Heaven did not answer immediately.
That, more than anything, unsettled Aurelian.
Days passed after the signal—cycles measured by Hell's warped sense of time—yet no angelic incursion followed. No sudden Extermination. No celestial thunder tearing through the sky. Instead, Hell existed in a state of suspended breath, like prey frozen beneath a hunter's shadow.
It was wrong.
Aurelian stood within the same boundary where Hell thinned into something else, the air still faintly scorched with holy residue. The sigils etched into the ground pulsed softly beneath his boots, responding to his presence like loyal sentinels. He had expected resistance, or at least acknowledgment.
Silence meant deliberation.
"Heaven doesn't rush," Beelzebub said behind him. She hadn't bothered masking her power today; the air vibrated with Gluttony's excess just beneath her casual tone. "When they go quiet, it means they're arguing."
"That's what worries me," Aurelian replied.
Bee crossed her arms, gaze sharp. "You've forced them to see Hell as something other than a punching bag. That was always going to make things messy."
"I didn't force them," he said calmly. "I invited them."
She scoffed. "Same difference."
Aurelian turned to her. "If they respond with violence, Hell fractures. If they respond with negotiation, the balance of existence changes."
Bee's expression softened, just a fraction. "You're carrying this like it's your fault either way."
"Isn't it?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder—heavy, grounding. "You were never meant to fix Hell alone."
"I know," he said. "But I might be the only one who can speak to Heaven without being erased."
Bee studied his face, then sighed. "Lucifer's blood."
"And Roo's," Aurelian added quietly.
That earned a pause.
Bee's voice dropped. "You still feel her, don't you?"
"Yes."
Not as a presence. Not as a voice. More like gravity—constant, inescapable. Chaos wrapped in intention. Roo's influence wasn't destruction for destruction's sake. It was change without permission.
Aurelian carried that contradiction in his veins.
Elsewhere in Hell, the consequences of his actions spread outward.
In Pentagram City, Overlords gathered—not in open defiance, but in tense, private meetings. Old enemies found themselves seated at the same tables, exchanging measured words instead of threats. No one trusted the peace, but no one wanted to be the first to break it.
Alastor watched it all with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
From the shadows of his domain, the Radio Demon listened—literally. Frequencies carried whispers of Aurelian's influence everywhere, like a song only the truly dangerous could hear.
"Well now," Alastor mused to no one in particular, cane tapping against the floor. "A hidden prince tugging at the strings of Hell. How delightfully nostalgic."
He tilted his head, tuning into a channel only he could access.
"And how terribly inconvenient."
Loona felt the tension crawling under her skin.
Clients canceled contracts. Assassination requests dried up. I.M.P. had never been ethical, but the sudden lack of bloodwork left an uncomfortable void. Hell didn't slow down—it stalled.
She hated it.
She found Aurelian again, this time in a quiet corner of the Hive, where the music was distant and the lights were dimmer. He was seated at a table littered with documents—contracts, sigils, infernal law—his attention split between half a dozen things at once.
"You look like shit," she said flatly.
He glanced up, amused. "High praise."
She dropped into the chair across from him. "People are getting restless. When Hell gets bored, it gets stupid."
"I'm aware."
Loona leaned forward, ears twitching. "So what's the plan?"
Aurelian hesitated.
That was new.
"I don't know yet," he admitted.
Her eyes narrowed. "You've always known."
"Up until now, yes," he said. "This is different. Heaven isn't reacting the way it should."
She studied him carefully. "You're scared."
He didn't deny it. "I'm cautious."
"Same thing, fancy words."
She exhaled slowly, then reached across the table and flicked one of the contracts. "You've got all of Hell dancing on invisible strings. Why not pull harder?"
"Because fear creates resistance," Aurelian replied. "And resistance turns into rebellion."
Loona's voice softened. "And if Heaven decides to wipe us out anyway?"
His gaze met hers, steady and unyielding. "Then Hell won't die begging."
Something in his tone sent a shiver through her.
"Promise me something," she said quietly.
"What?"
"That when everything explodes—and it will—you don't shut us out."
He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "I promise."
Octavia received the message first.
Not through sigils or spells—but through a dream.
She stood in a vast expanse of white, the air humming with restrained power. Towers of light stretched infinitely upward, their foundations etched with laws older than Hell itself.
A figure approached her—not hostile, not welcoming.
Curious.
"You walk close to a dangerous truth," the angel said, wings folded neatly behind their back.
Octavia's feathers bristled. "So do you."
The angel smiled faintly. "Hell has changed. That should be impossible."
"It isn't," she replied. "You just never bothered to imagine it."
The angel studied her, then spoke a single name.
"Aurelian."
Octavia woke with a sharp inhale, heart racing.
They knew.
When she found Aurelian, she didn't bother easing into it.
"Heaven knows your name," she said.
His expression darkened—but he didn't look surprised. "Then the next step has begun."
Octavia swallowed. "They're not afraid of you."
"No," he said quietly. "They're afraid of what I represent."
"And what's that?"
He looked out over Hell's burning skyline, eyes reflecting fire and resolve.
"A future where they're no longer the only ones who decide what balance means."
Above them, unseen by most, the sky shimmered faintly—as if something vast had opened its eyes.
The silence was ending.
And when Heaven finally spoke, Hell would never be the same.