(Sheol)
Sheol was a kingdom steeped in blood and hardened by crime.
Alastor had ascended the throne too early, but he had never truly been given a choice. The moment his father took his last breath, Alastor accepted his fate. His mother was sent into hiding soon after, her whereabouts kept secret from the kingdom and from him.
He was alone in Sheol.
Eventually, he found comfort in the chaos that pulsed through its cities. The young prince chose to drown himself in ale and fleeting distractions rather than confront the weight of leadership.
The kingdom sprawled along black volcanic ridges and jagged cliffs. The soil was dark and fertile, though scorched in places. Smoke rose constantly from fissures in the earth, and rivers ran warm from geothermal springs. Forests of charred, twisted trees grew stubbornly despite the heat. The sky was often hazy with ash, turning sunsets a deep, bleeding red.
Obsidian towers and basalt fortresses dominated the skyline. Iron detailed the balconies and gates. The streets smelled of ash, cedar smoke, and metal. Torches lined every main road, their flames flickering even in daylight.
The people of Sheol bore skin kissed in charcoal and crimson undertones, their hands calloused, their builds strong. Steel-gray and near-black eyes were common. Dark brown and black hair was typically braided or tied back beneath hoods.
They respected strength, not status. Weakness was not mocked; it was corrected. Betrayal was unforgivable.
Sheol possessed the strongest military in the region. Weapons were crafted like art; blades were named and passed down through generations. Children learned combat as soon as they could walk.
Smoke curled into the sky as Alastor rode through the stone streets, the air thick with ash. When he reached the path to his castle, he paused before the iron gates, waiting for the guards to open them.
In the distance, his hellhounds howled.
Fog rolled through the gates as they opened, curling around his horse's hooves. He trotted through the stone tunnels, dismounted, and tied the reins to a post. Pulling back his hood, his dark hair fell messily into his eyes.
He grabbed a torch from the tunnel wall, its light reflecting off puddles and damp stone. His black leather coat dragged slightly against the wet ground as he moved quickly toward the sound of the hounds.
They met him at the entrance, tails wagging eagerly.
Ash clung to their charcoal fur, their ears alert. The three hounds: Oblivis, Vulkris, and Tharok, had been gifted immortality by Sheol's royal bloodline when Alastor was born. Nineteen years later, they had never left his side.
Bred for protection. Forged from dark magic unique to Sheol.
Alastor knelt briefly, patting Oblivis's head before climbing the spiral staircase into his castle.
His chamber was gothic in design, with black curtains, towering windows etched with dark sigils, and shadows pooling in every corner. The hounds settled onto the stone floor as Alastor leaned against the balcony doorframe, staring into the smoky sky.
A knock sounded at the door.
General Torren Kael entered first. His body was marked with scars that climbed from his collarbone to his buzzed charcoal hair. Tall and broad, he carried himself like a living weapon.
Behind him followed Vespera Nyx.
Her raven hair fell in a sleek braid over one shoulder. Amber eyes flicked toward Alastor with clear disapproval.
"That was reckless, Your Highness," Vespera said coolly.
Alastor ran a hand through his hair and scoffed under his breath.
"You're acting as though we aren't already doomed," he muttered. "We both know Lupus's intentions."
"Then tell her the truth," Vespera shot back.
Alastor's jaw tightened.
"She won't believe me," he said hoarsely. "We're Alaria's greatest enemy—"
"By your own design," Vespera snapped, stepping forward.
Torren intervened, his voice calm but firm.
"Our troops are prepared for any retaliation, Your Highness."
"If that's all," Alastor said, lifting a glass of ale and turning back toward the window, "you're dismissed."
Vespera scoffed and swept from the room. Torren lingered.
"Only you know what the right choice is," he said quietly. "That is why you wear the crown."
Something in Alastor snapped.
He hurled the wine glass against the wall. It shattered, shards scattering across the floor.
"I did not choose this!" he shouted.
Torren did not flinch.
"I know," he said, his voice softer now. "But it is your life. And you need to regain control. For Sheol."
Alastor turned away, silent.
After a moment, Torren left him alone.
Alastor strode to his desk, ripping open a drawer and seizing parchment and quill. He wrote quickly, desperately.
We need to speak.
Alastor Kaelthorn
He sealed the letter and summoned a messenger, sending him racing toward Alaria.
If she refused to believe him, she would doom herself.
Because he knew what he had heard.
The Engagement Ball:
Later that evening, Alastor watched Lupus from across the ballroom once Elysium had stepped away.
He approached calmly and placed a hand on Lupus's shoulder.
"This won't take long," Alastor said, motioning toward the corridor.
Lupus followed.
The hallway was dim, lit only by flickering candles.
"So tell me," Lupus said casually, "what are you doing here?"
Alastor paused before answering.
"I want to know why you truly wish to marry Elysium."
Lupus smiled, warm and effortless.
"Because it benefits our kingdoms," he replied smoothly, though something in his tone felt hollow.
Alastor grabbed his arm.
"Is it true? Word travels quickly in Sheol."
Lupus stopped walking.
When he turned, something had shifted. His expression darkened; subtle, but unmistakable.
"She'll never believe you," Lupus said quietly. "You're the dark prince. You thrive on chaos."
"You'll burn these realms to the ground," Alastor replied, his voice steady for once.
"Perhaps," Lupus smiled faintly. "But they will be my realms."
Alastor's fists tightened at his sides.
He stormed back toward the ballroom, fury simmering beneath his composure.
Then he saw her.
Elysium stood alone in the moonlight.
He took a step toward her, but stopped when Lupus joined her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Alastor looked away.
"Damn both of you," he muttered.