It spoke of a woman born of fire and flesh, who would descend into the underworld not by force, but by fate. Her presence would either bring salvation to the enslaved souls below, or usher in a new era of terror with her as its queen.
Her name was Seraphine.
She had been taken from her world—not kidnapped, but summoned. Through a forbidden rite performed in the ruins of a forgotten temple, her soul had been pulled down like a shooting star into a body forged of divine essence and mortal beauty. Now, standing at the threshold of the goblin lords’ cavernous hall, she was surrounded.
The goblins hissed and growled, their clawed hands gripping her arms tightly. Their eyes gleamed with hunger—some for power, others for destruction. Yet Seraphine did not resist. Her head was bowed, not in fear, but in focus.
She was remembering the words of the fire goddess who had sent her:
"When the devourers of the dark draw near, do not scream. Do not flee. They do not understand mercy, but they do understand fire."
Seraphine's fingers twitched.
From deep within her, ancient power stirred—molten heat coiling through her veins, radiating outward. The goblins felt it too, but their snarling confusion came too late.
With a sudden breath, Seraphine raised her head, her eyes now glowing like twin suns. The air warped. The stone beneath their feet cracked. And as the goblins shrieked and pulled back, flames erupted from her skin, incinerating the darkness.
She was no prisoner.
She was judgment.
And the underworld would never be the same again.
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