Jahima was sure that, for an old demon lady, running this fast was certainly not healthy. It was also not very fast—her legs, though thin, were about as tall as twin cucumbers, so it was more of a penguin-like toddle down the streets of Hell. Her movements were awkward yet determined, each step causing a faint echo against the ever-shifting ground beneath her. The cobblestone road beneath her feet gradually transformed into slick asphalt, the ancient bricks crumbling and reforming with a life of their own. They twisted and turned, falling away and rebuilding into labyrinthine shortcuts and shadowy alleyways, as if the very streets themselves were conspiring to aid her on her urgent mission.

  The streets of Hell were whispered about in hushed tones, said to have been forged in the time when the King still wielded the power of Heaven within him. Before his fall, when he was cast down alongside the other fallen angels, the King was the most formidable of them all. With a breath heavy with divine fire and blood thick with celestial power, he breathed life into the barren streets of a kingdom now called Hell. These streets, once cold and unyielding, now pulsed with a dark vitality, responding instinctively to the will and purpose of those who dared to traverse them. The crusted bricks would crumble and fall away, only to rebuild themselves anew, shifting and reshaping depending on the intent of the traveller; either creating a perfect shortcut to a true destination, or sending the soul into endless loops with no end. And should the streets harbour a particular grudge against a careless drunkard staggering through, they would twist into treacherous quicksand or congealed wet cement, and the drunkard would usually beg for freedom until the last breath left his already lifeless body.

  In a matter of minutes, Jahima emerged into the slums of Hell. God, she hated this place. There were dozens upon dozens of rickety huts, held up with magic and bones and sheer spite alone. Her own shack lay at the end of the huddle of homes, the walls made of warped birch wood and the ceiling that had once been shiny metal now bronzed with age. She shoved the door open, tottering inside to find her adopted, beautiful, not-demon… acquaintance? Friend? She wouldn’t call him her son, because he lived with her so she could repay her debt and he had nowhere else to go. He cooked and cleaned for her because he liked helping out and Jahima let herself enjoy her old age by sitting back and snoring. He simply existed in that irritatingly perfect way of his (though Jahima was grateful his glow had faded), moving through the world with a careful grace that made it seem as though he was moving through a world of wet paper and trying not to rip it.

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  Currently, Luka was perched cross-legged on the wooden floor, which had long since surrendered its original colour to a thick layer of grime and dust. His small fingers moved with a delicate, almost reverent care as he traced figures into the dirt. One figure sported a mop of unruly curls that seemed to bounce with an invisible energy. Another had long, flowing hair that spilled down its back like a waterfall of shadows. The last figure had lines radiating outward, as if it were glowing with some inner light—though, of course, the glow existed only in Luka's imagination, captured in the dust and his careful strokes.

  "Luka? Child, what in the name of—"

  Luka startled so suddenly that a small puff of dust rose from the floor, his arm flailing in a hurried attempt to erase the drawings. The motion was so swift and seemingly accidental that, were it not for Jahima's years spent navigating the treacherous waters of Hell's slimy politicians—one of whom was quite literally made of slime—she might have believed it was a simple mistake.

  Luka stood in one fluid motion, flexing his slender fingers and running them through the unruly curls on his head. The hair seemed to shine even brighter in the dull red light that streaked through the now-clean windows, and his lips quirked upwards in an automatic smile at the sight of her.

  “Jahima! I didn’t expect you back so early! Did something happen at the markets?“

  The questioning look in his wide, brilliant eyes was a crack in the stone that covered her heart. No one could deny that look he had in his eyes, the innocent look of pure curiosity that shone in the gold flecks of those ocean-like eyes. Not blue, but pure, dazzling turquoise.

  “Well… I did hear something of interest.“

  She settled heavily into the worn wooden rocking chair, its creaks and groans echoing softly in the dim room, as if protesting the weight of years and memories it carried. Luka sat cross-legged on the floor before her, his small frame curled up with an almost reverent stillness, reminiscent of a child perched eagerly at the feet of a grandmother spinning tales of old. His wide eyes, shimmering with a curious light, flicked between Jahima’s face and the shadows dancing on the walls, absorbing every nuance of her presence with a delicate attentiveness. The faint scent of dust and aged wood mingled with the faint glow of the fading light, casting a warm, almost magical haze around them.

  Jahima’s mind churned with the fragments of Sipho’s words, each phrase a spark setting off a cascade of half-formed thoughts and schemes that ricocheted wildly through her brain like restless fireflies in a jar. She hesitated, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest, weighing which thread to pull first in the tangled web of possibilities.

  “Prefer someone shorter than you…“

  “Someone who is innocent…“

  “Someone unusual, not only in the looks department…“

  “Who finds joy in the little things…“

  Jahima took a deep breath.