The sharp pain that pierced his heart was a welcome relief. As the pain bloomed and spread from his chest, the Demon King of the Fifth Circle of Hell took his first breath in however long he had been trapped in that place.

The air was still. And stale. That did not bode well. Wherever he was, it seemed to be far from the surface of his kingdom. 

He tried to move his hands but found he was unable. He attempted to reach out with his higher senses, but found them muted. That was even worse. His eyelids twitched, and when he managed to snap his eyes open, he was standing in the middle of a field of endless grass that swayed gently with a breeze that seemingly came from all directions. He also discovered he was not alone.  

A young man knelt before a gravestone, clutching it so hard his knuckles had turned bone-white. The Fifth King watched as the young man gasped for breath, and then went still, his body falling limp against the gravestone. 

The Fifth King blinked, and the scenery around him changed. He stood in the corner of a small cell, one man knelt opposite symbols the Fifth King knew all too well, and the other lay still and lifeless next to the King's feet. 

They looked exactly the same. The young man he had seen grabbing onto the gravestone with all his strength, and who now lay motionless on the floor, and the man kneeling in front of the symbols. The King glanced between the two. The one kneeling had his eyes closed, and his aura glowed faintly green. Greed, jealousy, and lust had left marks across his soul as if thin, sharp claws had opened tears through its fabric.

How boring. 

The King turned his attention to the lifeless man at his feet. Even though his features were exactly the same as the other, his aura was completely different. It pulsed from him in waves, crimson-red and glorious. It had talons of its own. Anger that needed a mere push to morph into wrath. 

Perfection. 

The King reached out one hand and brushed the tip of one finger against the outermost edge of all that beautiful anger. Small tendrils with sharp points curled around his fingers, almost lovingly. And there was something else there, something the King could not identify. In between all the swirling, perfect red, there was a spot, smaller than his thumb, that glowed almost gold. There was a familiarity to it that made the King lean closer. 

As the young man's eyes snapped open and he gasped in a desperate breath, his aura dissipated, the loving tendrils retreated, and the King found himself yanked back and slammed down into the dark stillness of his dark prison. 

This was less than ideal. 

The King tried to sigh, but found he was unable to open his mouth. He weighed his options. 

On one hand, he could try to forcefully break out of wherever this prison was located. That would take time and a lot more energy than he currently possessed. And who could tell what had become of his kingdom in his absence? Would he still have supporters to aid him in taking back what was rightfully his?

On the other hand, he could be patient and wait for that lovely soul to call out to him again. Hopefully, he would not have to wait too long. 

The King decided to wait and conserve what little energy remained in his body. He replayed the feel of those delicate tendrils wrapping around his fingers. The kind of brutal caress he had not felt in eons, even before being betrayed and imprisoned. Enough anger remained from that brief touch to sustain him for a while. 

The silence was crushing. But the King inhaled and exhaled. And waited. Despite the title and the Fury River that ran through his kingdom, the Fifth King was nothing if not patient. He knew all too well how to bide his time and wait for the right moment. 

So the King breathed. And waited.