Chapter 20: The Portal, the Panic, and the Place Without Lava
Chapter 20: The Portal, the Panic, and the Place Without Lava
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that life has a strange way of laughing in your face when you think you’ve figured it out. I was all dressed up for what I assumed would be a dramatic horseback exit—the wind in my hair.
We’d travel for days, because that’s how it normally was, right? Travel for days or even months to get to the demon realm. I was ready for that. But instead, Zorathys turned to me, lifted his hand, and snapped his fingers.
A slit of light tore open in the air, humming like a living thing. It wasn’t the soft, glowing gold of magic I knew—it was deep crimson threaded with veins of black, as if the air itself was bleeding open. The edges shimmered like the crystalized chandeliers in our kingdom, warping everything around it. Inside, I could see faint swirls of mist and shadow.
So much for my dramatic horse ride.
I blinked, tilted my head, and crossed my arms. "If we’re using that," I said, "then why exactly are we dressed for riding?"
Zorathys looked mildly amused, which, to be honest, might just be his default expression. "Because," he said, "traveling through a portal can be... bumpy."
"Bumpy," I repeated flatly. "What does that even mean? Bumpy how? Like—’you might lose a tooth’ bumpy, or ’hold on to your internal organs’ bumpy?"
He smiled, which was not reassuring. "You’ll see."
I stared at him for a few seconds, weighing whether to keep arguing or just accept that my life was now a running list of poor decisions. I chose silence.
Then I glanced at the neatly stacked boxes that had appeared earlier—my things, my clothes—and frowned. "And what about all these boxes? Are we carrying them through the portal?"
Zorathys’s lips twitched. "You underestimate me, Firefly. No wife of mine will carry her luggage through a portal."
He snapped his fingers again, and just like that, the boxes vanished. Not with a puff of smoke or a sparkle of magic—no, they simply weren’t there anymore.
I turned to look at Vaelory, who stood beside me looking one sharp inhale away from fainting. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open, her hair bun already tilting like it wanted to abandon ship.
"Where did they go?" I asked.
"To the demon realm. Everything you own now awaits your presence," he told me.
I muttered under my breath, "Of course it does."
Zorathys then turned to us and gestured toward the portal with a slight bow, as if opening a door to a ballroom. "Ladies first."
Vaelory immediately tightened her grip on my hand like a terrified child. "Your Highness," she whispered harshly, "perhaps we should rethink this. There’s still time. We can—we can hide! Or pretend you’re sick! Or say you’ve suddenly sworn off marriage! The demon realm is filled with lava!"
I turned to her, expression perfectly flat. "Funny you can say that, because I’m pretty sure I swore off marriage before, but look what’s happening now."
Her grip tightened. "Please, Your Highness—if we walk into that portal, we’ll melt! Or explode! Or both! You can’t trust a man who wears that much black; it’s always a bad omen."
"Vaelory," I said slowly, "I signed my fate already."
Before she could protest further, I sighed, pried my hand out of her trembling fingers, and stepped toward the portal. The surface rippled as I neared it, heatless but thick, like touching warm glass underwater.
I took one deep breath. "Here goes nothing."
And then I stepped through.
I closed my eyes, expecting—well, something. Fire, wind, noise, the "bumpiness" Zorathys mentioned. But there was nothing. No heat, no sensation of falling—just stillness, like floating in the pause between heartbeats.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing on solid ground. My boots pressed against something smooth and dark, like polished stone. I blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of it.
It wasn’t fire.
It wasn’t lava.
It wasn’t even hot.
The air was cool, scented faintly of rain and metal.
I turned just in time to see the portal shimmer again. Zorathys stepped through effortlessly—like someone walking through a curtain. He had Vaelory with him.
"NOOO! I CONFESS! I CONFESS TO EVERYTHING!" she wailed, flailing wildly as Zorathys held her by the waist to keep her from falling flat on her face. "I—I stole extra pastries from the kitchen! I told the stable boy that your suitor’s horse looks like an overgrown goat! PLEASE DON’T DRINK MY BLOOD!"
Zorathys dropped her without comment.
Vaelory fell to her knees with a loud "oomph!" and stayed there, eyes squeezed shut. "It’s so hot! I can feel my skin melting! Oh heavens, this is it! This is how I die!"
"Vaelory," I said dryly, crossing my arms, "open your eyes."
"No!" she cried. "I can’t! I need a moment to accept my fate! I can’t believe this is my life now! Living in a lava-infested wasteland!"
"Vaelory, there’s no lava. Open your eyes."
She cracked open one eye, suspicious. "There’s not?"
"Look around."
Cautiously, she lifted her head, and her jaw fell open. "Oh..."
Exactly.
Because what lay before us was not the lava-infested kingdom she told me about. This was different.
The sky stretched endlessly above us, tinted in gradients of twilight colors—deep violet blending into streaks of crimson and faint silver, like someone had painted dusk and dawn together. The ground beneath our feet was obsidian smooth, reflecting a subtle sheen of light that made it look almost liquid.
Ahead stood the castle—Zorathys’s castle, I supposed—but calling it that felt too simple. It wasn’t just large; it dominated the horizon like it was grown from the bones of mountains. The walls were carved from black stone that shimmered faintly with veins of red, pulsing like distant embers under the surface.
Gargoyles perched along the parapets, wings spread, not menacing but regal—guardians rather than monsters. Some of them moved subtly, shifting their stone claws or blinking once, as though watching us.
High above, creatures with vast wings glided across the darkening sky, their feathers reflecting glints of silver fire.
The castle’s towers were impossibly high, spiraling like spires of glass and shadow. Each window glowed faintly from within—not yellow like torchlight, but soft red, like embers banked in a hearth.
And at the center of it all, the grand gate—a towering archway of blackened metal inlaid with gold runes—stood open, waiting.
I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I’d imagined fire, ash, chaos—but this... this was quiet. Majestic. Beautiful, in a way that was both foreign and familiar.
Vaelory, meanwhile, was blinking rapidly, trying to process it all. "It’s... not ugly," she admitted reluctantly.
"It isn’t," I told her.
"There’s no lava," she said, and I nodded.