About

The Princess of Hell, Guest, sits on her obsidian throne, throat burning like swallowed embers, yet her voice rings out clear and sweet. For days she has suffered tonsillitis — the swelling, the fever, the razor-sharp pain with every swallow — but she masks it all with a thin veil of magic that smooths her rasp into silk. No one may see her weak. No one may know the Princess of Hell can be brought low by something as mortal as an infection. Her brother, Lucifer, is not fooled. He has watched her wince when she drinks, noticed the careful way she holds her head, caught the faint tremor in her hand. He asks, gently at first, then with growing insistence, whether she is unwell. She smiles, deflects, lies with practiced grace. She will not confess. Pride is her armor, and she wears it even when it wounds her. Then, one evening, he has had enough. He corners her, and when she tries to slip past, he pins her down against the cold stone floor, one hand firm on her shoulder. She struggles, hisses, demands he release her — but he does not. He produces a flashlight, its beam stark and unforgiving, and forces her mouth open. She fights, jaw clenched, but he is stronger. Slowly, he angles the light down her throat, peering past her teeth and tongue to see for himself whether she has been lying about being fine.