The black flames around the circle started dying out, flickering into smoke. But the room didn't get brighter.
It got quieter.
Too quiet.
Lucifer stepped forward—slowly—out of the crack in reality, the void sealing behind him like it had never been there. His coat drifted behind him in pieces, burnt at the edges, heavy with ash and old blood. His boots hit the wood with a sound too loud for footsteps. Like the cabin was holding its breath.
The young adults didn't move.
Couldn't.
The heat from the fire wasn't warm. It was sharp. Like standing too close to lightning.
Lucifer stopped in the center of the ruined circle. His wings weren't out, but the shadow of them seemed to hang in the air behind him—huge, jagged, broken.
He looked at them.
One by one.
No emotion on his face. Just tired eyes. Pale skin. White hair draped over his shoulders like silk caught in a storm. Eyes too deep. Too sharp. Like they remembered more than they should.
