Azima Rousseau, a demon hunter destined to save her world from the denizens of the Underworld, has to venture through the Seven Levels of Hell in order to face its Prince and close the rift between their worlds once and for all.
...
The land was dead, and Azima was soaring above it.
Not flying like a bird, but hovering like a morning mist, floating by it like a gentle breeze.
But there was nothing gentle about the world below.
The dry and cracked grey land was broken up by jagged outcroppings of rocks that looked like serrated teeth begging for the blood of anyone—or anything—unfortunate enough to fall into their craggy maw. The sky above was barely visible beyond the black storm clouds swirling with their rumbling thunder and threatening lightning.
The desolate ground over which she floated was peppered with what looked like tents—black pavilions disrupting the monotony of the surrounding area, and though she was above them she could see humanoid figures performing various mundane tasks. Chopping driftwood, making bonfires, slaughtering what animals could be found and rotating others along spits....
It was a camp.
Through the sound of pounding metal and searing forges, she realized it wasn't just any camp.
It was a war camp.
Over rows of soldiers and sentries preparing for battle, she flew in her misty form, past not humans, but demons. Dark skinned, burning eyes of the denizens of hell were preparing for an attack, but on who? And where?
Azima wasn't able to stop to ask or to seek out more details. Her ethereal heart pounded in her fog-like form as she continued forward, unrelenting in her momentum, over what seemed like a never-ending sea of preparations. She was uncertain where it would stop until, in the distance, rising from the broken land much like its surrounding mountains, was a fortress. Hewn of black stone that seemed to suck the light from the world, its spires reached for the stormy sky like claws clasped in prayer.
And standing at the fortress' main entrance was a figure whose power could be felt across every inch of that barren, war-torn landscape. Even as she watched she sensed their strength. Their presence alone controlled every single one of those demons, commanded obedience and order.
Beyond her control, she was brought closer to the castle, floating lower over the ground, following an unseen path that led her directly to Death's door.
Death clad in black leather armor, artistically crafted and expertly made. No swords hung from this figure's sides because they did not need them. Not when their demands would be so easily met with barely a whisper.
Azima wanted to stop. She didn't want to move closer, but her actions were inevitable—the mist was summoned to them just like everything else in its presence. Closer to the ground she fell, pulled nearer to the ominous presence until she just... stopped.
Like she was watching through a wall of glass, Azima was but a few feet from the being standing outside the midnight palace, and as if sensing her observing presence, it turned to face her.
But it was shadow.
Shadow and death in armor and power.
Except for the eyes.
Two molten orbs of brimstone and torment immediately found her gaze.
And held it.
And with a voice, too calm for the rage in that stare, it breathed out one word as if releasing an unseen tension. It was a voice of beginnings and endings. One that promised to save her soul while at the same time rip it from her chest.
One word. One name.
Her name.
"Azima."
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She didn't remember falling asleep, but she remembered waking up and hearing the screams.
Azima stared at the dark ceiling, her blankets tangled around her bare legs as her ears perked and listened.
She heard it again.
Like a cat she sprang from the bed, her cotton shirt falling to the tops of her thighs as she grabbed her sword and padded barefoot towards the door. She threw open the door...
To come face to face with Rahn, shirtless and armed with his own blade, standing in the doorway across from her.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed as she met his eyes, and only his eyes, God help her.
"What am I doing?" he snapped, looking her up and down more blatantly. "I'm not the one who's half-dressed!"
She was about to respond when another scream sounded, and other doors were opened by their curious occupants.
"Keep them inside," Azima ordered the Imerman as she slinked against the wall, down the hallway. Even as she waited for him to challenge her, she instead heard him running in the opposite direction, requesting the guests return to their rooms in an authoritative manner.
Perhaps it was an Imerman's innate ability to adhere to the orders given to him by a hunter...
Not the time, she told herself as she carefully stepped down the narrow staircase to an empty common room. Nothing within a quick scan of her surroundings convinced her there was anything wrong within the vicinity, at least until the wind blew the door of the inn open.
The screams were louder now and coming more frequently.
The grip on her blade tightened, wards hot in her hand as she slowly moved towards the entryway, her eyes continuing to scan the surrounding darkness. But the room was quiet—too quiet.
It wasn't until Azima took her first step outside that she understood why.
The area was alight with torches, and in a semicircular formation around the building stood a horde of demons of varying types and colors, snarling at her as she stepped from the safety and security of the inn. It was only their blood-red leather armor that told her the demons were from the same legion, though the symbols marking their ranks were foreign to her. Each had a human hostage in its grasp, but none of the civilians looked familiar except the inn's matron.
"You took long enough, Venandi," a green-skinned demon said in a rasping tone. "I was wondering how many more humans we would have to kill to attract your attention."
At his feet was a pile of bodies. Five. One for each scream she had heard inside the inn.
"It's not every night one gets awoken from her beauty sleep by such an audience," she responded calmly, though aware of every set of eyes upon her, demonic and human alike. Especially those of the dead...
Another scream had her looking up, as a demon to her right slit the innkeeper's throat, ear to ear, and threw her bleeding body on the pile.
Six.
"Now you have my attention," she said steadily, using every bit of her strength to keep from lunging at the demonic piece of shit. Their numbers were too vast, and God, she wished the Imerman wasn't so obedient. "What do you want?"
"We don't want anything," the green demon corrected her. "It's Prince Malecoda who wants you. And you were taking too long."
