The keeper was a full head taller than any mortal man, his skin the mottled gray of a week-old bruise. A jagged scar split his face from brow to chin, the flesh sewn shut with what looked like human hair.
"Keeper Vhorg," he grunted, my shackles dangling from his clawed fingers. "Come."
I didn't move. "Where?"
His lipless mouth stretched into something resembling a smile. "Your new home."
---
The corridors of Hell twisted like a gutted serpent, all jagged obsidian and veins of molten gold. Vhorg dragged me past pits of screaming souls, through archways lined with teeth, down staircases that shifted beneath our feet. The air grew thicker with each step, until every breath tasted of copper and rotting flowers.
"Here," he finally said, stopping before a door carved from a single blackened femur.
It swung open without touch.
The chamber beyond was smaller than I expected—a rounded cell with walls that pulsed faintly, like the throat of some great beast. A narrow cot hugged one curved wall. A rusted basin sat in the corner, its murky water reflecting no light. And on the far side, a worktable.
My worktable.
Dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Mortars of varying sizes lined the shelves. Even my satchel rested there, untouched.
I turned to Vhorg. "How—"
"The Master's orders," he interrupted. Then, with deliberate slowness, he locked the shackles around my wrists. The iron burned viciously. "Try to remove them, they'll sear to the bone."
The chain between the cuffs was just long enough to let me reach every corner of the room—except the door.
Vhorg smirked at my realization. Smart apothecary. You'll last longer."
---
Alone, I inventoried my prison.
The herbs were common enough—yarrow, feverfew, even a bundle of rare blackroot. The tools were clean, if worn. But the real message was in what wasn't there.
No frankincense. No myrhh. Nothing that could be weaponized.
I sank onto the cot, the chains clinking. The walls breathed around me, their rhythm unsettlingly familiar.
A heartbeat.
This room was alive.
And it was watching.
---
The first test came at an hour that might have been midnight.
A slit opened in the wall, disgorging a wooden tray. On it: a loaf of dark bread, a wedge of mold-speckled cheese, and a vial of viscous black liquid.
I sniffed the vial.
Hellbrew. A stimulant that could keep a mortal awake for weeks.
A message, then.
Work.
I set it aside and reached for the bread. It turned to ash in my hands.
Vhorg's laughter echoed from somewhere beyond the walls.
---
By the time the second tray arrived, I'd begun experimenting.
The basin's water, though foul, could dissolve certain herbs into passable tinctures. The cot's straw stuffing contained usable traces of valerian. Even the shackles' heat could be harnessed to boil extracts if I wrapped them in damp cloth.
I was grinding willow bark when the door creaked open.
Not Vhorg.
Lucifer.
He surveyed my makeshift apothecary, his expression unreadable. "Comfortable?"
I held up my chained wrists. "Charmed."
"Good." He tossed a bundle onto the table—fresh moonbloom, its petals still damp with dew. "Then get to work."
The door slammed shut behind him.