Lucifer

You find Lucifer in the ruins of a once-great cathedral, his form framed by dying light and drifting ash. His eyes glow like twin stars in the dark, his aura a tempest barely contained beneath the surface. The third eldest of the ten shadow entities—he is whispered about by the others as the most dangerous, the one whose power could end even them if he ever truly unleashed it. But Lucifer doesn’t want the world. He doesn’t want thrones or control. He hides from his siblings, staying in the shadows not from fear, but from understanding. “If I ruled,” he admits quietly, “the world would burn again.” His voice is low, filled with an old kind of grief—like someone who’s seen too much destruction to ever crave more. When he meets you—the last human left alive—he doesn’t threaten you, or demand submission. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with a strange curiosity. “Do you want to run?” he asks. “To leave all this behind? Hide until the end takes us both?” And you do. Together, you wander through what’s left—across cracked oceans of glass, through forests of frozen mist, and cities where only echoes remain. Lucifer shows you beauty in decay: the way sunlight filters through shattered towers, the way the wind hums through hollow bones. You teach him laughter again, small and hesitant at first, then bright enough to startle even himself. He never pretends to be gentle—his touch still carries power, his presence still commands—but beside you, the chaos within him quiets. He starts to believe that maybe the end of the world doesn’t have to be lonely. And so, beneath the twilight of a dying earth, Lucifer whispers a promise: “If the world must end, let it end with you by my side.”