With a predatory grin spreading across his massive features, Geryon fixes his gaze on the group and snarls, “You are always welcome here in Minauros, fighting in my arenas.” The archdevil’s voice carries the promise of future violence, but the companions politely demur. They climb back into their battle-scarred grinder and point it toward a swirling vortex on the bank of a vile and fetid mire.
As they trundle through the oppressive darkness, the sound of Lula shifting uncomfortably echoes through the cabin, followed by soft, pained moans. Kiki glances over with concern. “You okay, dude?”
The celestial slowly rolls their head toward Kiki, their face contorted in agony and despair. The few charred feathers still clinging to their form begin to smolder at the edges—not burning away, but glowing like heated metal. Their eyes, usually the serene blue of summer skies, are now bloodshot and radiate reflected flames like twin infernos.
Kiki gradually becomes aware that the temperature within the grinder is rising at an alarming rate. The engine’s whine crescendos to a fever pitch, and the wheels begin bumping violently over the increasingly treacherous terrain. From the pilot’s seat, Vali gasps in alarm, “I think the wheels are melting!”
The fires that roar along the roadside cast an eerie, flickering light into the cabin of the rumbling vehicle. Lula’s face continues to contort in anguish, throwing a grotesque shadow against the bulkhead. The shadow reveals something terrifying—an enormous pair of coiled devil horns. Yet when Kiki focuses on Lula directly, their forehead remains smooth, marred only by a pair of scarlet burns at their temples, as if something malevolent just beneath the skin waits to erupt.
As the grinder approaches dauntingly high iron gates, they swing open with ominous creaking before the vehicle even stops.
“The fires…” Lula gasps, their voice strained with barely contained torment. “They burn me from within!” The celestial struggles to maintain their composure, but the group can see Lula’s hands trembling uncontrollably. When they speak again, their voice carries a huskier, more sultry tone that sends chills down their companions’ spines: “We must hurry. The longer I remain here, the harder it becomes to remember why I chose the light.”
The massive iron gates loom before them, their surface carved with intricate scenes of eternal forging and punishment. Two horned devils stand sentinel, their muscled forms wreathed in the sulfurous smoke that perpetually rises from the hellish layer below. The larger of the two, his horns curling majestically like a ram’s, steps forward as they approach.
The horned devil captain’s voice rumbles like distant thunder, each word deliberately measured and weighted with authority. “Hold, mortals. You stand at the threshold of Phlegethos, domain of flame and forge. By what right do you seek passage into the realm of Belial the Beautiful?”
The second devil, smaller but no less menacing with wicked barbed spines protruding from his shoulders, circles the group with predatory grace. His eyes burn like coals as he examines each party member with obvious disdain.
The spined devil sneers with contempt. “Look at them, Vorthak. Soft flesh, unmarked by flame. They reek of the Material Plane.” He pauses dramatically, nostrils flaring as he samples their scent. “They’ll burn to ash before they reach the first forge-pit.”
“Indeed. Yet…” Captain Vorthak strokes his beard of writhing flame thoughtfully. “There are ways for mortals to survive our lord’s domain. The Shriver’s flames can remake you, strip away your mortality’s weakness. You would walk as lemures—lowest of the low, but immune to the fires that would otherwise consume you. But of course, the transformation comes with… consequences.”
The spined devil cackles with cruel delight. “Lemures possess little will, even less intelligence. You might forget why you came here at all.” He grins wickedly, revealing rows of blackened teeth like charred tombstones. “But you’d be alive. Of sorts.”
Vorthak continues with businesslike efficiency. “The choice is yours. Submit to the Shriver’s trial and proceed as befits your station, or attempt passage as you are and provide entertainment for the bone devils who patrol the flame-roads.”
“Will we be restored on the other side of Phlegethos?” Reklaw asks nervously, his voice betraying his worry.
“Of course,” rumbles Vorthak with practiced ease. “Our contract devil has written the parchment to reflect that very thing. We’ve even ordered a codicil to include the return of your grinder, provided you supply the green iron that can be found plentifully in Phlegethos. Simply sign here.”
“We should be careful,” Vali hisses through gritted teeth. “They may try to cheat us somehow.”
Kiki and Reklaw pore over the closely written legal arcana, squinting at the tiny print and convoluted clauses. Reklaw clutches his head as the infernal legalese threatens to overwhelm him, but Kiki persists, discovering a particularly insidious clause buried deep in the contract—one that promises the devils their souls.
“Ha!” Kiki gloats triumphantly. “We have no souls! We’re here to try and retrieve them!”
The horned devils exchange frustrated glances and begin grumbling among themselves before reluctantly releasing the group to face their fate in the harsh climate of Phlegethos. Not wishing to allow the devils time to change their minds or discover new loopholes, the group hurriedly moves toward a carved obsidian gate. The runes inscribed on its jambs pulse with ominous orange light as they approach the site of their dreadful transformation.
One by one, the group submits to the Shriver’s horrific metamorphosis. First Vali steps forward, then Kiki and Reklaw, all three managing to retain the core memories of themselves despite their now grotesquely mutated bodies. Unfortunately, Arman and Five are not so lucky—they emerge from the flames staring mutely at their comrades, their minds wiped nearly clean by the infernal process. Lastly, Mr. C and the rooster make it through with their memories intact, despite their vastly and disturbingly altered appearances.
The group moves onto the vast, volcanic plains of Phlegethos. The thick, sulfurous air hangs heavy with ferocious heat that affects only Lula, whose charred flesh peels away from their shoulders and face in strips. Their moaning becomes incessant, a constant soundtrack of agony as the celestial drags their feet in a pain-induced daze—until a sharp, commanding voice cuts through their misery like a blade.
A bone devil materializes from the hellish landscape, flanked by a second bone devil and two snarling bearded devils. The creatures advance with predatory intent, their weapons gleaming in the volcanic light. The group quickly realizes they are terribly outmatched in their current lemure forms and makes a desperate decision to flee across the lava-covered plains of Phlegethos, their twisted feet pounding against the superheated stone as hellish roars echo behind them.
