Chapter Text
The private dining hall of the Morningstar Palace glowed softly with golden light. Candle flames danced in tall crystal holders, their reflections gleaming in the polished marble floors. For once, the palace was quiet—no courtiers, no Sinners, no angelic diplomats. Just Lucifer and Alastor, sharing an unhurried dinner behind closed doors.
Lucifer sat gracefully at the head of the long dining table, one hand loosely holding a wine glass, the other resting on the carved arm of his chair. His expression was calm, almost serene, a rare moment of ease.
“It’s unsettling,” Lucifer remarked, eyes drifting toward the tall windows where distant lightning forked across the crimson sky. “A quiet night in Hell. Feels like the world’s holding its breath.”
Alastor chuckled, leaning forward with his usual sharp grin. “Perhaps the world has finally learned not to interrupt us.”
Lucifer gave him a dry look. “I doubt that.”
The sound came then—a faint metallic clink, echoing from the corridor outside. Both of them heard it.
Alastor’s shadows stirred instantly, curling beneath his chair like restless serpents. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.
The dining hall doors shifted—barely an inch—and something rolled through the gap, coming to rest against the leg of Lucifer’s chair with a soft tap.
A small, unmarked metal canister.
“Al—” Lucifer began.
The canister burst with a hiss before the word finished leaving his mouth. A vortex of violet gas erupted, swirling unnaturally fast as if alive. It didn’t spread randomly—it lunged for Lucifer, wrapping around him in tendrils of light and smoke.
Lucifer inhaled sharply as the gas pierced through his clothes and skin, embedding itself in his being. His Grace flared instinctively, golden radiance slamming against the violet in a violent clash that shook the chandeliers.
Then the pain hit.
It was like being set alight from the inside. His abdomen seized in a sudden, brutal cramp that doubled him forward. His breath hitched, eyes flashing gold as his wings half-manifested in a reflexive surge of power. The poison was burrowing into his very essence, trying to unravel the divine threads of his being.
Alastor was at his side instantly. “Lucifer!” His shadows lashed outward, sweeping the worst of the gas away and sealing the room tight.
Lucifer’s hands pressed to his abdomen instinctively—not protectively, but because it hurt. Muscles spasmed violently beneath his fingers, his Grace fighting to hold its structure together. Golden light flickered around his frame like a sputtering flame.
“Stay back,” Lucifer hissed through clenched teeth, forcing his magic outward in a burst that incinerated the last of the gas clinging to him. His voice was steady only through sheer willpower.
Two masked intruders in pale, faintly celestial armor emerged from a portal in front of the servants’ passage at the far end of the hall. Their movements were disciplined, precise.
Alastor’s grin turned feral. Shadows exploded outward like a tidal wave—but the intruders were already retreating. One hurled a second canister into the corridor, filling it with more violet haze. The other slapped a hand to a glowing teleportation sigil etched into the wall.
Lucifer lifted a trembling hand, summoning a radiant barrier that seared through the smoke to shield them both. He coughed sharply, spattering his palm with golden fluid. His abdomen clenched again, forcing a soft, involuntary moan from his throat.
“Don’t kill them!” he barked between breaths. “We need—answers.”
Alastor’s shadows snapped forward, but they hit the teleportation magic too late. The attackers vanished in a burst of violet light, leaving only the smoking canisters and faint celestial resonance behind.
The hall went still again.
Lucifer lowered the barrier slowly. His face was pale, sweat beading at his hairline. The tremors running through his frame were subtle but constant.
Alastor turned to him, voice low and dangerous. “You are not fine.”
Lucifer forced a tight, thin smile. “I will be.” His voice was hoarse now. “They came for me—not you. That means they failed.”
“That is not comforting,” Alastor replied flatly.
Lucifer pushed himself upright with deliberate control, refusing to show how badly his body hurt. “We’ll find out who they were. Later.”
Even as he spoke, another sharp cramp twisted through his abdomen. He covered it with a shallow breath and the faintest twitch of his fingers, but Alastor saw.
As palace guards rushed in, confused and too late, Alastor’s shadows circled protectively around Lucifer. The attackers were gone. The damage, however, was already done.
Alastor was at Lucifer’s side the instant the attackers vanished.
“Up,” he commanded, slipping an arm beneath the king’s. His shadows moved like sentries, closing off the balcony doors. “We’re leaving this room.”
Lucifer tried to rise, but his body betrayed him. His hands tightened on the edge of the table, wings flickering faintly with agitated light. The violet residue still hung in the air, biting at his Grace like acid. He took a shaky breath—too careful, too composed.
“I’m fine,” he said, the words clipped and deliberate.
“You’re not,” Alastor snapped. “You’ve been poisoned. Move, before it sets deeper.”
Lucifer opened his mouth to retort—but then it hit.
A sharp, wrenching cramp ripped through his abdomen. His body folded in on itself with a strangled gasp. Golden light flared around him in a jagged burst, then shattered like a mirror under pressure. His hands flew to his midsection, clutching as though he could hold himself together.
“Lucifer,” Alastor barked, dropping the formality. His shadows closed in, steadying the angel as his legs threatened to give out. “Tell me where—”
“—Everywhere,” Lucifer managed, voice cracking under pain. Another, deeper spasm tore through him, this time leaving him shuddering violently against Alastor’s grip. His Grace flickered, the radiant structure unraveling under the poison’s assault.
Something else—silent, internal—was breaking too. He didn’t recognize it yet. He only felt the cold, hollow ache blooming inside, layered beneath the pain.
“Enough,” Alastor said, all crisp calculation now. “You’re leaving. I’ll carry you if I must.”
Lucifer tried to push him away—pride, always—but his strength failed. His knees buckled. Alastor caught him before he hit the floor. For a moment Lucifer tried to speak, a defiant “I can—” forming on his lips… and then his eyes rolled back.
His body went limp in Alastor’s arms.
“Damn it,” Alastor hissed.
His shadows gathered like a storm, wrapping around Lucifer’s unconscious form. He could feel the frayed edges of divine power sparking against his own magic, unstable and volatile. He didn’t have the luxury of time or careful planning.
He snapped his fingers. The room plunged into inky black.
The shadows swallowed them both.
***
Charlotte Morningstar, Princess of Hell, was enjoying a quiet evening cuddling on one of the couches in the front lobby of the Hazbin Hotel with her girlfriend, the ex-exorcist Vaggie. It was Community Time; the designated time of day when all of the residents of the Hazbin Hotel gathered in the lobby. They could do whatever they wanted, so long as they weren’t harassing the other residents.
Angel Dust and his bestie Cherri Bomb were sprawled across the other couch, limbs akimbo, as they scrolled through and showed each other different things on their hell phones. Nifty was scurrying around the room with her oversized sewing needle hunting Hell Roaches. Husk was slumped in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace nursing a bottle of hooch.
Normally, Alastor and Lucifer would be in the pair of armchairs. Alastor would read an old novel while Lucifer would draw in his sketchbook. But tonight the two were on a date.
Charlie snuggled into her paramour, happy as Vaggie’s arms tightened around her. It had been a couple of months since her father and her hotelier had gotten a chance to be alone as a couple. What had started off as a battle of the dads had over time become a united front to see Charlie’s dream come true.
“Charlie!”
Charlie startled, springing to a seated position as Alastor’s distressed voice rang out. The shadows in the center of the lobby were slowly peeling back to reveal Alastor and her father. Alastor was kneeling with Lucifer in his arms. Lucifer was unconscious and seemed to be shaking uncontrollably.
“Oh, no! Dad!” Charlie stood and rushed over to the pair. “What happened?”
“It was an attack. Three assailants. They used some purple smoke on us. Lucifer got hit with the brunt of it. Something’s wrong. He won’t wake up and the convulsions won’t stop.” Alastor was trying to conceal his worry, schooling his face and body language so as not to appear panicked. His ears stand straight up, but there is a nervous twitching as they flick and rotate giving away his true mental state to those who knew him.
Charlie ran to them as Alastor gently lowered Lucifer to the floor. The golden embroidery of her father’s trousers was stained—smeared with thick, glimmering fluid.
Charlie froze.
It wasn’t red.
It was gold.
And it was seeping from between his legs.
Her voice caught in her throat. “Oh God…”
Alastor crouched beside Lucifer, his fingers trembling as he brushed the king’s hair from his face. The sight of his fallen angel in a state like this - delicate, trembling, in pain - made something sharp and protective flare inside him.
“Charlie,” he said, low and tight. “Call for Belphagor. Now.”
“Belphagor?” Vaggie asked, getting to her feet, confused. “Why would we need—?”
“She’s a doctor,” Charlie said quickly, panic rising. “And… and she understands angelic physiology.”
She pulled out her phone and barely waited for the call to connect before she shouted, “BELPHAGOR! EMERGENCY!”