Review by Dominik on June 15, 2025.

After seven years of silence—possibly spent meditating on goat entrails or fine-tuning distortion pedals in the underworld—Greek black metallers Lucifer's Child have reemerged from the abyss with "The Illuminant", their third full-length album. And much like the object in its title—a standardized light source used to test color perception—this record demands to be experienced under multiple conditions. So I obliged: spinning it in pitch-black solitude, under the cruel glare of daylight, and even while navigating my car through fog thick enough to raise questions about my survival instinct. Worth it? Absolutely. Because unlike most long-awaited returns (looking at you, every horror franchise reboot), this one doesn't suck.

Let me begin with the obvious: they didn't botch it. "The Illuminant" doesn't repeat the mistakes of its predecessor. "The Order" was already a damn fine album, but it dragged a bit toward the end—as if the band ran out of infernal steam halfway through invoking the apocalypse. This time, though, there's no such faltering. The pacing is tight, the songwriting dynamic, and the atmosphere even more immersive. In short: Lucifer's Child have refined their craft without sanding off the edges.

What continues to impress me after repeated listens is the band's ability to stay recognizably themselves. There's a signature to their sound now—a particular flavor of fire and frost in the guitar work which is instantly memorable—icy, jagged, and somehow warm enough to suggest these guys know how to handle fire in both the literal and theological sense. And yet, they've evolved. This is not a rehash of past glories but a deliberate step forward. Even after countless plays, I'm still discovering new details, and my personal highlights keep shifting like shadows at dusk.

The opener "Antichrist" sets the tone perfectly. It's an ominous, atmosphere laden piece that brings together every tool in the black metal arsenal. Sharp enough riffs to flay angels, a melodic undercurrent that worms into your brain like divine tinnitus, blastbeat fury, subtle keyboard textures (or perhaps just very cleverly played guitar—my ears remain ashamed and confused), and a sense of direction that feels natural, not forced. It's also a great entry point for new listeners and better than a PR agent with a soul to sell: no gimmicks, just well-crafted sonic darkness. "As Bestas" slows the tempo but doubles down on intensity, showing the band's confidence in mid-paced riffing and their willingness to flirt with traditional heavy metal elements. It's a reminder that speed is optional; weight and conviction are not.

A true standout emerges with "The Serpent And The Rod", which—much like a venomous snake doing pirouettes in a fire pit—slinks between blackened blastbeats and brief, swaggering black'n'roll grooves. The keyboards (or "keyboards"?) again add a layer of eerie grandeur, and the band's sense of atmosphere never lets up. Lucifer's Child may not aim for sheer brutality, but they know how to make you stay. And squirm.

"Righteous Flama" continues the trend: hard-hitting but melodic, aggressive but measured. The band manages variety without ever losing cohesion, which is no small feat in this genre. And special mention goes to the vocals—arguably the most violent and unrelenting part of the band's sound. If the music is the flame, the voice is the accelerant. "The Heavens Die" earns its place as another highlight. It's fast, furious, and full of surprises—including a sudden acoustic break that somehow doesn't feel out of place. It's the kind of moment that makes you look suspiciously at your speakers, wondering if you're being lulled into something—before the band promptly kicks you in the teeth again; one of those rare mid-album curveballs that actually enhances the narrative rather than derailing it.

The only small misstep is the closer "And All Is Prelude". It's slower, more introspective, complete with short chant-like vocals and a pensive tone—but ultimately, it doesn't hit with the same emotional weight as what came before. It's a decent closer, but if it's truly a prelude of what's to come next, let's just say I'm cautiously lighting a votive candle. Still, that's a minor stumble in what is otherwise a tightly constructed, expertly executed record. The production is cleaner without being polished into sterility, the aggression is balanced with texture, and the band manages the rare feat of evolving without shedding their identity. Ten years, three albums—and Lucifer's Child now sounds like a band with nothing to prove and everything to burn.

Rating: 8.7 out of 10 – because even darkness deserves proper lighting.