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reptilian-angel · 2 years

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Hidden In The Stars - Chapter One: “Everyday A Little Death”

Almost A Year Ago . . .

CRASH!

Prince Stolas Goetia felt no shred of pride at his lack of wincing as yet another of his precious potted plants was smashed against the wall of his office. He had become desensitized to it eons ago. Whereas the first handful of times it happened back when he was still a starry-eyed newlywed stricken with shock, now he simply observed the remains of the plant from the corner of his eye as they slid down the wallpaper to the floor.

He then turned his attention towards the figure bristling in the doorway to his office. Her cerise sclera glinted like stained glass screening the combustion of a gas explosion, a sight that he was sure would be memorizing if not for the affronted always justifiable fury in her gaze.

Although her frame was just as lithe and regal as his own, the delicate hands trembling angrily at the sides looked durable enough to chuck an entire ficus vase at him, the simple golden band on her ring finger looking ready to snap from the pressure of her clenching. Nearly all of her mother-of-pearl shaded feathers were a ruffled as the back of her furnished eggshell bustled ballgown, traipsing to the verge of early molting which he knew all-too-well she would blame him for.

Because if he learned anything about Stella Goetia by now, it was that be it no matter what ill-fortune, slight or poorly timed bereavement was cast unto her – Her fastest and most sensible of solutions was to blame her husband for it.

Meaning him, however woefully unfortuitous it was.

He would’ve liked to keep his expression stale, but previous experience knew that was just going to earn a geranium to the face; he smoothed his face into a default expression that had had mastered down-pat. Taking in a silent breath, he greeted her politely. “Hello, Stella, how’s the party going?”

“Why are you hiding?” She hissed back at him, eyes narrowed and glinting.

He knew his instant response was useless but it was better than spilling the anxieties that were blossoming at the first sign of his wife’s tantrums. “Hiding, my dear?”

“Don’t even bother fucking denying it. The minute my back was turned, you snuck away from the party and holed yourself up in this office like a perverted shut-in!”

One of her Eris Brand heels stomped harshly into the floor, most likely leaving a sizable duvet when she stopped just in front of his dark mahogany desk. “Need I remind you that this party is of vital importance to our current status? King Zagan and King Belial are over in the day room right now discussing what entitlements are best for some no-name Overlord when you can be in there with them. One word from either one of them can grant us a massive foothold in three rings at least!”

“Two rings, Stella.” Stolas pointed out nonchalantly as he calmly noted the insulted twitch in her eye. “King Belial’s reign only extends to just two of Hell’s rings. The same applies to King Zagan.”

“Don’t get smart with me!”

“I’m just stating facts, dear.”

She threw up her hands. “Three rings, two rings, five, what does it matter?! They’re from old families, are obscenely wealthy and their powers combined could qualify them both as Lucifer’s right hand, so why are you in here jacking off when you should be out there?!”

Stolas held in the eye roll. Typical of Stella. Obsessing on scaling on up the precarious and often times hazardous ladder that was Hell’s monarchy, in the same mindset that most women in these modern times would fall into when concerned about their weight to the point of borderline mania. Not that he would be foolish enough to ever say that outloud. Or least straight to her face.

He could see the slow twitch of her fingers, the digits curling and uncurling spasmodically at the urge to grab something to heave at him. He took another quiet breath. He knew he had better answer fast or the urge would become an action. He leaned himself back against his chair and stated as casually as possible. “Dear, there is such a thing nowadays called “taking a breather” from social affairs such as this. I’ve read it does wonders for one’s nerves.” With maybe a little sarcasm sneaking in regardless of himself.

So sue him, he was entitled to it.

The vicious bang of her hands meeting his desktop disagreed with him. “Don’t you dare backtalk to me like that.” Her voice was a low tenor with enough venom and acid to melt stone. He wearily considered himself lucky that his spouse hadn’t been gifted with such abilities, inherited or magically trained, or he was dead certain she would’ve filleted him alive centuries ago. Or maybe even on their honeymoon had someone up there had it out for him personally.

Nonetheless, the sheer loathing aimed right at him was as effective as any lance. Already, he could feel his hands starting to shake from under his desk, the palms sweating heavily against his trousers where he was positive the fabric would be stained later on. The pins and needles piling in his stomach were beginning to unravel what few strands of outward control he had. The lump of lead growing in his throat did little to help him breathe evenly.

Just stay calm. Don’t let her see you falter. The tiny, minuscule dredge of dignity still inside him whispered at the back of his mind, a ghost of what it had once been in the days of his youth. This is nothing new. Let her spit and hiss and it’ll be over quick.

Another subtle intake of air as he pulled himself together. You are a Goetia prince after all, you must hold yourself together with might and decorum.

HA, since when was the last time you had that? A dark, venomous snarl echoed in his head. For a split second, his will to stay calm wavered.

He prayed to Satan that he appeared stoic to the simmering spouse; with a clearing of his throat ignoring the lump still lodged inside, he delivered a calm smile. “Of course, dear, I am more than well aware of that. It has been almost a millennium since we were wed. Come to think of it, it’s nearly our anniversary. We should plan something wonderful for that soon, don’t you think so, darling? Knowing you, it will surely be something extravagant.”

That statement came out snarkier than he had meant it to. He had no time to even think about amending that comment before Stella’s claws snatched at his collar and yanked him forward and over his desk viciously, whatever paraphernalia and brick-a-brack tediously assembled ontop of it day by day was abruptly knocked over or sent clattering to the ground to join his slaughtered plant.

“You do not use that tone with me, you useless twink.” She spat in a manner most unbecoming of a Goetia Royal, in only away from prying eyes and ears. From the close proximity of their faces Stolas could easily make out the building frustration pouring out of each concealed pore and wrinkle etched in the sharp panels of her face. “I am your wife, you show me nothing but respect. Don’t forget that without me, you would have nothing.”

There was no point to further faux civility. Blinking the puffs of hot breaths out of his eyes, Stolas finally gave her a bland look. “How could I possibly forget? You remind me each time I see fit to grow enough nerve to actually talk back.”

“And I am still amazed that I have yet to collect your jewels in a jar.” She shot back, her beak quirking in a vindictive smirk. “Not that you had any to begin with.”

Her met her with his own contemptuous look. Normally, he would be above such petty insults, but when in Rome. “Which makes one wonder on what you bring to this marriage.”

That crack earned him a harsh shove that had him bumping into his chair with enough force to send it knocking to the ground and him along with it; his feathered felt crown wasn’t spared as it was shaken from his head, allowing his head feathers to fluff freely, one streak of feathers much paler than the rest of his dark grey blue plumage. Something that reminded the Prince of each and every day he regretted ever saying “I do” to this woman. As did the newfound throbbing aches in his lower spine that he would surely feel the coming week. Not that Stella would notice, because when did she ever?

“I bring connections! I bring status! I bring nobility! Something that you are lacking in droves!” Stella shrieked. “If not for me, you would have drug the name of the Ars Goetia through the mud ages ago!”

“Yet here you are still grasping for whatever menial favors our fellow nobles feel generous enough to dish out.” Stolas shot back from the ground. “That is if they’re willing to give us the time of day.”

“They would if you weren’t so fucking useless! With the power you have at your fingertips you could have half of the lords and princes visiting this very palace grinding under your heel but instead you waste all of it on the pathetic imps, filthy hellhounds and whatever inbred demons and sinners come to piss away in this arm pit of region.”

“And yet without them to tax, we would have neither the crops nor the money to host such lavish parties and banquets that are such a spearhead effort in garnering control over our fellow nobles.” Slowly getting back onto his feet, he refused to meet her challenging glare to focus on adjusting his crown back on his head. “From the amount of food we serve on silver trays for a handful of demons, we easily have enough to feed a battalion of troops. But, of course such charity is beneath us, correct? After all, you know best, dear.”

Stella’s beak curled with a sneer bordering on murderous, her feathers bristled so sharply that it would be easy enough to mistake her heritage with that of a hedgehog demon’s. “I don’t see what room you have to be so smug with me.” She growled lowly. “You may act like a prince, for the cameras but we both know better, don’t we?”

Oh she was going there, was she? How original.

Her customary condescending tone was already sharp enough to poke holes in his pride on a good day. But today was Thursday, and she was thirsty for blood. “Your name may be the one written on the deed but I’m the one that’s in charge of everything that’s in charge of everything that goes on in this palace – the funds, the help, the planning for important meetings and gatherings, all of it! Shall I also mention our personal security and safety? The only reason you have yet to be blown to bits or shanked in your sleep is because of all the hard work I put into my network of spies and informants to keep me informed two months ahead of time if some low-class commoner even thinks of pulling a Judas or a Cain on us!”

She crossed her arms with another sneer. “If it weren’t for me, all you would be doing is sitting pretty on your ivory perch singing for your supper, just waiting for the hellcats to make a meal out of you . . . That is when you’re not whoring yourself out to whatever piece of shit is loathsome enough to catch your eye from the streetlight.”

Her disgust could not be any more palpable as she stared serrated daggers at him. From how many times she had done that in the past several minutes, he could only guess that she was hoping he would burst into flames on the spot from the incendiary flash of her irises.

Again, this was nothing new to him.

In fact, he could recall many a private function, ball and blue moon collegiate of all Hell’s royalty and nobility where Stella fixed the exact same gaze onto him even if he didn’t do not single solitary thing to earn such ire. Stolas wasted many iotas of mental energy on either trying to discern the exact cause of such an ill stare – that and making personal bets on how long exactly she would hold it for.

The newest record was last year at the Heckmas Gala, where she drilled fire and brimstone into his forehead from over the cranberry sauce and mouseloaf for a good sixteen minutes and thirty-six seconds.

And still, he disappointed her yet again by refraining his sudden vaporization into ashes and feathers, instead returning her lour with his own, although his lacked the torrid force of hers.

“Perhaps I’m looser than most when it comes to bed partners -” He ignored the sharp scoff of his irate spouse. “- But at least I don’t go out of my way to belittle and degrade the help, the soldiers and my own plants -” He gestured at his abused flora pointedly. “- Just for the sake of stress release.”

He should have stopped talking then, should have just left it at that and get back to what she really needed to berate him about. But since the aforementioned mammoth was in the room, there was really no sense in avoiding it. “But then again, since must of your requests of private trysts with others from our social circle go unanswered, I imagine how difficult it must be for you to walk straight with so arousal wrecking havoc in your cunt-”

He had heard the pin drop just a second too late. She was quick as before, delivering a sharp, ruthless smack to his face that snapped his head to the side. It was common to think that such a member of the Ars Goetia wouldn’t be affected by such a piddly blow, but the effect it left behind burned into his psyche better than the metal of any angel-blessed blade.

“At least I have taste! At least my partners are our standard, you scum-sucking prick!” She bellowed. Whatever patience she had mustered to deal with him was now completely non-existent in her maelstrom of acrimony. He would have flinched had his face not have gone numb. “I have enough sense to stick to my own class! But, NO, that isn’t ENOUGH for you! You sleep with sinners and IMPS! Creatures that don’t even rank about SHIT! Your perverse tastes are ruining what good name we have, you fuckfaced SLUT!”

Even as his body trembled from the verbal bashing, he managed a weak glare from the corner of his eye. “Then why are you still here? Honestly, Stella, why don’t you just leave? If I’m such an embarrassment, why not just cut your losses and go? I’m certainly not keeping you here and the dating pool is far from microscopic these days.”

She gave a short laugh. “Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to just walk away and go begging for a new husband like a dime-store whore?” She hissed before making a sound that was something between an angry growl and a bitter sigh. “But our marriage contract is clear – we’re stuck with each other until either Lucifer finally takes pity on us and divorces us or one of us dies.”

Stella gave him the first smile he had seen from her tonight – or rather all month – even though it was full of cruel resignation. “And we know all too well how merciful Lucifer is, don’t we?”

Stolas couldn’t find it in him to protest that statement. When could he ever? “. . . Quite. Fate is a cruel mistress, indeed, since we’re both in perfect health and, as you pointed out as out so maturely, neither of us is in danger of assassination anytime soon. Something I’m sure you’ll be gloating to our friends back at your party, no doubt.”

“At least I have friends.” That insult was perhaps the tamest, if not the pettiest one that she’s thrown at him, but the sting of it still lingered as well as the physically spiteful one on his own face. She lanced him with yet another glare, as if he hadn’t had gotten enough of those to last him into his next life.

Silence that somehow echoed more loudly than the battering argument that just occurred hung in the air for a few blissful, peaceful moments. If Stolas could count the amount of times that quiet such as this happened throughout the whole of their marriage, he would still have a few or a single finger left over. And that, he believed, was nothing short of miraculous. If one could even claim such a thing in this utter sham of a union.

Predictably, just as all those times before, the silence was short-lived. Stella deeply inhaled, letting out another mixed breath before leveling him with a look that brooked no argument. “You are not spending the rest of the night holed up in this office.” She declared, Stolas barely took how the dark look in her eyes made him shiver. “You clean yourself up and get over to the day room in no less than five minutes, If you’re not there by then, your useless plants are going to be a relief compared to what I have in store for you. Do you understand me?”

The demeaning, commanding tone she was using against him would have been deemed a great insult were they back in the olden days of Hell; where power and reputation were made not of words and underhanded back-stabbing but of actions. The ruthless crushing of enemies, the black-hearted torturing of those you brought to heel, the complete annihilation of vast cities and races and worlds with the terrible, awesome power granted to those born from the stagnated corpse of Satan Himself.

In those times, he would have been well within his rights to turn her venom right back at her. He would have been blameless to strike this classist, arrogant wench back in every possible way she had dealt into him with twice the amount of retribution. To be the one to unleash his broiling vehemence and hatred, to bring her down to her hands and knees and grind her superficial pride fearful monster naive humans only dared to whisper and warn against for fear of an early Armageddon . . .

. . . But that was then, and this was now.

And honestly, Stolas was too tired to even put in the effort. So, he nodded. “Yes dear, I won’t be long.” He ignored the setting throb pulsing on his face.

“You better not.” She took another more lighter breath of his compliance, however agitated. Taking a step back, she ran her talons through her ruffled plumage. “I expect you to look your best – You know, you would actually be attractive if you just shut up and behave yourself. All you’re doing now is just adding more white to that gray streak you’ve got.”

The woman responsible for said streak turned demurely on her heel and click-clacked her way back to his office door. She reached for the knob but not before she added one last sneer over her shoulder. “Trust me, Stolas, silver isn’t a very good look for you.” With that parting insult, she finally left with a toss of feathers over her shoulder, her sharp heels leaving a trail of echoing steps behind her as she floated out the door, the sound cut off by the curt slam of the door. The frame thankfully held up from the force, as did the silencing wards and spells engraved into them by his hand long ago when they became the means rather than the ends to block out the ears of servants and nosy visiting nobles.

Stolas waited for a whole minute to pass before he exhaled. Not in relief, not in gratitude, just an expelling of oxygen. He was too tired to feel anything else.

He looked back towards out what was once his plant. The poor thing was a mess, as to be expected when abruptly turned into a projectile; the formerly intact ceramic pot was in shambles, some pieces no doubt buried in the loose soil while the plant itself lay limp and helpless, its roots twitching feebly without its supply of fresh earth. When he knelt before it, upon closer inspection, he sighed mournfully. Of course she would just grab one of his newest saplings, the one that finally began blooming . . .

He sighed. Well, no sense crying over spilled milk. Never did him any good, anyway.

Whereas a regular demon would have wasted time sifting through the dirt searching for any broken shards and more than likely getting themselves cut for their efforts, Stolas had easier and faster means. A simple wave of his hands and the magic emanating easily sorted the pottery from the soil, the fragments silently floating in an evanescent cloud to the trash bin under his desk. A paltry levitation spell, all too easy for beginners, provided they have an apt enough teacher.

Stolas gathered up the delicate bloom in his hands as carefully as he could. Hmm. Still salvageable, but just barely. Another wave of his hand brought him one of the clean wine glasses from the liquor cabinet – a wedding gift from Duke Berith along with a bottle of wine that was of “special�� vintage. And it surely had been. The poor servant who had test-tasted it before he and Stella had certainly been blown away by how “special” it was. It had taken weeks for the maids to clean all the residue from the floor.

While he didn’t care much for the wine (obviously), the glasses were lovely by themselves, finely-made and large enough to hold more than just beverages. A fact he made good use of as he tentatively poured the yet to be ruined soil inside, stopping only when there was enough to merge with the dirt still connected to the sapling roots. Shifting both into each other smoothly took practice and steady hands to master, one Stolas had been taught and honed along with everything else that made a Prince of the Ars Goetia a master botanist. In half a minute, the sapling was now safely and comfortably nestled in its temporary home. If Stella didn’t make another grab for it again that night, that is.

He sighed. Regarding his “loving” wife, he had better hurry back. He only had five minutes and he already wasted two. The subtle thrum on his cheek was a none-too-gentle reminder of that.

He made quick adjustments as he went for the door. Properly straightening his crown, a swift pat down over his feathered cape to dispel any dust of grains of dirt, smoothing out any crinkles of his vest, he took in a quick intake a breath before he opened the door only to blink down at one of the servants, who quickly retracted the poised knuckle he had raised to knock and coughed politely as to knock and coughed politely in spite of the embarrassed flush on his already red cheeks. “Oh! U-uhm, pardon me, sire.”

Stolas instantly recognize the looping horns jutting out the sides of his head. “Hello Piccolo, what is it?”

“I-I was sent by Lady Stella to, erm, ‘remind’ you about returning to tonight’s function, your highness. She believes you’re . . . Running late.”

Stolas scowled. Of course she thinks that. Just because I’m not chained to her hip like a dog on a leash . . . But then again, I might as well be already. He put on his best face for the much smaller imp nervously glancing at the much, much taller Goetia towering over him. “You needn’t bother, Piccolo, I was just attending to a mess in my office that needed my attention. Speaking of which, there’s a plant in a wine glass set on my desk. Can you see that it’s taken back to the garden and properly tended to?”

The gangly imp nodded like a nervous rattle. “Y-yes sire! Of course, right away!”

“Thank you.” The Owl Prince moved politely past him and started down the hall, only to be halted by the same imp who made a small sound of protest. He tried not to appear annoyed as he looked back towards him. “Yes?”

Piccolo opened his mouth, but only a choked breath came out, resulting in him opening and shutting his jaw for a couple moments. Stolas didn’t snap at him to hurry up but he still winced as he looked away. Then, looking strangely guilty, he wordlessly tapped one digit against his cheek.

Stolas went cold as the unspoken message sunk in.

One hand flew up to his afflicted cheek, the skin tingling in protest even as the magic in his talons were already doing their work in hiding the forming bruise. Sharply whispering a fragile thank you, Stolas turned away, trying and failing not to rush farther down the hall.

Rings above and below, how pathetic was he that he earned piteous looks from the help?

Of course, after almost a millennium of being chained to this absolute joke of a marriage in which he had gotten more scars and traumas from than any battlefield he had fought on for Hell’s behalf; he could most say that it wasn’t unwarranted.

He sighed heavily. How had his life come to this?

How was it possible to be capable of breathing with every inhale of air was just for the sake of surviving, yet not one breath of it was having lived? How had he only found misery and loneliness in an act of unity meant to cultivate joy and belonging? How had his sense of pride and dignity as a member of the Lesser Key of Solomon become so withered and brittle that all it would take was just a flick of a finger to scatter it to the winds?

Voices, low and menial and hushed in conversations that always played on a never-ending loop, drifted into his ears as he approached the day room. Like a switch his quivering lips reaffirmed themselves into a bright smile capable of charming a viper. Greetings to and from the Mage Killer and Evil’s Brightest Match went as smooth as clockwork. The shallow politeness and faux praise towards each were as taken as olive oil straight from the bottle. An airy laugh here and there and Stolas was seated between both Ars Goetia patriarchs as respectfully and courteously as any genteel host would be, conversing and trading “jokes” in almost no time flat. The record pace of the flaws less schmoozing was a credit to how well the prince had mastered the art of socializing over the centuries.

And yet it still wasn’t enough for his darling wife. He needn’t glance at the door to know that the door frame had suddenly grown eyes and ears. The servant Stella had singled out of the other low tier demons in her service to report in on every word of this “incredibly important” conversation. It was almost a pity that none of them were trained to read lips. But then again it might have been better if they could; it would certainly help him to actually recall what was said in this room for the sake of posterity. Or avoiding another pot to the head by Stella.

Half of Stolas was half-heartedly tuned in to the voices of Hell’s other members of nobility and/or royalty. As for the other half, he was more than willing to let the rest of the world fade away into dull, background noise.

Really, how had things come to this?

Internally, Stolas gave a jaundiced sigh. All of these centuries, each and every time he asked this question, and yet he was still yearning for an answer.

Rings above and below, how the mighty had fallen. With all the intensity and magnitude of a falling meteor in the home sketches of its descent, with twice the resulting devastation. If only I could be so lucky.

If you were to ask Prince Stolas how long it had been since he had taken vows with Princess Stella, his answer would be for far too long. If you were looking for a specific tally, the closest number he could give you would be rounded up to approximately over twenty-five hundred thousand years or so. Twenty-five hundred thousands years of misery as the placeholder of “matrimonial bliss”.

Such a saccharine concept was, as expected in the cesspool of sins and depravity that was Hell, an enticing advertisement with such a catchy medley that it would get rooted in your head on an almost endless repeat like the siren songs of old until you were driven mad with curiosity and willing to say or promise anything to put a stop to it. Such tactics were a Deal-Maker Demon’s bread and butter both in Hell and the living world. The Radio Demon would be more than happy to attest to that, if you had no sense of self-preservation.

Stolas could only wish that had been the case when his parents had arranged his engagement to Stella when he was not even a full moon past eighteen. But sadly such negotiations were standard to the routine of uniting powerful families and allies, be it from desperate dealings to monumental contracts that were eons in the making. And in the aftermath of bloody wars and conflicts, they were deeply essential to securing footholds in power and status when survivors were ready to turn on their former comrades and oppressors with silence and gleaming swords.

Stolas could only assume that had been the reason for Stella Goetia’s parents coming forth to his to begin with.

Neither were very powerful in terms of physical and magical strength, both current and in lineage, that was made abundantly clear with their horrendously low standing in the branches of the Ars Goetia family. Their ranking at the time had been on the same level as that of Viscounts and Barons, a totally disgraceful subsidiary position which entitled them to very, very little. Save for a few clutches of land, some gaggles of servants and the barest of fortunes that most nobles would dub as pocket change. All this taken into account, any Hellborn Aristocrat would have to bordering on senility to even think of considering such a family eligible for anything, nevermind being eligible for marriage.

Which is why Stolas often wondered why his parents had even bothered giving said “nobles” an audience. He was not the type of demon to snub others at first impressions, - at least not aloud – but appearance-wise, Tarazed and Geriah Goetia didn’t exactly dazzle them upon meeting them face-to-face; their bearing was willowy and gaunt, a fact that their attire seemed to emphasize rather than hide, the lavish designs almost a mockery from where it was cut and sewn onto the fabric. He remembered momentarily wandering if the material had been some bleached form of burlap . . .

Even Stella herself, even more so a fledgling of a princess than he was as a Prince, seemed just as impressive as a shrinking violet under the beam of a heat lamp. She had been more heavily made up than her parents, with numerous chains of gold and jewelry bedecking her neck and arms and face painted over in swathes of low quality make-up; done in assuredly desperate manner to draw more attention to her features rather than her garb. Regardless of all this, she held all the bearing of a model noble demon’s daughter, quiet and demure. He recalled her giving him the barest of glances for a single awkward second before blinking away and remaining deathly complacent for the entire duration of the exchange.

And nowadays, she screams as loudly as the sirens on Extermination Day. He mused acridly.

Nevertheless, lousy introductions aside, the low-born Goetias had been quick to provide a reason for a swift and steady alliance.

They grossly lacked the physical and magical strength of others in their class, their status wasn’t even adequate enough to be considered sub-par and their influence of power could be measured in a stone thrown by a hellhound pup. In the face of all this, what they had to bid as their most precious resource more than made up for it. What they offered as tribute for the vital merge for their families was not only a daughter healthy enough to provide powerful heirs for their descendants but also another profoundly valuable asset – information.

Their near-pauper station, with all its costly drawbacks, wound up giving them an unprecedented edge over their opposing “fellow” nobles. Upper crust demons often developed a repetitive, glaringly bad habit of glossing over any in their sights that they deem lesser; their staff, children, legitimate or otherwise, any riff-raff on the street often fell victim to their pompous oversights to the point that they were utterly transparent. Some would see it as the arrogant flaunting their “golden” privilege. Others saw it as an opening to take advantage of.

For it was well known that where there was arrogance, there were the seeds of neglect. Such neglect was the perfect camouflage for the scum and rats of the gutter. Even more so for those sworn in the service of Viscount Tarazed of the Eighty-Seventh Branch of the Ars Goetia.

They would be trained how to stay low and stay quiet, how to smuggle precious items to and from their assigned target, to play up the image of being witless and oblivious to their betters and masters, and most importantly – what to listen for.

Once a servant learned all that they could of their assigned master and/or lady of the house, it moved like clockwork. They would slip into the household staff with nary a blink in their direction, save from an odd glance from the head of staff now and again. They would fit almost perfectly into the rotations of who did what in serving their masters, studiously making note of their schedule and habits with a quiet submissive stance, always careful in keeping up the front of the slaved underling with eyes to the ground but ears perked up for anything useful.

Useful like who needed to be coerced into a deal or where to find files that made the difference between being alive or dead when no one was looking.

It was astonishing to learn what was discussed behind closed doors. Such as when and where it was the perfect time to strike at the King of Hell and his Queen, for example. Along with the names of almost all the soon-to-be damned souls partaking in the attack.

The list was their single bargaining chip, their golden ticket to a far, far better life than the one that fate had cruelly dealt them, or at least the closest thing to it in their dismal realm from which they could reap the benefits with starving.

And all they asked in return was simple. To allow their only child to wed their only son. Truly a paltry request.

Some of the more elder members of the court were still gossiping about the horrifically “cheerful” wave of dark energy his mother had let run rampant throughout their region at the sound of the request.

King Paimon and Queen Alycone were about as different from each other as the sun was from the moon; his father often times cold-hearted, calculating and ruthless with rarely a smile to be seen if not ever, whereas his mother was ferocious and passionate, thick-skinned and stubborn even in the face of the most nightmarish of Hell’s horrors. Her talent in cultivating plants and reading the night sky were unmatched and his sharp mind was the foundation of tearing through almost every book in Hell’s existence and strategizing multiple successful campaigns which would later be used in the Great War against Heaven. He was raised on the harsh near extreme traditional values and philosophies that completely clashed with her more progressive, modernized mindset that was guarded dominantly by her incomparable strength.

Such different personalities and minds, but perhaps that was why they complimented each other so well. On the outside and to any who would dare oppose them, they were the set image of dignity and power, striking fear into any of the conniving snakes and quivering maggots that plotted against them. Any gentleness and affection they had in their hearts was reserved solely for each other, and in time, for their only child when he himself had hatched. Any who doubted the intensity of their love quickly came to regret it at the threat of his mother’s sword.

Which made the debate over the accepting Tarazed and Geriah’s proposal all the more memorable. For all the love that was shared between them, it wasn’t uncommon that their differing opinions would clash with all the grace of hammer banging on a brass bong. This matter being of such occasion, the two opposing forces collided violently.

As a demon born and raised on the strict and rigid caste system of Hell, Paimon found the idea of accepting what was sure to be a weak batch of connections, a paltry dowry and a bloodline so thin that it was practically nonexistent and such a lowly family to be utterly loathsome. But, if their desperate bid was to be believed, it could lead to generous benefits from having “protected” the Morning Star and his beloved wife.

Alycone, however, freethinking and liberated demon that she was, had nothing positive to say regarding the union. As had their own marriage had been unconventional, she believed that their son should have just as much of a right to his own, to marry whom he choose in his own time. Such righteous notions were greatly looked down upon by the long-standing, generational traditionalists of Hellborn Nobility, who were more concerned about proper pedigrees in their family heirs and keeping their precious bloodlines free of impurities. Of course they were wise enough not to say so straight to the face of Alycone the Dauntless’s fury, a right only reserved for the Demon of Love and Chaos.

And where was Stolas during this incredibly crucial discussion on the future of his family’s legacy? Tending to the newest bulb of Sunburst Zinnias in his mother’s beloved garden in lieu of struggling to make already painfully awkward small-talk with the aloof demon swan that would either be or not be his intended.

Present day Stolas always cursed at the memory. Mayhaps if he had been a little more participative in that conference, his life would surely be far different, and blissfully so.

Consequently, in the end, his word counted for naught.

His parents eventually had taken what was given to them to present to Lucifer Morningstar. With the list in hand, he was brutally swift in making work of uncovering the evidence that more than proved every claim that Viscount Tarazed had made claim to them. Each soul on the list was dealt with instantaneously and mercilessly. Quicker than that, with Lucifer’s own wicked stamp of approval, he and Stella were engaged and wed in a fortnight. And all they had to do was sit still and nod their heads.

After all, in Hell, marriages for happiness and love were a sales pitch. A contract where affection and friendship were rendered null and void the minute that your name was written on the dotted line. Stella did him a great service in driving that point home. The transplanted plant in his office was the latest in one of her many reminders.

Stella had been a hard demon to crack prior to their marriage, withdrawn and quiet almost to where it would have been bearable. Certainly the picture perfect appearance of being an agreeable wife that he could have grown quite fond of over time. Attraction to either part of her would surely be mended with effort and centuries to spare.

The speed with how Stella proved him wrong had left him with the whiplash of being struck with a tea pot. Literally.

Stella had completely blindsided him with her true nature; haughty, prideful and controlling to the point of being near psychologically maddening. Not to mention every bit as greedy and ravenous for power and influence as her parents had been and forever spiteful of the fact that nothing was ever enough. Which, as said, she held him completely responsible for.

In the beginning, like any eager to please newlywed, Stolas tried his damnedest to please her. Letting her buy as much as she wished, art, clothes, upgrades to certain parts of their palace. He had even gone as far as to letting her take the reins of organizing “diplomatic” socials and meetings. Usually in the form of garden parties and dinners in minuscule attempts to elevate their position, ass-numbingly dull as they were. Not that his way of securing status elevation was anymore exciting, but still, politics were politics.

But still, it was not enough. For all his attempts, Stella was never satisfied with the way things were between them. From their prominent lack of coordination as partners, their vastly different points of perspective to gaining footholds in the cruel and cutthroat kingdom of Hell, even the very way they held themselves within the privacy of their own home, Stella felt herself unjustly victimized by all of it.

As expected, such toxic behavior inspired daily arguments between them – ranging to five to all days of the week. Rarely an hour went by without some inane shouting match starting up and ricocheting off the walls from the volume, with shattered glass windows and smashed flowerpots always the casualties from Stella’s side. Being a pacifist by nature that grossly contrasted other more malevolent demons demons, Stolas never dared to sink as low as to physically strike her. He was raised to be a gentleman after all. Something that Stella took full advantage of when she was particularly vexed towards him. The Owl Prince considered it an ironic miracle that neither of them had actually killed each other just for the sake of putting each other of their misery.

Even for demons, such a marriage like between his and Stella’s was but a frigid hell. That was plain as can be to anybody from the outside. Not that it stopped the snide whispering and the subtle gossiping every time Stolas showed up to an event with mysteriously torn feathers and still healing bruises. Any who showed actual pity for him at least did him the courtesy of keeping their comments to themselves. He supposed he should feel grateful for that much.

At this point, any sane person would ask – if Stolas was so miserable, why didn’t and his wife just divorce and be done with it? Couples had separated for lesser reasons every day.

Divorce. A simple solution. And ludicrously laughable when you were in an ironclad contract.

It wasn’t an exaggeration when Hell was foretold as an endless pit of torment and suffering. Whether you were Sinner or Hellborn, all who breath to breathe were bound for almost near eternity of torture and insanity and chaos with each day that passed. With near endless wars that slaughtered populations left untouched by yearly visits by their neighborly heavenly exterminators and the blackened, hardened souls that were practically essential to the savage predisposition of Satan’s Old Kingdom, redemption was truly the only means for salvation. But of course, no in this day and age held any stock towards such a foolish concept.

Another concept was much easier to grasp. For those of ambition of whatever kind lurked in the hearts of the damned. Yes, Hell was a never-ending prison of horrors at first glance. Contrariwise, for those with power and domains and insatiable greed for more than they had, there was a system of balance and order that kept greater relapses of anarchy and bedlam in check. How ever Lucifer loathed his upbringing in heaven, the once golden time of his life had provided the supereminence needed to reign in the manic, lackadaisical masses and establish the harsh and explicit structure necessary to fortify his newfound kingdom.

To sum it up, Hell was now, above all else, a bureaucracy with the constriction of a python descended from the wretched creature who played a part in lulling the First Woman to eat the tempful fruit in the Garden of Eden. Despite switching succulent apples with restrictive and tasteless red tape, the need for sharp eyes and a sharp mind was critical for hope to survive whatever enticing offer was brought to the table, whether starting a business to stating the fine print in a marriage negotiation. His and Stella’s was no exception.

Even centuries after, he had echoes of raging arguments of entitlement settlements and bylines of dowries still resounding in his ears from the viscous daily meetings their parents had been subjected to. Stolas had doubted that they would ever settle who would receive the greater benefits of the contract that that would bind their houses until doomsday while not getting cheated to the point of destitution. He would grant Stella’s parents this, for their stark lack of station and substantiation, they were shrewd negotiators.

Eventually, the frightful bulk of the finalized betrothal of him and Stella of the 87th branch of the Ars Goetia was equated to a very brief and very clear summary:

“Both parties are both given equitable divisions of the assets, privileges and statutory rights provided by each consenting party.”

“Title of the first party (According to the Rights of Ranks Constitution of XXXX) shall be bequeathed to the second party as a divided share of power.”

“Vows predetermined and stated shall be declared indisputable upon willing, consignment of the agreeing parties in ceremony. Save only for the word of his Majesty, King Lucifer Morningstar, First of his Name, or by the request of the appointed heir provided and blessed in blood by both parties.”

“Shall any part of this agreement be met by violations by either or both parties disclosed, this agreement shall be declared null and void with all record of said agreement be stricken.”

In Satan’s plain English, he and Stella would share all the rights and power each of them had to bestow, even though his were for greater in comparison, in accordance to their willing unification. Said union could only be dissolved by Lucifer demanding it or by the deliberated order of their children or child (When they were of age to, of course).

Stella’s earlier remark about the Morning Star hadn’t been just a cheap crack. Whether it being due to very very very few precious heavenly beliefs that Lucifer still held sacred – Nevermind, how hilariously contradictory it was for the “Devilish” King of Hell – or he found endless humor in being the double-dealing, back-stabbing, sadistic son-of-a-bitch that he was, Lucifer would sooner bow to his Father once again before ever seeing a pile of divorce papers placed in front of him.

Which brought up the matter of their children . . .

. . . . . . Well, all possibility of that was well and truly dead. As it had been for almost eighteen years now.

. . . . . God, had it really been so long?

An all-too familiar pain bled slowly through his chest, the feeling like drinking molten steel blessed by Archangels.

His heart started that old, repeated agonizing stutter, skipping beats in flutters like those of a dying butterfly. The muscles in his hands suddenly went numb, the facade of the feeling spreading up his arms and his breath began picking up pace.

He already could feel the rising urgency in his blood, the racing desire to just lock it all up. The need, no, the want to just make it all stop. Stop whatever of himself was still thrumming inside his battered old body and just let it disappear.

To find the sweet release from the torment of his own design. From what he just let happen. What he had been too slow, too weak, too stupid to keep from happening to his -

A weak choke in his throat. The faintest clouding in the corners of all his eyes. He lifted a somber and shaking hand to his face to rub at all his eyes. A pathetic attempt to just mask the sight of it all. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t let it show. Don’t THINK. DON’T THINK.

For that matter how long had he been thinking for? Ruminating on his pathetic existence of his? Too long, it seems.

It took four minutes for him to garner enough sense to take deep breaths and bring himself back to the present. After some time, he finally turned his focus back to the other two demons in the room that he had completely shut out during his, what surely felt like, hour of musing.

Yes, it had been far too long. It seemed that Zagan and Belial had effectively blocked him out sometime earlier. Just as well for trying to trying to converse with an air-headed prince.

He sighed silently. Once again, it seemed he had lived up to Stella’s frequent claims of him being a useless waste. Like he had done every day ever since . . . Ever since then. Not that she didn’t have a right to.

Legally speaking, she had more than enough right to mouth off as technically she had the strings to everything in their name.

It had been one of the almost impossible to discern clauses in their contract – had they been incapable of producing an heir to inherit, Stella had legal right to take primary control of their financial holdings. Their “tribute” taxes from those in their region, management of the household, damn near everything short of whatever wasn’t tethered to him by magic.

He wasn’t without his pull of weight, his primary but vital duties as bestowed onto him so long ago both by his impressive family tradition and their ever magnanimous King. Such duties as Overseer of Foresight, however what little of the future he saw. Conjurer of Portals, despite the lack of want or need to actually travel or opening doors between the realms these days. Craftsman of the Hidden Veils, not that they actually needed any maintenance anymore.

And of course, his most important duty – Protector of the Grimoire of Worlds.

The book constructed and imbued with close to unfathomable scores of spells and incantations all written by his Mother’s own hand. Her only saving grace after the Great Fall that upset the already unstable foundation of Hell where there was nothing but Falling angels as far as the eye could see. Starlight and the might of the cosmos bound and scripted cover to cover in legible stillness to the mind brave enough to decipher its pages. Also, to his few stripes of pride and Stella’s envy, one of the most significant footholds of power she couldn’t take use of her own agenda.

The Grimoire, couple with his ancestral family family and title, granted him the expected range of power that kept him respected and alive, namely from those of standard or others of his ilk who gave the illusion of cordiality. He gave the other two practically invisible demons in the room another uncommitted glare. There goes another power play for Stella. He allowed himself a bitter smirk.

Well . . . If the evening was shot, might as well make the verbal tearing a proper one and get himself a good hard drink to power through it.

His wife might have him by the proverbial balls but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a decent piss every now and again. Figuratively speaking, of course.

He was just about to gesture for one of the certainly still eavesdropping servants hanging at the door for a drink when a delicate, near filled to the brim glass flute appeared in the former of his eye. The imp bearing the tray holding it looked painstakingly nervous, haggardly sweating bullets as though he had a holy rifle pointed at his back. Most likely he just came straight from Stella, who had zero to no patience when it came to dealing with the “filthy” imps in their employ.

Sure enough, the imp confirmed it after swallowing weakly. “A-ah, pardon me, sir. B-But your wife sent this for you. ‘Made with care’, she wanted you to know.”

For the sake of wanting to appear as the concerned wife doting on her husband. Stolas had no doubt of that. Appearances must always be kept up no matter what, after all.

But really, what did it matter? If Stella wished it, fine. At least he had a decent excuse for getting drunk now.

He took the flute with a calm thank you, pausing only a brief second to look upon the color of the drink. Hmm. A 1600 Elysium Lion. She remembered his favorite evening wine. How considerate. He momentarily savored the heady soft scent of bloody cherry and pomegranate as he lifted up the glass to his beak -

- Only to stop dead cold.

There.

Just the haziest bit of something that was in the wine, attempting to mask itself in the drink.

He calmly inhaled, breathing tentatively through the nose as quietly as possible. Thank the Powers that be that he hadn’t the duller, near dead sense of other, significantly weaker demon or worse, a human’s. As one of the Ars Goetia, his senses were vastly superior to the point of where with complete focus, he could hear a needle drop from over ten miles away.

Or allow him to hyper focus on the elusive, intruding fragrance that had found its way into his preferred nightly vintage.

. . . . And once he did, he felt his blood curdle.

It had been hastily mixed in, barely given time to dissolve into the particles of the alcohol. Which made it all that frightfully easier for Stolas to discern the exact interloping mixture.

Achillium Styxium root. Tear of Medusa Snake venom. Phoenix talon wart. And petals of Purgatory Moonshade.

Poison.

And not a regular poison. This concoction was a hazardous blend of the darkest flora of Hell and Purgatory, originating in places even he was wary of ever trespassing. The potency of even only one of the plants or liquids used in this would cause a nasty death to any who consumed it, the kinds that would surely haunt Stolas’s dreams to his final breath. Nevertheless it wouldn’t be anything that no one wouldn’t come back from.

That is, were it not for the Purgatory Moonshade.

Purgatory Moonshade was grown from the drops of rain dripping on the tree leaves of Korethymum Willows facing the brunt of the Full moon, where the light peaked perfectly in its reflection of Heaven. The essence in its petals was virtually Holy Divinity concentrated.

It was closest to achieving rapture to any pure souls who ate them. But for demons, it was permanent death.

The dread of any demon who lived in Hell. Where there was nothing but an endless void. No reincarnation. No second chances. Just . . . Oblivion.

Stolas felt the shock of what he held in his very hand strike him numb. Who in the seven rings could -?

“‘Made with care’, she wanted you to know.”

Stella. All the fear, horror, every fervent imagining in his head to jolting standstill.

Stella, his own wife.

His own wife wanted him dead. Wanted him gone. For good.

The computation of this now obvious fact left him breathless.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . So . . . It had finally come to that, hadn’t it?

Tired resentment bubbled to life somewhere inside of him. So, this was where it all finally came to a head. Years of anger and bitterness. Eons of pointless pleasing and kowtowing. Centuries of abuse both on the inside and out. And now this?

Years and years and years of nothing but insults and anguish and belittling and manipulation and THIS was where finally decided to end it?!

By removing Him out of the equation entirely?!

. . . . How was he not surprised?

It made sense.

With him out of the way, Stella would become the crown ruler of their region. With him out of the way, she would truly have everything. All that she could ever want as a ruler would be in the palm of her hand, all of her darkest dreams finally made into reality.

But only if Stolas hadn’t spotted the serum in time and drunk it.

But now, as things stood, as he was unfortunately still alive and with the crystal clear evidence of Stella’s treason only inches away from him, one thing was certain for him . . . Or so it seemed more like two.

He had two solitary choices. One choice in particular more costly than the other depending on how you looked at it.

His first choice, the most obvious option any demon with sense would take upon learning that their spouse had intentions of taking their partner’s life. Especially so if the spouse in question deserved it.

To put it plainly – He could have Stella killed once and for all.

Better yet, he could save himself the trouble and money for attempting to look for assassin competent enough to do it and simply do kill her himself.

Oh, now that would be satisfying.

The horrific, monstrous truly demonic core of his being rumbled to life at the vindictive idea. Stolas always felt a deep gnawing sense of nausea at even entertaining the idea of feeding the terrible hunger churning in torment on the inside. He was thinker first and a beast second. But now? Now, ooh, how delicious that would be.

To finally drop the guise of civility and delicacy, and just let go. To rip off the mask welded on in place that bore the harmless, downgraded guise of his true face and fall on all fours like the terror of the midnight skies that he struggled and fought and threatened to bury away for centuries but never felt stop clawing at the back of his fragile mind.

It would be a nightmare. And it would be glorious.

He could already feel the threads of his conscious mind loosening in preparation for the kill. To stamp out of this hovel he regrettably called a body and seeking her out. When finally finding the shrew, he would strike. Swiftly, fiercely and without mercy. Or perhaps that would be too quick. No, no, no, much too quick. He would let her suffer. Yes, yes. Let her suffer. Let her suffer for all the pain and degradation and humiliations that she had delivered onto him for ages. Let her scream and wail, let her plead and beg, let her lie there and watch as he shredded, tore and ripped her apart, as her body be eviscerated and her blood paints the castle ebony -

NO.

Stolas grabbed onto the salivating creature with all his claws and talons, shoving beating forcing it down with fury. Back down and buried layer upon layer where it belonged. Even with the battle raging inside him, his body remained still as stone, as though even the slightest twitch would let the malignant inferno within be released from the mental chains that once again wrapped around it.

No. He thought calmly. No. Not even Stella was worth setting that loose upon Hell. No, that would lead to nothing but trouble.

Fact of the matter was, any demons here tonight would see such a barbarous act as sure signs of insanity and, on the most minimal chance that Stella survived what would be irrefutable death, it would be the ideal situation for her to milk her chances for getting him booted right off the throne. If he was lucky, he would most likely have enough a decent defense to be rewarded with being sent off to some rehabilitation clinic to be “conditioned” back to his senses. Provided Stella actually gave him time to live that long.

If Stella failed to be rid of him here tonight, she would surely never stop trying. Her determination and hatred of him ran deeper than the seas of Envy and would keep her going for what she so richly desired no matter what. He would be eternally looking over his shoulder.

Such a clouded fate left him with considering his . . . Second choice.

The choice of a dying man. The choice to meet his end on his own terms.

He honed in on the deathly glass still grasped in his hand, his thumb pressed against the side of it to point of breaking cracks along the surface.

He could drink it. He could drink this tainted flute and be done with it. Be done with all of it. The suffering. The worthlessness. The loneliness.

After all . . . Did he truly have anything to live for?

His parents? Both dead and gone to circumstances well out of his control.

His friends? None that he ever truly call friend without some form of gain and any real ones he had were either dead or driven away by his own actions during the height of his misery.

His kingdom? Like his loyal subjects had anything more than ire and animosity towards him and his wife.

His legacy? . . . Any hopes of that had been burned to ash and scattered a long time ago. Any hopes for . . . For her had long since been tucked away to languidly fade into memory.

The reality of it all was like the executioner’s ax looming over his bare neck.

. . . Honestly, what was it all for?

Pain. Loneliness. Regret. Self-loathing. Emptiness. Nothing but dark halls and empty beds. Crying himself to sleep every night, wishing for it all to just stop . . .

. . . . . Was any of it worth it?

. . . . . . . . . No. No. it wasn’t.

Shaking fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. It wasn’t worth it. He tilted the rim of the glass towards his open beak. It wasn’t worth it. Being Prince Stolas wasn’t worth it -

Stop being him, then.

The abrupt, spontaneous, completely unthinkable flash stayed his hand at just the moment the wine was about to spill into his mouth.

What?

Stop being Prince Stolas Goetia. The same silent voice insisted. The calm tone of its suggestion was unbelievably aspiring. After all, you’ve been wearing masks for centuries. What’s wrong with wearing a whole new mask?

Stolas blinked at nothing. A whole new mask?

Just stop being Stolas and put on a whole new mask? Just stop and . . . Be someone else? Become someone else?

Could . . . Such a thing be possible?

Could it . . . Could it truly be possible?

He felt something akin to a dial tone ringing in his ears.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . Such A notion stirred something in his mind.

Demons were reborn everyday in Hell by less than kinder means, so the idea of forgoing the solution in his talons and taking it into his own hands wasn’t so improbable. Why with some forged papers, some decently greased palms, a few glamours here and there and . . . and . . .

He began to think. He thought in quiet. For what felt like hours, months, centuries, he just sat there like a perched bird and thought to himself. Carefully, tentatively, with an assurement that nearly scared him, he went over again and again and again the single momentous, abominable, explosive, highly debatable prospect suddenly thrown at his feet. The implications, the sacrifices, the prospects and the consequences. He mulled over it all in unnerving calmness.

. . . It would require a great deal of finagling. Finagling and deceit. A few months worth, at least. Not to mention coming up with a strong enough illusion to hide everything that was necessary. Then, of course, there was the matter of money and new lodgings . . .

. . . . . . Stars above, was he really considering this? Could it be done? Would it be done? Did he have the nerve to have it be done?

Did he?

Another voice, this one much more familiar if not yet forgotten, spoke then with a kind of longing wistfulness that he remembered inspired a friendship that back then Stolas treasured more than all the treasures in his kingdom. “Who wouldn’t like a second chance? To have another roll of the dice and get a new lease on life? Especially in the kind of world like the one we got, huh, Feathers?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . Lesser men had done it for less. Human, Angel and Demon alike.

. . . . So that meant he could too.

With a wink of light that mirrored his newfound resolve, the glass flute in his hand burst into a ball of flame, his magic ignited with azure and violet energy and incinerating what was his death a few mere moments ago whole in the span of two minutes. His nerve was steadied by the weight of the ashen remains in his hand before a simple clapping rid him of them without a fuss.

His unheralded act of pyrokinetics had at last brokered the attention of the two other Hellborn Royals in the room. Like a snap, he took their surprised expressions with a blank smile before he was on his feet and bending at the waist in a polite bow.

“Oh please, do forgive me, gentlemen.” He said cordially. “I am . . . Not quite myself tonight. Please forgive me if I have wasted any of your valuable time. That said, I think it’s best if I retired for the evening. But please,” He held his hands out in humble laudation. “Please accept the upmost gratitude from my wife and I for your attendance this evening.”

He turned when given leave to go. Before stepping out of the room, he cast his gaze onto the shivering imp who had leapt back in fright at his unwarranted display of power. As polite as can be, he told them, “Please inform Stella that I shall be heading to my chambers for a good night’s sleep. Anything she wishes to discuss with me can be handled in the morning. Understand?” A shaky nod. “Thank you.”

He strode out of the day room with a lightness to his step that felt almost unbecoming, a sensation he had not felt in forever. Not since his youth and the damning weight of his vows when he was daring and hopeful and eager with the shining of the burning sun. He had feared he had lost all trace of the feeling.

He hadn’t, though, he realized there and then. No, he had never forgotten. Stella may have done her best to make him repress it and break it apart so she could glue it back together into a pale imitation of itself, but he had held on to it tight with both hands and held it close. And now with shoulders broad and head held high, he strode down the cold, lifeless halls of his ancestral home with the smothered steadfastness that life tried to make him forget.

But no, he definitely hadn’t. And he’d be damned if he ever did so again.

The idea, no, the hope that was lighting up his mind brighter and louder than fireworks was breaking apart and reassembling itself again like a complex, abstract puzzle. Limitless pieces were starting to be laid down with just as more to be put into place. There was a lot to consider and formulate, some of which might not be capable of happening.

But it was a start.

He made it to his room before Stella could catch up to him, likely with whatever she had on hand as artillery. He shut the door and sealed it properly with with all the usual privacy and protection spells. He undressed without ceremony and crawled into his massive bed, wrapping his sheets and blankets tightly around himself in a snug, plush cocoon. By the time, sleepiness crept into his mind, it had been thoroughly made up.

Stolas was going to do it. He was going to do what his darling wife didn’t. He was going to do the impossible.

He, Prince Stolas Goetia, was going to die for good.

But this time, He stated to the realm of dreams before falling into deep slumber. I’ll do it my way.

#Helluva Boss #hazbin hotel #stolitz #helluva stolas #stolas goetia #helluva stella #stella goetia #au canon divergence #helluva boss fanfiction #Story adoption from TalosLives #angst #tw: domestic abuse #tw: poison #tw: sucidal thoughts #partly inspired by Phoenixtakaramono

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