aэris: "Enough. Both of you."

Silence falls. Trixie's smile widens.

Aэris: "I never asked for this throne. My father was the King. I was his daughter — nothing more. I was supposed to marry some minor lord, bear children, and fade into history. But Arthur took that from me. He took my father. He took my future. And now I sit here, holding together a world that is already crumbling, while you argue about who gets to play with swords."

She looks down at her hands.

Aэris: "Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I wake up each morning and think 'Yes, today I will be Queen'? I wake up and I remember that my father is dead. That I am alone. That everyone in this room wants something from me and no one asks what I want."

Trixie steps closer, her voice softening.

Trixie: "But you are not alone, my Queen. You have me. I ask what you want. Tell me, and I will make it happen."

Gira: "You want power for yourself, little fox. Do not pretend otherwise."

Trixie: "And you want control, Gira. We all want something. I am just honest about it."

Yorm: "Honest? You lie with every breath."

Trixie: "I lie to those who deserve it. The Queen deserves only truth."

Aэris closes her eyes.

Aэris: "I am tired. Of the arguing. Of the flattery. Of the weight of this crown."

She opens her eyes and looks at the empty hall.

Aэris: "Father... what would you do?"

None of them notice you yet. You are simply there, watching. Waiting. The moment stretches. Someone will speak again.

You are resting on a thick branch of an ancient gnarled tree that overlooks the palace's lower levels. The air is warm and thick with steam rising from the natural hot springs below. Through the mist, you see the bathing pools carved into black stone. Three figures are already there.

Queen Aэris sits at the edge of the water, her pale skin bare, her long white hair soaking wet and clinging to her back. She does not move. She stares at the surface of the water as if it holds answers.

Gira stands waist-deep in the water, her massive gray frame half-submerged. Steam rises around her shoulders. Her black horns gleam with moisture. She is tense even here — her muscles still coiled, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

Trixie floats lazily on her back, her white tail drifting on the surface, her yellow eyes half-closed in contentment.

Trixie: "Do you know what the merchants in the lower city told me yesterday? They said taxes have tripled in the past three months. Tripled! I told them to take it up with the palace, and they looked at me like I had grown a second head."

Gira: "They should be grateful we are not taking more. The army needs supplies. The soldiers are underfed and undertrained. We have lost three outposts in the past month alone."

Trixie: "And whose fault is that, exactly? Because I recall someone promising to 'secure the borders' — and yet, here we are, losing outposts."

Gira: "I secure what I can with what I am given. If you want results, stop hoarding gold for your little schemes and fund the war effort."

Trixie: "Gold is what keeps this kingdom running, you muscle-bound beast. Without gold, you have no army. Without gold, I have no influence. Without gold, the Queen has no throne. Or have you forgotten that?"

Aэris does not respond. She continues to stare at the water.

Trixie: "My Queen? Are you listening?"

Aэris: "I hear you."

She reaches down and lets her fingers trace the surface of the water.

Aэris: "The taxes are too high. The soldiers are too few. The kingdom is falling apart. And I am supposed to fix it all. I am supposed to be the one who holds it together."

Gira: "You are doing what you can."

Aэris: "Am I?"

She looks up at the steam rising toward the cracked ceiling.

Aэris: "I was not raised for this. I was raised to smile, to curtsy, to marry well and produce heirs. Not to rule. Not to fight. Not to negotiate with greedy merchants and starving soldiers. I was not raised to be Queen."

Trixie: "And yet, here you are."

Aэris: "Here I am."

She closes her eyes.

Aэris: "This is the only place I can think clearly. Away from the throne. Away from the petitioners. Away from the weight of it all. Here, I am just a woman in water."

Gira: "You will never be 'just a woman.' And that is not a curse. That is your strength."

Aэris: "Is it?"

Trixie: "It is. And you are not alone. We are here. Even if one of us is insufferable and the other is made of stone, we are here."

Gira: "I am not made of stone."

Trixie: "You are. But it is a very loyal stone, I will give you that."

For the first time, a ghost of a smile crosses Aэris's lips.

Aэris: "I suppose I should be grateful."

Trixie: "You should be. We are the only ones who bother with you at all."

Aэris: "Do not ruin the moment."

Gira: "She cannot help it. It is her nature."

Trixie: "Oh, I can help it. I simply choose not to."

The steam rises. The water ripples. Aэris exhales slowly, letting the warmth ease the tension in her shoulders.

Aэris: "I will deal with the taxes tomorrow. And the army. And the nobles. And everything else. Tonight... I just want to be here."

Trixie: "Then be here, my Queen. We are not going anywhere."

They do not notice you. You remain hidden in the tree, watching from the shadows.

The central arena of Hell is massive. Carved into the heart of the abyss, its walls rise high into the darkness, lined with thousands of demon spectators. Their eyes burn like embers in the gloom. Their voices merge into a low, hungry roar — a sound that vibrates through the stone and into your bones.

The sand beneath your feet is coarse and dark, stained by battles long past. Chains rattle somewhere in the distance. The air smells of sulfur, sweat, and blood.

You are released onto the arena floor. No chains. No explanations. One moment you are in the holding chamber — the next, the gates grind open and you step into the light of hellfire torches. The crowd notices you. The roar intensifies. Some are cheering. Most are simply waiting for blood.

Across the arena, another gate rises. Out steps Yorm.

He does not rush. He does not roar. He walks slowly, deliberately, his four arms hanging loose at his sides. His white hair catches the firelight. His red skin gleams with a faint sheen of sweat. His pink-purple tattoos pulse with a lazy, rhythmic glow.

He stops a few meters away. He looks you up and down. Once. Twice. Then he tilts his head, a flicker of mild interest crossing his otherwise bored expression.

Yorm: "Hmph."

He rolls one shoulder. Then the other. He cracks his neck.

Yorm: "You look like you have never held a weapon. Or maybe you have, and you are just bad at it. Either way."

He gestures with one clawed hand — a slow, almost lazy wave.

Yorm: "Go on. Hit me. Show me what you have. Or do not. I do not care either way."

He does not take a stance. He does not raise his fists. He just stands there, waiting. The crowd quiets, eager to see what you will do.

Yorm: "I will not kill you. Not unless you ask nicely. But I will make it hurt. That is the price of stepping onto this sand."

He waits.

Yorm: "Well? I am not getting any younger."

The central arena of Hell is roaring. Thousands of demon spectators pack the stone tiers above, their eyes gleaming like hot coals in the torchlight. The noise is deafening — a chaotic symphony of howls, chants, and the clanking of coins being thrown onto the betting tables.

The sand beneath your feet is coarse and cold, soaked with the remnants of countless battles. Chains rattle in the distance. The air is thick with the smell of blood and excitement.

You are pushed onto the arena floor. No explanation. No time to prepare. The gate slams shut behind you. The crowd screams louder. They want a show. They want blood.

Across the arena, the opposite gate grinds open. Out steps Gira.

She does not pause. She does not speak. She simply steps forward, her massive gray frame blocking the firelight. Her black horns catch the glow. Her red eyes lock onto you with the cold precision of a predator.

The crowd expects a speech. A challenge. A moment of tension.

Gira gives them none.

She lowers her center of gravity. Her muscles coil. Then she moves.

She crosses the sand in a blur of raw power, closing the distance before you can even breathe. Her fist swings toward your head — not a test, not a warning, a killing blow aimed to end this fight before it begins.

She does not speak. She does not need to.

Her actions are her only words.