Chapter Text
Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility
The Prince Who Was No More
Stolas sank into the client couch at I.M.P., his talons catching on the threadbare upholstery and tearing a new gash as his lanky frame spilled over the armrests. The ceiling above him was a patchwork of water stains and cracks, a far cry from the gilded frescoes he used to wake beneath each morning. He inhaled deeply, the acrid scent of cheap coffee assaulting his senses.
"How the mighty have fallen," he murmured, his aristocratic drawl incongruous in the dingy office.
The city beyond the thin walls pulsed with noise, a relentless symphony of car horns, shouting, and the occasional gunshot. It pressed in on him, noisy and indifferent, like the rest of this cursed place. He longed for the hushed reverence of his estate, a place where even the rustling of leaves had seemed to know their place.
He shifted, wincing as a broken spring jabbed his back. "This infernal contraption hardly qualifies as furniture," he hissed, momentarily allowing frustration to pierce through his melancholy.
Memories of his former life flickered through his mind like Polaroids developing: familiar, imperfect, and too quick to fade. The vast, echoing halls; the library where he once read stories to Octavia; the delicate aroma of Hellfire tea wafting from the kitchens; the lush greenhouses he had tended himself; the quiet nights in his office spent charting constellations in solitude; and the dignified weight of power and purpose that had once rested upon his shoulders.
"What am I doing here?" Stolas whispered to the indifferent ceiling. The question hung in the air, unanswered and mocking. He had once fantasized about this, trading his royal life for something louder, rougher, freer. Blitzø made it look so easy, carving out a space for himself and his employees with nothing but attitude and pure spite. What a fool he had been.
He turned, resting his cheek against the couch arm as he stared towards Blitzø’s office door. “I don’t regret what I did, but…” H e closed his eyes, trying to ignore the unfamiliar surroundings. Still, the incessant noise of the city, the discomfort of the couch, and the lingering scent of coffee constantly reminded him of his displacement.
" I suppose this is what they call 'rock bottom, '" Stolas mused, a bitter chuckle escaping his beak. " How quaint ."
His gaze drifted to a chipped mug on the nearby coffee table, still half-full of the swill Blitzø called coffee, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"From Hellfire tea to... this," he muttered, reaching out to trace the mug's worn handle. "Oh, how you'd laugh to see me now, Father."
He’d told himself it was temporary. Just until he got back on his feet, assuming he still could. But each morning, he was still here, no closer than before. And truthfully, he didn’t know how to move forward. Not yet. Maybe he never would.
The weight of his fall from grace pressed down upon him, heavier than any crown he'd ever worn. In this cramped, chaotic space, Stolas felt more lost than he ever had in the vast emptiness of his former life, and yet…
The mismatched furniture, the peeling paint, and the ever-present hum of life all exuded an unexpected warmth. Stolas found himself sinking deeper into the worn couch, its fabric rough against his feathers but oddly comforting. The air hummed with a strange kind of energy, so unlike the cold, reverent silence of his former estate.
“This room has everything I was raised to scorn…” Stolas murmured, his voice barely audible above the city's cacophony. "So why does it feel more honest than home ever did?”
He had believed in Blitzø, believed that the imp’s recklessness could shatter the staleness of their world. Maybe, in fleeting moments, he had even fantasized about being a part of it all. But belief was a dangerous thing to have in Hell. And hope, well, that was even worse.
A crash erupted from the adjacent room, splintering through his thoughts. Stolas jerked upright, feathers bristling, just as the door burst open.
"For the last time, Moxxie, that's not how you stab a hellhound!" Blitzø's voice rang out, sharp and exasperated as the lanky imp stormed in, dramatically wielding a stapler like a dagger.
Moxxie followed, his face flushed with frustration. "Sir, if you'd just listen—"
"Oh, I'm listening alright," Blitzø interrupted, spinning to face his employee. "I'm listening to the sound of our reputation going down the drain because you can't follow simple instructions!"
Stolas watched, wide-eyed, as Blitzø launched into a theatrical retelling of what could only be Moxxie’s botched assassination attempt. He leaned back as pens and paperclips became unwitting props, flung through the air.
"And then—" Blitzø paused, breath huffing in exaggerated puffs, "—you tripped over your tail and landed face-first into the remains of that succu-bitch!" He hurled the stapler into the wall behind the secretary's desk, right where Loona’s head had been seconds prior.
Millie stepped between the two, tightly gripping both of their shoulders until they began to wince. "Now, now, boys. It wasn't that bad. We can learn from this and do better next time, right?"
Loona, sprawled on a nearby chair, didn't even look up from her phone. "If there is a next time, I'm pretty sure that client's gonna want a refund."
Sensing an opening, Stolas cleared his throat and attempted to join the conversation. "Perhaps a more subtle approach would have been advisable? A Stygian bloom extract, maybe?"
The room went silent.
Moxxie turned to him, blinking. "...That’s completely impractical."
Loona finally glanced up, squinting at him. "What?"
Stolas’s feathers ruffled involuntarily, a nervous tic he thought he’d conquered long ago. “I, well, I merely thought—”
Blitzø cackled, cutting through the awkward silence. "Stygian bloom? What are we, fucking herbalists?" He sauntered over to the kitchenette, grabbing the coffee pot. "We're more of a 'shoot first, ask questions never' kind of operation, Stolas."
“Right, of course. Forgive me.”
As the argument raged on, Stolas remained silent, an outsider looking in on a world he barely comprehended. Cast adrift… The thought was both terrifying and oddly liberating. Perhaps this is what it took to finally learn how to swim.
The shrill ring of the office phone pierced through the room, silencing the argument mid-sentence. Blitzø's demeanor shifted instantly, his manic energy coalescing into something sharper and more focused. He snatched up the receiver, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
"I.M.P., where your problems disappear faster than a sinner's soul on Extermination Day," Blitzø purred, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. “How can we assist you today?”
Stolas leaned forward, drawn by the abrupt transformation. This was Blitzø as he'd never seen him before, professional, in his twisted way.
As the caller spoke, Blitzø's expressions cycled through a dizzying array of emotions. He rolled his eyes dramatically, mimed hanging himself with the phone cord, then suddenly snapped to attention.
"Oh, absolutely! We specialize in that kind of... delicate situation," Blitzø assured, winking at no one in particular. "Trust me, by this time tomorrow, your mother-in-law won't be a problem anymore, well, not for anyone topside, at least. Guaranteed or your money back!"
Stolas's eyes widened. Did he actually promise to… he thought, then caught himself. Of course, he had. This was I.M.P., after all.
Blitzø continued, gesticulating wildly with his free hand. "No, no, we don't do cash refunds. But hey, once word gets out how efficiently we handled your pest problem, you'll be fighting off the neighbors who want our services!"
Stolas was caught between horror and admiration. Blitzø's brazenness was appalling, yet beneath the crass exterior, there was an undeniable competence, a ruthless efficiency that both repelled and fascinated him.
It’s all so loud, so reckless, so wrong… Stolas mused, his gaze fixed on Blitzø's animated form. And yet, I can't look away.
As Blitzø wrapped up the call with a final crude gesture, the office erupted once again into the argument about the botched job.
Stolas hesitated as he watched Moxxie and Blitzø’s argument spiral. He opened his mouth to interject, only to snap it shut again. Maybe he shouldn't speak up.
But then Blitzø dramatically mimed stabbing a hellhound with a pen, and Stolas couldn’t help himself.
“I still think a tailored toxin could’ve—”
“No more flowers, Stolas!” Moxxie barked. “We’re not a florist with a death wish.”
Stolas ruffled his feathers, trying not to bristle. “I was simply offering an alternative—”
“And we are respectfully telling you it sucks,” Blitzø said cheerfully, already moving on. The coffee machine beeped, and he turned away, busying himself with preparing a cup for each of them.
Stolas sat back, chin resting on his fist, glowering at the floor as he forced himself to calm down. His feathers were still slightly puffed with irritation, and his pride smarted beneath the surface. He wasn’t used to being dismissed so casually, especially not after offering what, in his mind, had been a perfectly rational suggestion. But this place ran on a different kind of logic. Louder, rougher, and indifferent to titles or tact.
He exhaled slowly through his beak, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks. Maybe he was being overly sensitive. Maybe he still hadn’t accepted that his opinion didn’t carry more weight than anyone else’s.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Blitzø slid the mug onto the coffee table in front of Stolas, saying nothing more.
Stolas stared at the steaming cup, his mind racing. Was this a peace offering? A mockery? Or simply a habitual gesture? He reached for it, his talons clinking against the chipped ceramic.
"Thank you," he murmured, barely audible. Blitzø just shrugged, raising an eyebrow as Moxxie launched into a rant about paperwork or some other trivial matter.
Stolas lifted the mug to his beak and inhaled deeply, then paused, frowning. This wasn’t coffee. He leaned in again, tilting his head slightly as the scent registered. It was tea. Peppermint, to be exact. Not his preferred blend, but far more drinkable than the burnt sludge he'd expected.
A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his beak.
Perhaps, he thought, watching the chaos of the I.M.P. office unfold around him, there’s more to learn here than I realized.
~o0o~
Later that day, Blitzo kicked open the office door, a tray of Hellbucks drinks precariously balanced in one hand. “Alright, you insufferable cretins,” he announced, his voice a rasping cackle, "fuel up before we dive into this clusterfuck of a meeting."
Moxxie's eyes lit up as he reached for his cup. “Speaking of clusterfucks," he said, grimacing at the name Foxy written across the side before turning to Stolas with unexpected enthusiasm. “What's your take on Hellbound Melodies, Sire? That new musical about the tone-deaf siren?"
Stolas blinked, his hand pausing mid-reach for the cup Blitzø had been handing him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Well, I..." he began, his mind racing to recall the show's details. "The orchestration was quite clever, though the second act felt a bit..."
"Disjointed?" Moxxie interjected, nodding vigorously. "Exactly! The composer clearly lost the plot after the kraken solo."
Stolas took a sip of his tea, nodding. "Indeed, though I'd argue the mermaid's lament in Act Three redeemed much of the—"
"Oh, come on!" Blitzø interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The only good part was when the siren's head exploded!"
The room erupted with arguments from all three sides. Stolas struggled to keep pace with their rapid-fire banter, his carefully constructed arguments drowned out by crude jokes, scathing retorts, and obscene gestures.
And yet, he noticed, they were including him. Awkwardly, yes, with sideways glances and stilted pauses, but the effort was there. Warmth bloomed in his chest, unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome.
The conversation then moved on, but Stolas barely listened. His thoughts drifted elsewhere as he reached for his phone.
No new messages.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should send her something. Just a quick check-in…
He typed out a simple, Are you well, my darling? But hesitated before pressing send. His heart clenched. Did she even want to hear from him?
With a sigh, he pressed send.
No messages. No response. Nothing. It had been over a month at this point.
The ache in his chest deepened.
He grimaced and took a long sip of his tea to keep from crying, his gaze drifting, only to be caught by the buzzing of Blitzø’s phone.
The moment Blitzø glanced at the screen, his entire posture stiffened, drawing the others into a sudden, uneasy silence.
"Well, well, well," Blitzø said, forcing a grin as he read the message. With a flick, he clicked the screen off and tossed the phone lightly into the air, catching it with practiced ease. "Looks like Luci’s finally calling in a favor. Took him long enough! Maybe he wants me to train his royal guards. Teach ‘em how to add some flair to their murder! Hell, maybe he wants to hire me! I did make a killer bodyguard for Verosika."
Stolas could see Moxxie’s eye twitch before the imp dragged a rough hand over his face. "Sir. That is Lucifer, the King of Hell. You are an imp. He is not hiring you for anything."
"Oh, ye of little faith, Moxx," Blitzø said, waving a dismissive hand. "Maybe if I act super confident, he’ll just assume I’m on his level and poof, instant promotion! And if that fails, I’ll just challenge him to a duel! Y'know, old-school style. Some fancy swordplay, a dramatic monologue, maybe a sexy outfit—"
"You would be instantly obliterated," Moxxie said flatly.
Blitzø paused. His grin faltered, just for a second. "Okay, yeah, maybe I need a backup plan," he muttered, tapping his chin. "Ooh! Loony, you got any, uh, dirt on Luci? Maybe some blackmail material?"
Loona barely looked up. "Yeah, sure, Dad. Lemme just Hellgle his search history. That should totally work."
"See? Now we’re thinking outside the box!" Blitzø clapped his hands and reached for his coffee, accidentally grabbing Stolas’s tea. “And hey, worst-case scenario, I just seduce my way out of this mess.”
Silence.
"He could literally erase you from existence,” Loona said dryly, though the subtle flurry of her fingers over her phone’s screen suggested she was trying to dig something up on Lucifer.
"Pfft. Please. If he were gonna smite me, he’d have done it already." He took a sip from the cup in his hand, then immediately spat it out. "Ugh, Stolas, what the fuck is this? Liquid disappointment?"
Stolas calmly slid Blitzø’s cup back toward him and reclaimed his own, cradling it protectively between his talons.
“Sir, a summons from Lucifer is no laughing matter. We should treat this with the seriousness it warrants—”
"What? Should we piss ourselves?" Blitzø interrupted, his forced grin stretching wider. "Come on, Moxx, where’s your sense of adventure?"
Millie stepped forward, her yellow eyes narrowed with worry. "Blitzø, sugar, Moxxie's right. This ain't just another client. It's the King of Hell!"
Even Loona looked up from her phone. Her red eyes held an uncharacteristic spark of concern. "Dad," she said softly, the single word laden with meaning. He stared at her for a moment before she growled and looked away. "You should probably make a will."
Blitzø cooed at her and reached for a hug, only to be promptly kicked in the chest and shoved away. He forced another smile, but Stolas caught it, the flicker of unease beneath it, and the slight tremor in his fingers as he reached for his coffee.
Stolas didn’t move, but his feathers prickled with a cold dread he hadn’t felt since his fall from grace. His mind raced through the possibilities, each more dire than the last. Lucifer’s wrath was not to be taken lightly; he’d seen more than one Goetia fall to it.
Blitzø's manic energy faltered as he met Stolas's gaze. For a fleeting moment, Stolas was able to capture the flicker of genuine fear that passed across his face. "Stolas," Blitzø muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. "You’ve, uh... handled Lucifer before, yeah? What's his whole deal?"
Stolas hesitated, memories of Lucifer's whimsical charm and quiet cruelty flooding his mind. He smoothed his feathers, stalling.
“He’s... unpredictable. Capricious. He delights in chaos,” Stolas said, his voice tightening, “but it’s never random. There’s always a reason… and a cost. Once, he—” He stopped short, swallowing the memory. “A summons from him is never without consequence.”
Blitzø gave a nervous laugh. “So what, Stols? He gonna drag us to some royal dungeon and flay us with flaming violins?”
Stolas didn’t smile. “Or it could be an opportunity,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound convinced.
The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy blanket of dread settling over the I.M.P. office. Blitzø's usual manic energy had drained away, replaced by a jittery restlessness that had him fidgeting in his seat.
"Well, shit," he muttered, forcing a smirk as he grabbed his coffee. "Guess I’ll dust off my kneepads. Royal ass doesn’t kiss itself. Good thing I got a lot of practice with that."
Moxxie groaned, visibly paling. “Sir, now is not the time to talk about Stolas’s—”
“—feathers,” Stolas interjected smoothly, though his beak twitched in what might’ve been amusement… or embarrassment.
Blitzø cackled, the sound too loud for the still-tense room. “Don’t worry, I’ll be classy. I’ll only flirt with Lucifer if I think it’ll save my life.”
Loona didn’t look up. “So you’re definitely flirting then.”
Blitzø pointedly took a sip of his coffee, ignoring Loona’s comment, but Stolas noticed the way his hands were just barely shaking. He’d never seen Blitzø falter, not like this. The tremor unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Blitzø suddenly grabbed a stack of papers from the head of the table and rifled through them. "Alright, enough doom and gloom," he muttered. "Let’s get back to business. Moxx, I need you to—" He shoved a paper toward Moxxie without looking. "Millie, can you—" Another paper. "Stolas, hold this."
Stolas blinked as Blitzø thrust a small pack of papers into his hands without hesitation. He had already turned away to keep barking orders at the others. The exchange had lasted less than a second and was completely unremarkable.
Did he…? Stolas glanced up, half-expecting a smirk, a jab, some offhand remark that would reduce the moment to a joke.
But Blitzø was too busy snapping his fingers at Moxxie, pointing at the whiteboard, and rambling about a "target-rich environment."
No show. No hesitation. No second glance. To him, it had meant nothing.
Stolas curled his talons around the paper, feeling the rough texture between his fingers. It was a mundane thing, just a contract, already smudged with Blitzø’s haphazard scrawl, but the gesture sent something strange and unfamiliar twisting in his chest.
Blitzø had handed it to him without thinking, without hesitation, a grand gesture or awkward deliberation. It was the same casual way he handed things to his actual employees.
To him, this means nothing. Just another file. But to me...
Stolas stared down at the file before tucking the paper under his arm, smoothing his feathers. "I’ll get this filed right away, Blitzø," he said smoothly.
He had turned to leave the room, but something stopped him. He turned back and reached out, his taloned hand hovering inches from Blitzø's shoulder before pulling back. "Whatever happens, Blitzø," he said softly, "remember that you're not alone in this."
Blitzø stared at him for a moment. A soft, unreadable smile crossed his face, then twisted into something wryer. “Yeah, yeah. Real touching, feathers.”
Stolas nodded, but something in his chest tightened as he turned away. Behind him, the conversation had already moved on: Blitzø was launching into a rant about their next job, Loona scrolled lazily through her phone, offering dry interjections when warranted, and Moxxie mumbled something about “professional standards”. Back to the usual chaos. Familiar, but never quite his.
Stolas looked down at the packet in his hands, a small frown playing on his beak. He didn’t belong here. Maybe he never would.
This wasn’t the life he’d envisioned when he dared to love an imp. But that vision had been flawed from the start. He’d given Blitzø his grimoire as a door, a way out. But he hadn’t considered what stepping through it might cost them both.
When he raised his eyes, he caught Millie’s gaze from across the room, a small, worried glance that lingered a moment too long. She offered a faint, knowing smile that he didn’t return.
Still, it was something. At least he wouldn’t be the only one lying awake, wondering if loving Blitzø would be enough to save him, or what it might cost when it wasn’t.
Notes:
Hello All!
This is a brand-new story idea I've been working on, and I'm excited to say it’s already fully drafted: 14 chapters and an epilogue. That means updates will be fairly regular, especially with summer vacation just around the corner.
My two major projects, Inferna Academy and The Birth of the Radio Demon, are both nearing completion, so it's a good time to begin posting a new story!
Let me know what you think of the premise. I’d love to hear your thoughts! Especially since I don't believe I've seen anything similar to it before.
Thank you for reading!
All the best,
Poisoned Ace
Chapter 2: All Hail the Wrong Guy
Chapter Text
Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility
All Hail the Wrong Guy
Blitzø had expected a summons, maybe a hit topside for old Lucifer. Not a promotion into Hell’s elite.
Stolas had feared Lucifer’s cruelty. Nothing could have prepared him for this particular brand of chaos.
On the day of the summons, Blitzø and Stolas found themselves in the Meeting Hall of Lucifer’s mansion, surrounded by the elite of Hell, or rather, the ones who truly mattered: the Sins, the Kings, and the Princes of Hell with Andrealphus and Stella now sat in what had once been Stolas’s place, much to the former prince's displeasure.
Many of the nobles lounged at round mahogany tables or clustered in small groups, whispering and speculating about what could have compelled the King of Hell to summon them now. He had all but vanished from public view since Lilith’s mysterious departure nearly a decade earlier.
Above them, seated in a marble throne, sat Lucifer, his golden eyes sparking beneath the hellfire-lit sconces as he surveyed the room. His red and white wings were stretched lazily behind him, spilling over the sides. As he sat straighter, the room fell silent as though he had sapped the breath from the very hall itself.
“Ah,” Lucifer inhaled deeply, savouring the unease in the air. “You all feel it, don’t you? The delicious uncertainty? The nervous flutter in your chests?” His sneer widens as he watches the crowd shuffle uncomfortably. “It’s absolutely intoxicating.”
Across the room, Satan stood rigid, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked on Lucifer with a glare that could melt steel. Perched on his shoulder, Yogirt, Satan’s therapist, rested his chin in his palm, watching with the weary detachment of someone who had long since accepted the futility of trying to temper Satan’s rage against Lucifer.
Asmodeus sat at the front table with Beelzebub, the two of them looking bored out of their minds as they watched the crowd of royals around them. Asmodeus was on his phone, likely texting with Fizz, while Beelzebub absentmindedly picked at a platter of honeyed locusts and snorted at the occasional line of gossip that drifted her way.
The other Sins were spread around the room, watching in varying states of boredom and annoyance. They tended to avoid interacting with demon royalty if they could, too old to be bothered by the drama they brought and long since used to Lucifer’s over-the-top theatrics.
“Just get on with it, Lucifer,” Satan growled, his voice low and edged with frustration. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
“Oh, but what’s the fun in that?” Lucifer laughed as the vein popped in Satan’s forehead. “You know how I love a good buildup.”
“Sire,” Stolas’s voice cut through the air, crisp and formal. Though his stance was composed, Blitzø saw the tension in the way his feathers bristled at the back of his neck and his talons curled subtly into his too-long sleeves as everyone's gaze fell upon him.
Around them, several of the royalty eyed Stolas with barely-concealed scorn, their voices growing louder when their gaze shifted to Blitzø, as though the imp’s very presence was an insult to the institution of Hell’s court.
Lucifer sighed, tilting his head as if put upon by the demands of his audience. "Fine, Stolas, fine. No one ever shows appreciation for showmanship anymore."
"Do not speak to the King in such a familiar manner, brother."
Prince Seere.
His tone was cold, clipped, and precise. The power in his voice wasn’t booming like Satan's, nor was it the easy, wicked lilt of Lucifer's. It was sharp and scornful, like a blade honed over years of superiority.
Blitzø turned, getting a proper look at him.
Seere stood tall in rich emerald silk, every inch of him exuding the same practiced elegance Blitzø had seen Stolas exhibit during moments of formality. His antlers curved slightly forward, casting shadowed slashes over a face twisted in barely restrained disgust.
"You are no longer a prince," Seere continued, his voice lowering, deliberate. "Address the King as a commoner should, or not at all." He then looked down his nose at Blitzø. “Bad enough you brought that thing here.”
Blitzø immediately bristled, his tail flicking as he made to step towards the prince. "Hey, asshole—"
But Stolas moved first, pivoting towards Seere at an unhurried pace, as though to emphasize how little of a threat he perceived him. His feathers settled into something unnervingly smooth. Then he smiled.
Not his usual polite, carefully measured court smile. Not the flirtatious smile he reserved for Blitzø. This one was sharper. Meaner. And when he spoke, his tone was light, almost amused.
"Ah, Seere. I see you’re still as insufferable as ever."
Seere’s expression flickered, just barely.
"Don’t mistake my status for your authority, dear brother," Stolas continued, his tone still smooth but laced with disdain as he threaded his fingers together in front of him. "You are neither my keeper nor my superior."
Seere's lips pressed into a thin line. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes. His lips parted, ready to argue, to bite back. But before he could, Vassago stepped forward, his tall, poised frame cutting cleanly between Seere and Stolas.
The movement had been effortless. Fluid, but unmistakable. A line drawn, a barrier placed. A warning.
Seere’s mouth twitched. It was obvious that he wanted to speak, to drag Stolas down with whatever bitter righteousness festered in his chest. But he couldn’t, not with Vassago standing between them, silent and immovable. He would not allow them to continue. Just as he had when they were children, he stepped in to put an end to it before it escalated.
Lucifer’s booming laugh filled the room, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. "Oh, I do love family drama," he mused, reclining further into his throne. "Shall we all air our grievances before the main event? Perhaps throw in a duel for entertainment?"
Stolas exhaled slowly, then turned away from Seere entirely, as if he wasn’t even worth the effort of a glance.
Vassago lingered a beat longer, just long enough to ensure Seere stayed silent, before finally stepping back to resume his place.
Blitzø, watching all of this, barely stopped himself from smiling like a fool. Damn. That was hot.
"Now," Lucifer called, clapping his hands. "The reason I have summoned you all. After much deliberation and, frankly, a lot of wine, I have decided that the lower class needs representation." He paused, savoring the ripple of shock that spread through the hall. "They need a leader. A prince, if you will."
Lucifer fell silent as whispers rose again, a crescendo of anxiety building with each passing second. He reveled in it, feeling the familiar rush of power that came with manipulating the strings of his infernal kingdom.
How delightful, he thought, to watch them squirm like insects beneath a magnifying glass. His fingers twitched, itching to bring the hammer down and shatter their carefully constructed world.
But not yet. No, the true art lies in the anticipation, in stretching the moment to its breaking point. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed with barely contained glee as he continued his charade of indecision, all the while knowing exactly how his next words would set Hell ablaze.
His grin widened, razor-sharp and gleaming. "It shall be… Marquis Andrealphus," he said, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on the unsuspecting noble.
The second his name left Lucifer’s lips, Andrealphus visibly preened. With a sharp inhale, his feathers puffed up with self-importance, his pristine posture straightening even further as a smug, knowing smirk curled across his beak.
"Ah, of course," he purred, already stepping forward, adjusting the cuffs of his embroidered coat in what he clearly thought was a regal gesture. His gown fluttered around him in a preening display of barely contained glee. "I must say, Your Majesty," he continued, already preparing a speech, his voice dripping with false humility, "though I had not anticipated such a grand—"
Lucifer cackled. Loud. Sharp. Utterly merciless.
"Relax. I’m fucking with you." He waved a dismissive hand, still chuckling.
Andrealphus froze. Whatever gracious acceptance speech he had been about to spew died on his tongue. His beak snapped shut with an audible click.
He deflated ever so slightly, but his expression didn’t falter immediately, no, he was too well-trained for that. There was a half-second delay, a flicker of something absolutely seething beneath the icy exterior, like a glacier cracking under unbearable weight.
A sharp hoot of laughter burst from Stolas, completely unrestrained. He clutched his stomach, doubling over as the sound echoed through the chamber.
Blitzø, beside him, wheezed.
“Oh, oh fuck,” Blitzø gasped, slapping a hand against his knee. “That was..." He choked on another laugh, tail thrashing behind him as he pointed at Andrealphus. “You seriously thought…?” He wheezed again, cackling so hard he nearly fell to the floor.
Asmodeus hid his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he struggled not to lose it completely. Beelzebub, beside him, turned her head, grinning into her fist, her whole body vibrating with suppressed amusement.
Vassago, ever the composed one, smirked at first. Just enough for those paying attention to notice, his red eyes glinting with amusement as he folded his arms across his chest.
But then, his gaze flicked to Andrealphus.
The slight twitch in the Marquis’s eye. The way he held himself too tightly, trying to mask the humiliation boiling beneath the surface.
Vassago’s smile faltered. It wasn’t that he didn’t find it funny. He did. He knew Andrealphus could be vain, prideful, insufferably smug, and yet… A quiet pang of sympathy settled in his chest.
Their relationship had always been a careful, delicate thing, one that thrived in the shadows, away from the scrutiny of the court. But right now, in front of everyone, Andrealphus was exposed.
So, as the others reveled in their laughter, Vassago sighed, adjusting his cuffs as he stepped slightly closer to Andrealphus. Not enough to make a scene. Not enough to be obvious. But enough. A subtle, wordless gesture to let Andrealphus know he was not entirely alone in his mortification.
“Oh, come now, Andrealphus,” Lucifer cooed, as he leered down at him like a cat watching a mouse squirm.“You can’t tell me you truly thought I was serious?”
Andrealphus’s eye twitched. With a careful inhale, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Of course not,” he said, voice too smooth, too controlled, too forced. His talons flexed against the polished floor, sharp and twitching, as if resisting the urge to dig into something, or someone. And behind those cold eyes, something darker smoldered.
As the crowd settled down, Lucifer looked down at them. Now was the time. “The new Prince will be the imp, Blitzø Buckzo.”
Blitzø, who had been standing up front with Stolas, grabbed the nearest edge of the table beside him. His ears rang. A flicker of unease coiled in his spine as his fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette or a gun, anything to ground himself. No fucking way. His mind reeled, struggling to process the absurdity of what he'd just heard. This has to be some kind of sick joke, Blitzø thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. There's no way in Hell...
But as the stunned silence stretched on, reality began to sink in. Blitzø took in the shock and horror etched on the faces of the Kings and Princes. The Sins weren’t just surprised, they were assessing. Calculating. Some looked amused. Some looked like they were already planning Blitzø’s demise.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest, sharp and disbelieving.
"Well, shit," he snorted, voice carrying through the chamber like a crack of thunder. "Guess Hell really has frozen over." He spread his arms wide, his grin cocky, sharp. "All hail me, or whatever."
Lucifer bared his teeth, too wide to be anything but menacing delight. "Oh, I do love the enthusiasm!"
The nobles gaped at him, scandalized by his crude demeanor. Blitzø reveled in their discomfort, even as a part of him quaked at the implications of Lucifer's proclamation. He was an imp, for fuck's sake, the lowest of the low. And now, apparently, a prince.
This is gonna be one hell of a clusterfuck, Blitzø thought, his laughter tinged with a hint of hysteria. But beneath the bravado, a spark of excitement ignited; it was time to shake things up in this shithole.
Blitzø ran a hand down his waist, smoothing his jacket, his cocky demeanor slipping for a moment. "So, do I get a fancy hat with this, or just a bigger target on my back?" The quip left his lips before he could stop it, but his laughter faded as quickly as it had come.
Beelzebub gave a single snort of laughter, looking more entertained than outraged. "You gotta be shitting me," she muttered, wings twitching in amusement.
And then there was Stolas.
To his left, Stolas stood motionless, his expression inscrutable. The owl demon's eyes, usually alight with mischief or desire when fixed on Blitzø, now held a distant, haunted look. Blitzø felt a pang of... something. Concern? Guilt? He pushed the feeling aside, uncomfortable with its implications.
Stolas's mind drifted, unbidden, to his coronation. The weight of the crown, both literal and metaphorical, had been suffocating. He had stood here once, years ago. The memory came unbidden, the press of the ceremonial crown on his feathers, the silence of the court as nobles bowed before him. He had been so young, so painfully unaware of the burden settling onto his shoulders.
Now, they didn’t bow. They gawked, horrified, as Blitzø sat at their table, laughing as if the whole thing were a cosmic joke. It surprised him, this strange cocktail of emotions, loss, worry, and something dangerously close to envy.
He has no idea what he's in for, Stolas thought, his talons curling against his palm. And I'm not sure if I pity him or envy his ignorance.
A ripple of gasps and furious whispers shattered the stunned silence, spreading through the court like wildfire.
"An imp? As Prince?"
"This can't be happening!"
"Lucifer's gone mad!"
At the far end of the grand hall, Satan's imposing figure radiated anger. His usual mask of composed authority cracked, his jaw clenching so hard that Blitzø could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. The Sin’s eyes locked onto Blitzø.
Well, if looks could kill, Blitzø thought, a shiver running down his spine despite his best efforts. I'd be a pile of ash right about now.
Blitzø's eyes broke from Satan's and swept across the sea of horrified nobles. Their pristine robes and glittering jewels suddenly seemed ridiculous, like children playing dress-up. He'd seen more dignity in the gutters of Imp City.
"What's the matter?" he taunted, spreading his arms wide. "Never seen an imp with ambition before?"
But even as the words left his mouth, a cold knot of realization formed in Blitzø's stomach. He was in way over his head, surrounded by creatures who'd been playing deadly political games since before his great-grandparents were a twinkle in some imp's eye.
He swept his gaze across the room, as a chill ran up his spine. He might’ve been a loudmouth, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that look, it was the same ones the vultures in Wrath gave you when you limped too long.
Somewhere to his right, a noble muttered furiously into another’s ear, their expressions unreadable. Further ahead, Stella watched him with the kind of smile that belonged on a snake about to strike.
Fuck me, he thought. I've just been thrown into the deep end of a shark tank.
Lucifer's laughter cut through the tension like a knife, rich and melodious yet tinged with an undercurrent of malice. He leaned back on his ornate throne, golden eyes gleaming with unholy mirth as he surveyed the chaos unfolding before him.
Stolas cleared his throat and moved to approach the dais, tension coiling beneath his plumage. "Sire," he began, his cultured voice steady but laced with disbelief, "With all due respect, what exactly is the meaning of this... spectacle?"
Lucifer bared his teeth in a flash of mirth. "Why, my dear Stolas," he purred, "can't you see? It's the dawn of a new era in Hell." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Just sit back and watch the show. It's about to get good."
As if on cue, everything seemed to explode. "This can't be allowed," Prince Ipis hissed to his wife, "the natural order-"
"It's the end of everything," another King Bael moaned. "If an imp can become royalty, what's next? Chaos! Anarchy!"
Blitzø caught fragments of their panicked muttering, and couldn’t help the smile that began to spread across his face. That's right, you pompous pricks, he thought, your cozy little world is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
The euphoria was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Blitzø with a gnawing pit in his stomach. He ran his hands over his thighs as he surveyed the sea of unfamiliar noble faces. Their eyes, cold and calculating.
He'd faced danger before, but this... this was different. These weren't just enemies to outwit or outgun; they were also adversaries to outthink. This was a nest of vipers, each one poised to strike at the first sign of weakness.
He turned to Stolas, his voice barely above a whisper. "What is step one in the royal book on ‘How not to Get Murdered 101’?" The words tasted bitter, an admission of vulnerability he'd rarely allowed himself.
Stolas finally blinked, as if pulling himself from his thoughts. His gaze moved to Blitzø, studying him as he seemed to ponder the question. Was it a concern? Protectiveness? Or something deeper?
And then, softly, "Of course, I'll help you."
A hand seemed to claw its way into Blitzø's chest, tightening around his lungs and heart. He'd never been good at accepting help, always relying on his wit and audacity. But now, standing on the precipice of a power he'd never sought, he felt adrift.
A deep chuckle rumbled from the side of the chamber, drawing Blitzø’s attention. Mammon.
The Sin was impossible to miss, towering and theatrically dressed in clashing layers of green, black and gold that shimmered like a gaudy slot machine come to life. His jester-like hat curled with exaggerated spikes, crowned with golden baubles. He leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, and his wide neon grin bordering on amused condescension. "So, let me get this straight," he drawled. "We’re just handing the little imp a title? What’s next, do we give 'em a palace? A royal petting zoo?"
Lucifer wagged a finger. "Ah-ah, Mammon, don’t be jealous. You still have all your lovely gold, don’t you?"
"Yeah, and I’d like to keep it,” He gave a flash of teeth, and there was no hint of humour in his gaze.
Meanwhile, Asmodeus tapped a perfectly manicured claw against his chin. "Gotta say, Lucifer, this is one hell of a curveball," he mused. "But I kinda like it. You do love shaking up the status quo, don’t you?"
Mammon let out a snort. "Course you’d be fine with it. Everyone knows you have a thing for imp dick."
The room collectively tensed as Asmodeus’s smile faltered for half a second before his eyes narrowed and his body began to expand, his form towering as his voice sharpened. "Care to say that again, coin goblin?"
"Oh, please," Mammon drawled, waving a dismissive hand. "Everyone knows—"
Before the next insult could leave his mouth, Beelzebub reached over and grabbed Asmodeus’s arm. She didn’t say a word, just gave him a look. Cool, unbothered, but firm.
Asmodeus’s muscles tensed, his growing frame rippling with restrained fury. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled slowly and returned to his usual size, the tension in his shoulders easing, though his glare at Mammon remained razor-sharp.
Beelzebub rolled her eyes, popping a honeyed locust into her mouth. "Not worth it, babe."
Asmodeus huffed, settling back into his seat with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. The tension deflated, but the animosity between the two sins lingered in the air like smoke.
The mood curdled around him, although he noticed that the royals weren’t rejecting Lucifer's decree outright. Of course not.
But later?
Later was another matter.
The grand hall, once a cacophony of shock and disbelief, now simmered with a more insidious energy. Nobles dispersed in twos and threes, their rapid words hissing like steam from a pressure valve.
"...cannot allow this travesty to stand..."
"...the natural order, upended..."
"...must be dealt with, swiftly and decisively..."
Blitzø tried to gauge the threat behind each calculating glance. His fingers itched for the familiar weight of his pistol, but he knew that wouldn't solve this problem. This was a different kind of battlefield, one where words were weapons and alliances shifted like quicksand.
"They're not even trying to hide it," he muttered to Stolas, his voice tight with tension. "Think they'd at least wait until I'm out of earshot before plotting my demise."
Stolas leaned in, his talons brushing Blitzø's arm. "In the court, my dear, proximity often breeds the boldest conspiracies. They want you to hear, to feel the pressure of their displeasure."
Blitzø snorted, but the sound held no humor. "Great. So I'm surrounded by assholes who want me dead, and they're not even being subtle about it. Fan-fucking-tastic."
As they spoke, Stella glided past, her silk robes trailing behind her, her cold eyes locking onto Blitzø for a moment that felt like an eternity.
Stolas straightened almost instinctively, his grimace smoothing into a polite smile. “Stella,” he greeted stiffly, voice formal, measured, almost forced.
She didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t acknowledge his presence at all.
Blitzø’s jaw clenched. Oh, hell no.
“Wow. Just gonna pretend he ain’t standing right here, huh?” Blitzø snapped, stepping forward. “Y’know, your ex-husband? The guy you spent years treating like absolute shit?” His tail flicked sharply. “Oh, wait, you only acknowledge people when you’re tearing them down. My bad.”
Stella finally turned, lips curling into something almost resembling amusement. But there was no warmth behind it.
“You won’t last a month,” she murmured, gaze sliding back to Blitzø as if Stolas were no more than background noise.
Her smirk was like a knife, cold and cutting, before she vanished into the crowd.
Blitzø scoffed. “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough to stop her retreat.
He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, but the weight in the room hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had settled deeper, sinking into his bones.
He swallowed hard, acutely aware of the target that now adorned his back. He'd always lived on the edge, but this... this was a precipice he'd never imagined. As the nobles continued their hushed exchanges, their eyes glittering with malice and ambition, Blitzø realized that his greatest challenge wasn’t just surviving, it was learning to thrive in a world that wanted nothing more than to see him fall.
The grand doors of the court swung shut behind them with an ominous thud, leaving Blitzø and Stolas alone in the dimly lit corridor. Their footsteps echoed off the obsidian walls, a rhythmic duet that neither acknowledged. Blitzø's mind raced, the weight of his new title pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.
"So," Blitzø broke the silence, his voice strained with false bravado, "when do I get the big fancy throne? Kinda wanna carve my name into it." His voice held its usual playfulness, but his eyes darted around nervously, as though searching for hidden dangers in every shadow.
Stolas glanced sideways, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his beak. "You do realize there's more to ruling than just stealing office supplies, yes?" His tone was light, but concern lurked beneath the surface.
Blitzø scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Please. I've been stealing shit my whole life. This'll be a piece of cake." But even as the words left his mouth, doubt gnawed at his insides. What the fuck did he know about ruling?
"I suppose your... unique skill set might come in handy," Stolas mused. A faint, almost amused lilt colored his words, but his gaze flickered forward, unfocused, as if he were already considering something else. "Though perhaps we should focus on keeping you alive long enough to use them."
Blitzø's shoulders tensed. "Yeah, well, I've survived this long, haven't I?" He paused, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "But, uh, any tips on not getting shanked in my sleep would be appreciated."
Stolas's stride slowed for just a fraction of a second. His talons curled subtly against the fabric of his coat, then smoothed out again, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, measured. "Of course, Blitzø. We'll start with the basics. First rule: trust no one completely."
Blitzø snorted, trying for nonchalance. "Not even you?" The question was half-joking, half-serious, but when he turned to gauge Stolas’s reaction, he caught something unexpected.
Stolas didn’t answer immediately. His feathers ruffled briefly before settling again, his beak tightening at the corners as if tasting something bitter. His gaze, which had been steady all night, flickered downward, just for a second. When he finally met Blitzø’s eyes again there was something unrecognizable in his gaze.
"Especially not me."
Blitzø faltered mid-step, blinking at him. A joke formed on his lips but died before it could escape. For once, he had nothing to say. Especially not me. The words replayed in his head, sinking in deeper than he liked.
Then, he forced out a laugh before shaking his head as they kept walking. “Hell of a pep talk, Stols.” His voice came out lighter than he felt.
Chapter 3: Coronation Crashers
Chapter Text
Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility
Coronation Crashers
The grand hall stretched before them, vast and hungry, ready to swallow them whole. Blitzø’s fingers twitched for the familiar weight of his pistol as he and Stolas stepped into thick, stagnant heat, cloying perfume, and the weight of watchful eyes.
"Ready for this shitshow?" Blitzø muttered, tugging his sleeves down over his scarred hands. The new shirt he was wearing was too stiff, too clean, the exact kind that felt strangling.
Stolas's beak tightened. "As ready as one can be, I suppose."
They plunged into the sea of demons, a cacophony of fake laughter, clinking glasses, and the scrape of talons and too-polished shoes on marble, each sound needling at Blitzø’s senses. The crowd closed in like a tightening noose, humid air heavy with a sickly mix of incense smoke and sulfur that turned his stomach.
Judgmental gazes crawled over his skin like a swarm of locusts. A nearby demoness tittered behind her fan, eyes raking over Blitzø's tattered coat with barely concealed disdain.
Fuck this. Blitzø raised his middle finger, a sardonic grin splitting his face as the nobles recoiled in scandalized horror. "Fucking nobles," he growled under his breath. "If I have to hear one more fake laugh, I'm gonna shoot one of 'em."
Stolas tensed beside him. "Perhaps we should try to blend in, my dear."
"Blend in?" Blitzø scoffed. "Look around, Stolas. We stick out like a couple of sore thumbs in this den of vipers." He pointed to them and then the rest of the crowd. Octavia had sent Stolas some of his clothes, but even in his old finery, it was obvious that he no longer belonged.
Stolas’s gaze flicked to Blitzø, catching the way the imp’s shoulders squared under the stares, as if daring the room to try and make him flinch. It was a quiet, unspoken thing, shielding him from the worst of their contempt. Stolas could have done the same, had done it for Octavia, and had it done for him by Vassago, but here, now, he let Blitzø take the brunt. The choice sat strangely in his chest, unfamiliar and heavy.
As they wove through the crowd, Blitzø clocked the change in how the other demons treated Stolas. No more bowing or scraping. Just smirks and pitying glances that made his blood boil. Stolas held his head high, but Blitzø saw the way his feathers bristled, the slight tremor in his talons as he reached for a glass of champagne.
"You okay?" Blitzø asked, voice low.
Stolas’s smile was brittle. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
He said one thing, but his eyes told a different story, filled with a deep weariness that made Blitzø’s chest ache. He wanted to grab Stolas's hand, to tell him to give fuck all about what these assholes thought. Instead, he swallowed the words down like bitter ash.
Hopefully, whatever Lucifer wanted, he’d spit it out before Blitzø lost his last scrap of patience.
The formalities dragged on like a funeral dirge, each noble stepping forward to lay their false praises and sharpened smiles at Lucifer’s feet. Blitzø's tail twitched, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against his thigh as he fought the urge to scream. The air was thick, crawling with false pleasantries and thinly veiled threats.
"For fuck’s sake," he hissed, leaning toward Stolas. His words were a guttural growl, barely contained. "Do they all have to suck his dick? Why can’t we just do the coronation and go home?" His skin crawled. These weren’t his people. This wasn’t his world. Every smile was a blade, and he was marooned in a sea of a thousand cuts.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Stolas’s gaze dropped for a heartbeat before snapping back up. His posture was rigid, too much so, even for him.
"You wanna bounce?" Blitzø muttered, tilting his head toward the large ornate double doors. An escape route. A lifeline.
Stolas’s beak tightened, and he smoothed the fabric at his waist, not out of vanity, but as if he needed something to hold himself together physically. "We’re staying. You’ve a duty to perform." His voice was steady, but it rang hollow under the strain.
“It’s your funeral, princey,” he murmured.
And, as if summoned by the very thought, the first noble slithered up to them.
“Stolas,” drawled the tall, wiry demon with skin like cracked stone, his tone oozing mock civility. “How wonderful it is to see you still standing. I must admit, I was certain you’d be off licking your wounds somewhere far away from your… unfortunate fall from grace.”
Stolas barely blinked, dipping his head just enough to be called polite. “Ah, Lord Gavrus,” he said smoothly. “A pleasure, as always. It’s quite kind of you to concern yourself with my well-being. You must be quite busy, what with your reduced territory in Envy. I hear the vultures circle fastest when they smell weakness, but I’m sure someone such as yourself has that under control.”
Gavrus’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he forced it back into place. “Quite,” he said, his voice flat. He slunk away then with a tight turn, tail lashing in sharp, agitated arcs.
Blitzø snorted. “Damn, you hit ‘em where it hurts, huh?”
Before Stolas could respond, another noble materialized. A she-demon with curved ram’s horns and jewel-encrusted claws, her lips curling into something that might have been a smirk.
“My, my, Stolas,” she purred, swirling the blood-red wine in her goblet. “Loyalty is such a rare trait these days. To stand by the imp who cost you everything, how… noble. How exquisitely pathetic.”
Her gaze slid to Blitzø, the weight of her scrutiny making his skin itch. “Tell me, does he fetch your drinks as well, or just your slippers?”
Stolas’s feathers bristled, but he only smiled, polite and cool. “Ah, Lady Marvo, how lovely to see you’ve retained your talent for baseless gossip. Although your last five husbands found the exit faster than they found the altar, and your daughter’s current predicament, an unfortunate entanglement with a man of lesser standing, if the whispers are true, must keep the whole family on its toes. I suppose when your own house is so precarious, learning to point at others is the only way to keep it from collapsing.”
Lady Marvo’s smirk vanished.
Blitzø snorted into his hand. “Holy shit, that was good,” he muttered under his breath.
But before the satisfaction could settle, a third noble slithered into place, this one a rotund, reptilian demon with gold-plated fangs and a voice like oil. “Remarkable," he mused, eyeing Blitzø like he was a curiosity in a zoo. "Truly remarkable! An imp standing where nobility reigns. Why, the very fabric of Hell must be unraveling. And to think," he chuckled, shaking his head, "I always assumed your kind were best suited for groveling at our feet, not sitting among us."
Blitzø’s tail lashed once, twice. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. Patience snapped like a dry twig.
"Okay, that’s it." He turned fully to face the lizard bastard, his tail whipping behind him. "You rich fucks just love to hear yourselves talk, huh? Strutting up here, spouting your smug little comments, thinking you're clever. News flash: you’re not. You’re the same brand of miserable, inbred dipshits you’ve always been, just a little more desperate ‘cause your world’s changing, and it scares the ever-loving shit outta you."
The noble’s smirk faltered.
Somewhere in the crowd, a glass clinked too loudly. The rest of the hall went quiet.
Blitzø leaned in, voice dropping into something lethal. "So here’s a little royal decree from your brand new prince." He jabbed a finger at the noble’s chest. "Fuck. Off."
Nobles who had been eavesdropping under the guise of casual conversation now openly gawked, scandalized.
Stolas exhaled, posture loosening just a fraction. "Well," he murmured, beak twitching as he turned to Blitzø, "that certainly conveys our stance succinctly."
"Yeah, well, somebody had to say it," Blitzø huffed, rolling his shoulders as the lizard noble, seething but wisely silent, slid back into the crowd.
Stolas’s smirk deepened. “Indeed.” He began to pull Blitzø through the sea of demons, moving with unhurried grace, his expression unreadable, his voice low and smooth as he leaned down. “There, in the garish green gown, is the Duchess of Belovore. She has a fondness for gemstones, none of which are legally acquired.”
“What, she got sticky fingers?” Blitzø snorted as he glanced over at the jewel-encrusted demoness.
“More like sticky associates,” Stolas murmured. “Smuggled straight from the Third Circle. Of course, she’d never admit it.”
They sidestepped a server carrying a precariously stacked tray of drinks, and Stolas inclined his head toward another group.
“That pair whispering near the statue are Duke Orias and his dear wife Isolde. She’s having an affair with his nephew. He knows. Refuses to acknowledge it.”
Blitzø quirked a brow. “Yikes.”
“The scandal nearly ended in bloodshed,” Stolas continued, voice carrying a touch of amusement. “But Orias values his status more than his pride. Rather tragic, really.”
Blitzø smirked, enjoying this way more than he should have. “Damn, feathers, you really are plugged into all the royal dirt.”
Stolas’s beak curved into a knowing smile. “My dear, this is Hell. Gossip is the lifeblood of the court.”
They moved on, Stolas’s murmured commentary never ceasing. “Lord Drasvan, renowned collector of cursed artifacts. Though rumor has i,t most of them are fakes. And over there, Duchess Lirabelle, recently widowed for the third time. Some suspect poison. I personally suspect she’s just terribly dull.”
Blitzø barked out a laugh. Then, just as they wove past a cluster of whispering nobles, a familiar voice called out.
"¿Cómo estás, hermanito?"
Blitzø blinked as a tall, distinguished demon stepped toward them, his red plumage vivid against the dull gold and obsidian hues of the grand hall. The demon’s sharp eyes scanned Stolas with a mix of curiosity and something that almost looked like concern.
Stolas’s feathers lifted, the tension in his frame easing as genuine warmth softened his features. “Vassago,” he greeted smoothly, a polite but distant smile settling on his face. “Vassago,” he greeted, his smile brightening. “I was hoping I might see you tonight.”
Blitzø squinted, taking in the demon’s face. He knew him. He’d seen him before. His tail flicked as he tried to place it, then it clicked. The trial. And at Lucifer’s palace, he’d stepped between Stolas and Seere. When no one had his back, this guy did.
“Uh, shit, hold on,” Blitzø said, snapping his fingers as he racked his brain. “You’re, uh…” He pointed vaguely. “Vaseline?”
Vassago chuckled, the deep, warm sound at odds with the stiff atmosphere of the room. “No exactamente,” he corrected smoothly. “My name is Vassago, Príncipe Blitzø.”
“Yeah, yeah, that.” Blitzø waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks for speaking up at the trial. Didn’t change much in the end, but hey, appreciate the effort.”
Vassago studied him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, after a beat, he offered a half-smile.“Cada voz contra la injusticia importa. It is good to see you outside of the trial. Though I imagine tonight is no easier.”
He shifted back to Stolas, his expression softening just a fraction. “How are you holding up?”
Stolas hesitated for half a second, then, with a practiced ease, he replied, “As well as one can, given the circumstances.”
Vassago didn’t respond immediately. His eyes searched Stolas’s face, as if trying to read past the careful veneer. “And Octavia?”
Stolas’s expression faltered, the carefully maintained mask slipping just slightly before he recovered. “She is... distant.”
Vassago hummed in understanding the sound, quiet, contemplative. “Give it time, hermanito.” The word rolled off his tongue like a term worn soft with years, something warmer than formality but heavier than casual familiarity.
Blitzø, watching the exchange, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, hermanito? You said that earlier. Are you two related or somethin’?”
Vassago’s beak pulled up at the ends, amusement in his eyes. “Medio hermanos, on our father’s side.”
Blitzø shot Stolas a look, arms crossing over his chest. “You got secret brothers I don’t know about?”
Stolas sighed, adjusting his sleeves with unnecessary precision. “It’s a long story, Blitzø.”
Blitzø rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, long story, complicated past,’ I get it. You aristocrats and your dramatic-ass family trees.”
Vassago chuckled, but his focus remained on Stolas. “You will let me know if you need anything, won’t you?”
Stolas inclined his head. “Of course.”
For a moment, Vassago studied him again, as if weighing whether to push further. Instead, his sharp gaze flicked back to Blitzø, amusement returning. “And how are you finding tonight’s reception?”
“No one’s tryin’ to execute me, so I’d call that a win.”
Vassago gave a slow nod, voice rich with quiet assurance. “The tides of power shift slowly, but they do shift. Nada es en vano.”
“Sí, lo sé. Todo en este lugar es política sucia.” Blitzø’s hands moved as he spoke, an old habit he’d picked up in childhood.
Vassago’s smile widened, genuine intrigue in his eyes. “Hablas español?”
Blitzø shrugged, grinning. "Claro que sí. Mi mamá me enseñó cuando era un crío. Decía que un idioma extra siempre podía salvarte el culo."
Vassago’s brow lifted in intrigue, his smile widening. "Una mujer sabia."
Blitzø smirked. "Sí, bueno, tenía que serlo."
From the corner of his eye, Blitzø caught Stolas watching the exchange with mild curiosity. The owl demon tilted his head slightly, an almost imperceptible pause in his stride. It was rare for Blitzø to reveal anything about his past without barbs or deflection, rarer still for it to carry the warmth of fond memory. “You never mentioned you were fluent in Spanish.”
Blitzø gave him a sidelong glance, eyes glinting with mischief. “You never asked.”
Vassago chuckled again, adjusting his cuffs. “Perhaps we should have a proper conversation sometime, without all these vultures circling.” His gaze flickered across the room, voice carrying an unmistakable edge of amusement.
Blitzø nodded. “Yeah. Wouldn’t mind that.”
Vassago inclined his head in farewell. “Buena suerte esta noche, Príncipe. You’ll need it.”
Blitzø huffed, shaking his head as they continued forward. “That guy’s cool.”
Stolas exhaled in quiet amusement. “Indeed. Though I am curious… just how many languages do you speak?”
Blitzø flashed him a teasing grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” Stolas said simply, a brow lifting, the corner of his beak twitching in restrained amusement.
“Well, too bad,” Blitzø shot back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Stolas let out a soft huff of laughter, and they melted back into the crowd. The conversation slipped seamlessly into more court gossip as he nodded toward an older demon by the buffet table.
“That’s Lord Bael. His 'magnificent’ estate is funded almost entirely by his third wife’s dowry, who, by the way, is half his age and twice as cunning. Rumour has it, she’s already siphoning assets into a private account under an alias. The poor fool won’t realize he’s destitute until the ink on her annulment papers is dry."
"Damn. Kinda impressed, actually."
Stolas smirked. "Oh, you should be. She learned from the best, Lady Marvo herself."
His gaze flicked over his shoulder, landing on Stella and Andrealphus as they conversed with Vassago. His smirk wavered, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“I just thank my lucky stars Stella is a twit,” he murmured, voice dipping into something more thoughtful. Then, almost to himself, “Not that it matters anymore… not really.”
Blitzø opened his mouth, about to ask what exactly Stolas had been offered to take her as a wife, because whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t enough, but before he could get the words out a sudden burst of raucous laughter cut through the aristocratic chatter.
He stiffened, head snapping toward the sound. He knew that cackle anywhere. A grin spread across his face before he could stop it.
Fizz and Ozzie burst through the crowd, a whirlwind of color and chaos. The stuffy nobles parted like the Red Sea, scandalized whispers trailing in their wake. Blitzø felt the knot in his chest loosen, just a fraction.
"Well, well, well!" Fizz crowed, sauntering up with his signature lopsided grin. "Aren’t you far away from home?”
Blitzø snorted, falling easily into their familiar rhythm. "Still kickin', you metallic prick?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Stolas’s posture soften ever so slightly as Ozzie approached, the owl demon’s feathers smoothing, a flicker of genuine warmth breaking through his formal mask.
Fizz's eyes narrowed, his grin sharpening. "Still alive, huh?"
"Against all odds," Blitzø shot back. But there was a hitch in the beat, a shadow under the words that made him pause. The line landed heavier than it should have, and Blitzø wasn’t sure if Fizz meant it as a joke or something more.
The clown’s face fell, mirth evaporating like morning dew in hellfire. "About the execution..." Fizz’s voice dropped, uncharacteristically serious. "Ozzie and, I had it out after. Big time."
Blitzø’s stomach plummeted. The shift hit like a sucker punch to the gut. It was one thing to joke about it. Another to hear the raw edge in Fizz’s voice. He scoffed, deflecting. “Ozzie couldn’t’ve done anything, Fizz.”
Fizz’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions Blitzø couldn't quite parse. "He could have tried," he hissed. Then, softer, almost breaking: "I almost lost you again."
The words hung there, heavy with old scars. Blitzø’s chest tightened, a tangle of anger, guilt, and something he didn’t want to name.
Fizz inhaled sharply, jaw clenching. "Do you even know what that felt like?" His voice dropped further, thick with something dangerously close to betrayal. "He let them parade you up there like you were nothing, like you didn’t matter." His fingers twitched at his sides, mechanical joints clicking like distant gunfire. "And for what? Because you’re an imp?"
Blitzø opened his mouth, but Fizz barrelled on, bitterness bleeding into every word.
“You wanna know what our fight was really about? It wasn’t just you.” His eyes burned with tears of frustration. "It was about the fact that Ozzie, someone I love, someone I trusted, showed me that when it came down to it, he didn’t actually give a shit about imps. Not really." Fizz let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I was a fool to think otherwise.”
Blitzø’s usual smart ass remarks rose to his lips, then died there, strangled by something heavier.
Fizz rubbed at his wrist, gaze dropping. "And if he doesn’t care about you, what the fuck does that say about me if I stay with him?"
A shift in the air caught Blitzø’s attention. Instinct kicked in; someone was watching them. He looked over Fizz’s shoulder and landed on Ozzie, standing just a few feet away, half-turned as if trying to seem like he wasn’t blatantly eavesdropping. His massive frame was tense, his usual easygoing energy subdued.
Fizz must have noticed too, because he gave Blitzø a sharp look, one that he knew meant shut up and follow my lead.
Without missing a beat, Fizz lifted his hands and started signing. "I don’t want him hearing this."
Blitzø hesitated for a split second before his hands moved in return. “You really think he won’t figure it out anyway?”
Fizz’s hands flicked out, movements sharper now. "That’s not the point."
Blitzø exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. So, you’re pissed he didn’t defend me. Fair. But let me ask you this,w hat the hell was he supposed to think about me, huh?"
Fizz’s hands stilled, fingers curling slightly.
Blitzø pressed on, his signing quick and deliberate. "For over a decade, you were the one feeding him stories about how awful I was. You think Ozzie could just flip a switch when you hadn’t exactly painted me as someone worth saving?"
Fizz’s expression flickered, the argument slamming into him harder than he’d expected.
Blitzø took a half step closer, lowering his hands slightly. "You never told him we were good, did you?"
Fizz swallowed, his throat bobbing. He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, his hands twitching at his sides before they moved again. "I told him it was okay for him to give Stolas the Asmodean Crystal to pass to you." His movements were sharp, almost defensive. "But I didn’t go into details."
Blitzø’s brows shot up. "That’s it? That’s all you told him?"
Fizz’s fingers flexed, his weight shifting from foot to foot. "I… I just said it wasn’t a big deal anymore. That it was fine."
Blitzø let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Fizz, come on. Think about it. You spent years talking shit about me, telling Ozzie what a bastard I was, and then, boom!, suddenly you’re cool with him helping me out? With no context?" He let that sink in for a beat before signing again, his gestures sharper, almost accusatory. "Why would he try to save someone when he thinks that person purposely hurt you? You think he’d risk his ass for someone he thought you just forgave in, what, a single afternoon?"
Fizz faltered, the flicker of guilt in his mismatched eyes undeniable.
Blitzø pressed on. "You might’ve made peace with me, but did you ever tell him why?"
Fizz’s hands stilled. He swallowed, his throat bobbing as the full weight of the realization settled in.
Blitzø huffed, rubbing a hand down his face before signing again, this time slower, more measured. "You were mad at him for not stepping in. But as far as he knew, I was still the asshole who hurt you. How was he supposed to know different if you never fucking told him?"
Fizz exhaled sharply through his nose, gaze darting away as his fingers flexed and curled, as if working through his frustration. "I didn’t think it mattered."
Blitzø scoffed, throwing out his arms in exasperation. "Clearly, it does."
Fizz’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to snap back. But instead, his fingers hesitated in the air before he finally signed, slower this time. "Maybe you're right." His expression twisted, reluctant but honest. "I should’ve said more."
Fizz’s fingers twitched, his gaze flickering back to Blitzø, something wary, almost guarded, in his expression.
Blitzø exhaled, rolling his shoulders before signing again, slower this time, deliberate. "It’s not your fault. I don’t want you thinking that’s what I’m saying."
Fizz’s brows furrowed slightly, his hands flexing, but he didn’t interrupt.
Blitzø pressed on. "Ozzie wouldn’t have had the power to persuade Satan otherwise. That asshole made up his mind before they even sat down."
Fizz’s jaw clenched, his mismatched eyes searching Blitzø’s face, like he was waiting for some kind of catch, some lingering bitterness.
But there wasn’t any. Just a tired sort of acceptance.
Fizz’s fingers curled, then uncurled. His shoulders slumped just slightly before he signed back, his movements smaller than before. "Still would’ve been nice if he tried."
Blitzø huffed, shaking his head. "Would’ve been nice if any of them did."
Fizz’s expression twisted, something bitter flashing behind his eyes before he looked away. Blitzø let the silence settle, watching as Fizz worked through whatever thoughts were swirling behind that metal-plated head of his.
Finally, Fizz exhaled through his nose, shaking out his hands before signing again, something looser, almost exasperated. "You’re still a pain in my ass."
Blitzø smirked, his hands flicking up smoothly. "Yeah, but I’m a lovable pain in your ass."
Fizz snorted, rolling his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. "Debatable."
Blitzø was about to fire back when a flicker of movement caught his eye over Fizz’s shoulder. His grin slipped, brows furrowing. Stolas was across the room with Ozzie, and something in the owl’s posture looked… off.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking in on Stolas, I’m hoping Ozzie could get him to talk more.”
“What are they saying?” Fizz asked.
Blitzø hushed him, waving a hand to get him to stop talking. “He’s saying ‘Yeah, I’m—,’” Before Blitzø could hear the rest of what Stolas was about to say, a booming voice cut through the grand hall.
"Blitzø Buckzo, step forward!"
The words rang like a death knell, ricocheting off the cavernous walls and choking the murmuring nobles into silence. The grand hall, glittering with gold and hellfire, seemed to expand and close in on itself all at once.
Blitzø's tail flicked, his stomach twisting into knots. Lucifer’s voice crackled with barely contained glee, and that alone put Blitzø’s nerves on edge. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run.
A warm weight brushed his side.
Stolas had stepped closer, presence solid and steady. “Steady,” he murmured, low but certain. “One step at a time, Darling.”
Blitzø exhaled through his nose, forcing himself forward. The sea of nobles parted before him, their silk-clad bodies shifting with disgust and disbelief. Their whispers slithered behind him like a chorus of serpents.
"An imp? A prince?"
"This is a farce!"
"The King of Hell has finally lost it."
And then it clicked. They’d been told it was a prince’s coronation, but not who it was for.
The truth settled in his gut like lead. The shock, the horror, the sneers, none of it was personal. It wasn’t about Blitzø the individual. It was about the idea of an imp walking toward the throne, about an imp being crowned.
That their carefully constructed world was about to be tainted by something so far beneath them, they hadn't even considered it a possibility. Their expressions said it all: this was a joke, a spectacle, a humiliation not just for Blitzø, but for the very concept of nobility itself.
Stolas walked beside him, head held high, his stride purposeful. If Blitzø had to endure this, at least he wasn’t alone. His steps slowed just for the briefest flicker of a moment. The weight of a thousand staring eyes pressed down on him, and he swore he could hear his heartbeat echoing off the very walls.
“Keep going,” Stolas murmured, pushing gently against his shoulder.
Blitzø barely felt it. His mind was already spiraling, the crush of the crowd bearing down on him, suffocating. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. His palms itched for a weapon he didn’t have. His tail lashed once, sharp and agitated. The air felt too thin.
What the fuck is happening? The thought slammed into him like a punch, jagged and breath-stealing, every instinct screaming for him to bolt.
It was like standing on a stage with no script, no safety net, just the raw, dizzying realization that this, this moment, wasn’t a joke.
Then, his instincts kicked in. The moment stretched too long, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. It was too loud, too close, too much. So he did what he always did.
He turned it into a joke.
His manic grin snapped into place, sharp and defiant, as he took a step forward.
Fine. If they were going to gawk and sneer anyway, he might as well make a show of it.
With a theatrical flourish, he threw himself into an exaggerated bow, arms spread wide in a mockery of reverence. From the corner of his eye, he caught Stolas’s feathers ruffle, just slightly, as if torn between pride and exasperation.
Gasps rippled through the assembly, scandalized murmurs spreading like wildfire. Blitzø straightened, winking at a horrified duchess before flashing his sharpest grin at Lucifer.
Lucifer, lounging lazily on his throne, cackled. "Oh, I already love this."
Before Blitzø could respond, he snapped his fingers. The air rose a degree, and the hall was plunged into ritual.
Demonic fanfare erupted with an eerie, distorted orchestra of war horns and shrieking strings. Hooded figures spilled from the shadows, crimson robes flowing like blood across the marble floor. They carried a massive, gold-veined book bound in cracked leather, its cover crawling with glowing sigils.
Blitzø frowned. "Oh great, a fucking book. What, I gotta sign it in blood?"
Stolas gave him a small, dry look. “Not quite. But... stay still.”
The head-robed figure began to chant in guttural, ancient Demonic.
Hellfire erupted around the dais, rising into a towering ring of flame. The marble beneath Blitzø groaned, symbols scorching themselves into the stone in writhing, infernal script. The air crackled with raw magic, thick with something old and powerful.
Blitzø swallowed. Okay. Maybe this wasn’t just for show.
Two demons in ceremonial armor approached, carrying a massive, curved blade that was jagged, ancient, and thrumming with power. One reached for Blitzø’s wrist.
He immediately yanked his arm back. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the fuck is this?"
Stolas’s voice came low and steady, meant only for him. “It’s just tradition. A small cut, nothing more than a little blood to bind your name to the Book of Crowns. The sigil it creates marks you as sworn, recognized in the eyes of Hell itself. Once it’s created, your title can only be taken through a formal challenge or by decree of one of the Sins.”
Blitzø scowled. Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. But before he could pull away again, Stolas’s hand lightly touched his forearm. Not holding him down, not forcing, just a reminder.
It’s fine. I’m here.
He drew in a breath.
The blade kissed his palm, the cut precise and shallow. Blood welled and dripped onto the open page, the parchment greedily absorbing it. A heartbeat later, a sigil flared to life at his feet, searing itself into the stone in molten red. His mark now etched into the very foundation of Hell.
A deep, guttural rumble rolled through the hall, as if Hell itself was acknowledging him. The air vibrated with something ancient, expectant. The watching nobles stiffened as the weight of the moment finally sank in.
Blitzø clenched his jaw, watching as the flames roared higher, and the book was lifted toward him.
The robed demon intoned, "Blitzø Buckzo, do you swear to bear the weight of this crown, to command the Imps of Hell, to uphold the order of your station with pride and power?"
Blitzø blinked. He had no idea what he was agreeing to, couldn’t begin to grasp the scope of it. The words felt heavy, meant to bind him to something he couldn’t see. His gaze flicked to Lucifer, whose grin had only widened, then to the sea of watching, waiting nobles.
This was a joke that had gone far past the punchline, but if they wanted an answer, he’d give them one.
With a smirk, Blitzø stepped forward, resting his bloodied palm on the cursed book. “Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not?”
A blast of crimson energy surged from the book, rippling outward like a shockwave. The flames around him twisted, momentarily taking the shape of snarling, laughing faces before dissipating.
Lucifer rose from his throne, stepping onto a small dais that conveniently made him look taller. The infernal glow flickered behind him, casting long shadows as he lifted the crown, a band of gold, stark in its simplicity, unadorned save for two pointed spokes rising from the center, each tipped with a single blood-red ruby. A clear homage to the horns of imps, its design stood in sharp contrast to the elaborate, jewel-encrusted crowns worn by the nobles in attendance. No excessive ornamentation, no ostentatious display of wealth, just a symbol, raw and undeniable in its meaning.
Blitzø barely had a moment to brace before Lucifer placed it atop his head.
The metal was cold, impossibly heavy. It didn’t just rest on his brow—it pressed down, an unspoken promise, a silent threat, and a reminder that nothing about this was truly his choice.
Stolas stood in the audience and watched as Blitzø was adorned in stolen gold, while Lucifer smiled like a fox that had just gifted a hen a crown. The others were too busy watching Blitzø to notice how Lucifer never took his eyes off Stolas.
Funny. He’d once wanted Blitzø to rise, to be more than what Hell expected. Now, watching him shoulder a burden he never asked for, Stolas wasn’t sure if he’d given Blitzø wings or shackles.
A hush fell over the court.
Then, cheers.
Deafening, raw, overwhelming cheers.
They didn’t come from the nobles. No, the lords and ladies sat frozen, their jeweled faces tight with disgust. The voices came from outside, carried in through hidden speakers, from the streets beyond the walls. The voices of imps.
The roar of the masses vibrated through the very foundation of the hall, rattling chandeliers and setting the marble beneath their feet thrumming like a war drum. A part of him wished Loona, Moxxie, and Millie were here to see this circus; another part was damn glad they were stuck outside with the rest of the “lesser folk,” well out of reach of the stuffed-shirt nobles who’d probably hiss if they breathed too close.
Blitzø’s head tilted slightly, as if trying to believe the sound was real. Stolas caught the flicker of something in his expression. It wasn’t triumph, not exactly. Something sharper. Warier. Like a soldier hearing the first rally before a battle he hadn’t agreed to fight.
For the first time in Hell’s history, one of their own had ascended.
Blitzø's chest tightened, a confusing mix of pride and terror threatening to choke him. He met Stolas’s gaze, crimson eyes reflecting his unease.
Stolas stepped closer, voice just barely audible. “You did it.”
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
The thought thundered in his head, louder than the cheers that shook the grand hall. A kingdom he never asked for. Voices he didn’t invite. A crown that felt more like a noose.
The sound began to warp, the roaring celebration thinning into something distant, hollow. The cheers from outside faded, muffled as if the whole hall had been dropped underwater, except no one else seemed to notice, too wrapped up in their whisperings.
Blitzø’s tail lashed once. His pulse spiked. What the hell? Something was wrong.
He caught Fizz’s gaze from the front of the crowd, the clown perched atop Ozzie’s shoulder, his grin gone, replaced by wary confusion. “Are you okay?”
Blitzø didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His instincts were screaming as he locked eyes with Fizz and shook his head, firm, deliberate. A silent warning.
Fizz’s expression shifted from confusion to concern. He turned, whispering frantically to Ozzie. The King of Lust, usually so composed, stiffened, his golden eyes scanning the room.
The hellfire torches lining the grand hall sputtered and guttered, as if an unseen wind was pushing through. Shadows twisted across ornate walls, warping the familiar opulence into something hostile.
A chill crawled up Blitzø's spine, his instincts screaming danger.
His eyes swept the crowd. Near the back, a noble whispered rapidly to themselves, glancing around before slipping out a side door, a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Blitzø’s stomach churned, acid burning the back of his throat. The crown felt heavier by the second, pressing down like an iron weight, chaining him to the center of the room.
His hands curled into fists. His first instinct was to run. Rip the damn thing off, bolt, disappear before whatever was about to happen happened.
Instead, he leaned toward Stolas, voice low and sharp. “Okay, is it just me, or does something feel—”
He never finished his sentence, because as he looked at Stolas, something terrifyingly different settled over the owl’s face.
The usual poise was gone. Feathers ruffled, crimson eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd in deliberate, sweeping arcs. His posture had shifted, subtly not with nervousness but with unmistakable preparedness.
He wasn’t just looking. He was hunting
Blitzø’s blood ran cold. Shit.
His unease doubled, tripled then slammed into him like a freight train. If Stolas was on guard then they were in deep fucking trouble.
BOOM.
The world exploded in a violent cacophony of light and sound.
White light seared across his vision, blinding him. A piercing crack tore through the air, followed by a vibration so deep and wrong it felt like it was peeling the skin from his bones. Pain stabbed through his skull, sharp enough to make his teeth ache. The air was splitting apart.
Time slowed.
The green flames around the hall shivered mid-flicker, frozen in a jagged halo. Dust hung in the air like suspended ash, each mote caught in the blinding light. Faces turned toward the blast in increments, every twitch of muscle stretched into an eternity.
His own heartbeat pounded in slow, cavernous thuds, echoing inside his skull. The sound swallowed everything else, except the memory of the circus fire.
Smoke. Screams. Fire that licked the canvas walls until they sagged and collapsed in on themselves. The air had been so thick with heat and soot it scraped down his throat with every breath. He could smell it now, sharp and choking, could hear the frantic crack of beams giving way under the flames.
“Blitzo!”
The voice cut through, high and panicked. Fizz’s voice. He could see him. Smaller then, barely framed by the tent’s collapsing arch, one arm reaching through the haze. The roar of the fire swallowed half his words, but the desperation in them was enough to pull Blitzø forward.
“Fizz!”
“Blitzø!”
It was the same voice, older, sharper, croaking from the damage that night had left behind, carrying that same frantic edge. Fizz wasn’t standing in a burning tent, he was in the grand hall, on Ozzie’s shoulder, yelling over the chaos. The image flickered, tent to marble, green fire to green flame, sawdust to polished stone.
Blitzø blinked hard, dragging himself back into the present just as another shockwave rattled the hall. His body moved before his mind caught up, instincts dragging him downward. The air above him sizzled, a blast of holy energy streaking past, hissing and crackling as it seared the tips of his horns. The scent was sharp, ozone and scorched bone, and it left the air tasting like copper. It should have hit him. It should have hit him.
It should have killed him.
Instead, it struck the wall behind him, the force of impact ripping through the marble. A shockwave tore through the room, knocking over a table of golden goblets, sending wine and shattered glass cascading over the polished floor.
The impact was devastating.
The platform around him shuddered violently with the next hit, chunks of obsidian splintering from its base as golden flames licked across the polished surface. Nobles scrambled in every direction, some bolted, shoving and trampling each other in their panic, while others curled against the walls, shielding themselves with their wings or curling into trembling heaps on the marble floor. A demoness in silk shrieked as a spray of hellfire scorched the hem of her dress, her howls piercing as she scrambled to put it out.
A cluster of demons collided violently with the base of the throne, knocking over an ornate pedestal. One noble stumbled, clutching his bloodied hand where a shard of broken obsidian had sliced clean through his palm, black blood dripping onto the floor in front of him.
"Oh, now this is interesting." Lucifer's rich laughter cut through the pandemonium, as casual as if someone had merely spilled wine instead of attempted regicide. Blitzø's head snapped towards the fallen angel, a mixture of disbelief and anger churning in his gut. Is this fucker seriously laughing right now?!
But there was no time to worry about that. He tore his gaze away, every nerve in his body screaming to locate the threat. His eyes landed on Stolas, and his breath caught in his throat.
The owl demon stood rigid, frozen in place, his narrowed crimson eyes locked onto the balcony above, where a faint wisp of golden smoke still curled in the air from the bullet’s passage. His feathers bristled, not in anger, but something deeper. Something primal.
Blitzø reached for him. "Stolas!" His voice was sharp, urgent. "We gott—"
A muscle in Blitzø’s jaw twitched. Stolas remained frozen, locked in place ready to shield, to protect. Stolas’s hand lifted, reflexive, the old movement of a shield spell ready to spring, but nothing came.
The space where the magic should have been stayed cold and empty. Blitzø saw it in the flicker of his expression, the bare tightening of his jaw. This wasn’t fear. This was absence. All of it stripped from him by Satan’s decree.
And that meant they were wide open.
Blitzø's eyes locked onto the shadowy figure perched on the upper balcony like a specter, their body draped in dark fabric, golden eyes glinting through the chaos. Their posture was unshaken, their grip on the rifle steady. Even from this distance, Blitzø could feel the cold amusement radiating off them.
Then their lips curved into a smile.
Blitzø’s stomach dropped.
“MOVE!” He lunged for Stolas, fingers digging into the owl demon's arm. Stolas resisted, his body still frozen in misplaced protective instinct. His body locked, his feathers puffed in a reflex he couldn’t act on.
And he was hesitating, fighting against Blitzø’s pull, but the force knocked Stolas off balance, and the moment he stumbled forward, Blitzø was already repositioning, putting himself between the rifle and Stolas.
His body moved before his brain caught up, shoulders squared, stance low, tail twitching like a whip poised to strike. It wasn’t even conscious. He wasn’t thinking about it. But instinct had already made the decision.
If another shot came, it would hit him first.
Blitzø’s breath was ragged, adrenaline still flooding his veins. He hadn’t even thought about it, not really, but the weight of the moment pressed down on him like a vice. His hands clenched. What the fuck did I just do?
Stolas let out a staggered breath, his gaze changing to something raw, something torn between gratitude and terror.
Blitzø ignored it. All he could think was: not again. "I SAID MOVE, DAMN IT!"
Stolas moved with him, and Blitzø didn’t let up. He barreled through the panicked nobles, dragging Stolas in his wake, shoulder-checking anyone too stupid or too slow to get the fuck out of the way.
Gotta get out. Gotta get safe. Gotta protect him. The thought pounded in his head with each heartbeat.
Behind them, another ear-splitting crack rattled the room, static prickling Blitzø’s skin just before the second holy shot obliterated the wine fountain they had passed a mere millisecond before, sending shards of glass and red liquid cascading over the cowering elite.
They burst through the grand doors, the chaos muffled the instant they slammed shut. But the muted sound of shouting and frantic orders still bled through the walls. The court wasn’t going to forget this. Hell, they’d probably weaponize it before nightfall.
Blitzø didn't stop moving, his grip on Stolas unwavering as they fled down opulent corridors. Only when they were far from the chaos did he pause, chest heaving.
He turned to Stolas and really looked at him. The once-powerful demon stood there, disheveled and vulnerable. No magic. No protection. Just... mortal.
Blitzø rounded on him, still breathing hard. His fingers were still curled around Stolas’s sleeve, tight enough that he could feel the fabric digging into his palm. He exhaled sharply, let go, then snapped: "What the fuck were you thinking?" His fear had turned sharp, bitter, scathing. "You can't… you're not…" He clenched his jaw, unable to voice the terrifying reality.
Stolas stood there, breath uneven, eyes wide, his usual poise fractured beyond repair. His feathers were ruffled, his coat askew. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he held himself. The way his hands twitched at his sides, as if expecting power that wasn’t there. The way his breathing hitched, not from running, but from the realization sinking into his bones.
He wasn’t untouchable anymore.
Stolas blinked, still processing, his expression shifting, shock giving way to something unguarded. "I... I didn’t think." His voice was hoarse, breaking around words as he spoke. "I just… I just wanted to protect you."
The words hit Blitzø harder than he expected.
His anger didn’t vanish, but it crumpled inward, buried under the weight of what Stolas had just admitted. What he had tried to do.
What he couldn’t do anymore.
Blitzø exhaled, shoulders slumping. The tension in his chest was still there, heavier, but dull. He huffed out something like a laugh, but it had no humor. "...Yeah, well." His voice was quieter now, edged with something tired, something too worn to be bitter. "You’ve got a nasty habit of doing that."
Stolas remained rigid, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow in the dimly lit corridor. Every muscle in his body was taut, ready to spring into action, a reflex from a lifetime of power, now rendered useless. His talons scraped faintly against the marble, as if searching for an anchor that wasn’t there.
Blitzø ran a hand over his face. The weight of the crown, hastily jammed back onto his head during their flight, felt like an anvil pressing down on his skull. He let out a mirthless chuckle, the sound echoing hollowly in the empty hallway.
"This job officially sucks."
Stolas's head snapped towards him, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Blitzø, this isn't—"
"What? A joke?" Blitzø cut him off, his voice edged with hysteria. "Because from where I'm standing, it's a pretty fucking hilarious punchline. Newly crowned Prince of the Imps, nearly assassinated at his own coronation. Stop me if you've heard this one before."
He paced, hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "And you! What the hell were you thinking back there? Standing in front of me like some feathered shield? You don't have your powers anymore, Stolas. You can't just…"
Blitzø’s words caught in his throat as the reality slammed into him. Stolas could have died. Not because of an assassin. Not because of the crown.
But, because of me.
Again.
Chapter Text
Chapter Four
The Spark
Blitzø slammed his office door shut, the muffled roar of chaos behind him. He sagged back, his lanky frame trembling as he slid to the floor. The once comforting sanctuary of his office now felt like a prison, the walls closing in with each ragged breath he drew.
“Fuck.” His hands raked over his face, nails scraping skin.
Outside, voices surged in desperate waves. Pleas, demands, and frantic questions were hurled at Moxxie and Millie, and they tried to calm the crowd. Loona’s sharp barks cut through the din, a losing battle against panic.
Every word was a dagger to his gut, each one another reminder of the impossible expectations now thrust on him.
I can't do this, he thought, his mind reeling. I'm no prince. I'm just... me. Blitzø. The fuck-up.
The voices outside kept battering at his resolve, a relentless tide against a crumbling seawall. Then one rose above the rest, Millie’s, sharp as a whip crack, her southern drawl cutting clean through the noise.
"Now y'all settle down! Blitzø will address your concerns, but we gotta have some order in here!"
His chest tightened. He wanted to laugh, scream, maybe chuck the crown straight out the nearest window. Instead, he sat there frozen, staring at the floor like it had answers.
They're counting on me. The thought hit like a punch to the gut, terrifying but with a sharp edge of something else. Something almost like resolve. All those imps out there... they think I can actually change things.
For a moment, Blitzø allowed himself to imagine it, a world where imps were trampled on, where they had a voice, a chance. It was a beautiful, impossible dream.
"Get it together, you idiot," he growled to himself, struggling to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, but he forced himself upright, smoothing down his tattered coat with twitching hands.
"Now listen up! Blitzø ain’t gonna turn his back on us, not now, not ever! He’s gonna fight for every last one of ya, you hear?" Her voice rang out loud and true. "But if you keep pushing us, I'll have to start knocking skulls, and trust me, I ain't picky about whose!"
A faint, involuntary smile tugged at Blitzø’s mouth. Leave it to Millie to calm a raving mob with threats. He reached up to stroke his mother’s brooch, trying to ground himself.
Footsteps thudded outside the office door, each one punctuated by a frustrated huff. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Moxxie’s voice cracked through the wood, sharp with irritation. “Sir, y-you can’t just lock yourself away while everyone’s out there waiting. They need you, Blitzø. We… we need you. You can’t just—”
"Prince of the Imps," he spat mockingly, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. He caught his crown glinting smugly atop his head. With a snarl, he tore it off and sent it skittering across the floor.
"I never asked for this!" he shouted.
Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the muffled chaos outside and the pounding in his chest.
“I’m a goddamn assassin,” he hissed, pressing his palms against his temples, “not some… some fucking royal puppet!”
He stared at his reflection in the dingy window, raw and unfamiliar. Blitzø stared at it, searching for the imp who could survive this, who could be what they needed.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” he whispered.
The door creaked open. Loona stepped inside, closing it with a deliberate thud. She leaned against the desk, arms crossed, tail swishing lazily as her gaze flicked toward the window. “You know,” she drawled, “You could always fake your death, and leave out the window. Might be easier than dealing with this shitshow.”
Blitzø froze, then let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t tempt me.” His gaze darted to the window, calculating the drop to the street below before he even realised he was doing it. A staged accident, a quiet disappearance into Hell’s underbelly. Hell, he could even sell it with some fake blood and a dramatic last line. It would be so easy.
Loona’s ears twitched. For half a second, her gaze sharpened, catching something in his expression, something brittle, dangerous. Then she leaned back on the desk, smirk sliding back into place. “Whatever. You’d probably screw that up too.”
"Fuck," he hissed, raking a hand through his hair. "What kind of asshole even thinks like that?" His gaze dropped to the crown lying where it had landed, the gold catching the dim light like it was mocking him. Outside, Millie’s voice cut through the din.
"Y'all listen up now!" she called. "I know things look bleak, but we've got ourselves a real chance for change here! Blitzø—"
She didn’t get the chance to finish. A ragged voice from the crowd sliced through her rally. "We need food, Miss! Does Prince Blitzø even care?!"
Blitzø sucked in a sharp breath at the plea, a nauseating mix of guilt and fear twisting in his gut. "Food," he muttered. "They need fucking food, and what do I have? A stupid crown and no goddamn clue."
“Sir!” He and Loona both jolted as the office door slammed open. Moxxie filled the doorway, shoulders squared, jaw tight, so unlike his usual self that Blitzø looked away immediately, squeezing his eyes shut like a kid hoping the monster would disappear.
“Not now, Mox. I'm... I'm strategizing. Yeah, that's it. Big princely strategies happening here."
“Blitzø,” Moxxie said, the firmness in his voice giving way to something quieter, steadier. His gaze didn’t waver as Blitzø hunched further into himself. “I know you’re scared. I know you want to run. But you’re our leader now. If you don’t step up, who will?”
Blitzø’s throat tightened, a primal urge to flee warring with the stubborn spark of responsibility that refused to die. “Leader,” he muttered. The word landed heavy, like a weight tightening around Blitzø’s throat. Leader. The word rang hollow, choking. He turned away, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles burned.
A presence materialized beside him, refined and composed amidst the turmoil. Not loud, not intrusive, just there. Blitzø's muscles tensed, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Stolas.
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. The air crackled with unspoken words, with the weight of everything that had transpired. From the corner of his eye, he caught Stolas's gaze roving over him, taking in his rigid stance, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Still, the owl demon said nothing, a quiet, steadying presence at Blitzø's side.
The silence became unbearable. Blitzø's nerves, already frayed, snapped.
"The fuck you looking at, Stolas?" he snarled, whirling to face his companion. The words came out harsher than he'd intended, laced with frustration and fear he couldn't quite mask.
Stolas tilted his head, considering. His eyes, usually alight with mischief or desire, now held a depth of understanding that made Blitzø want to squirm. "You, Blitzø," Stolas replied simply.
The simplicity of it made Blitzø’s skin crawl. Everyone was looking at him now. Their leader. Their savior. Their fraud. "Yeah, well," Blitzø snapped, "get a good eyeful. This is what a revolution looks like, I guess. One imp's fucking midlife crisis." Blitzø's tail lashed behind him, agitation radiating from every taut muscle. He turned back to the cityscape, unable to meet Stolas's penetrating gaze. "I never signed up for this bullshit," he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue.
Stolas moved closer, his feathers rustling softly. "And yet, here you are," he observed, his tone maddeningly calm.
Something in Blitzø snapped. He whirled on Stolas, eyes blazing. "Yeah, well. Some of us don't have a fucking choice, do we?" The words landed like blows, harder than he'd meant them to.
Stolas flinched, just barely, and for the first time, his composure faltered. His voice, when it came, was low, stripped bare. “Do any of us, Blitzø?”
The fire guttered out as quickly as it had flared. Blitzø felt the fight drain from him, leaving only the ache of exhaustion in its wake. His shoulders sagged under a weight he couldn’t throw off. His shoulders slumped. "I'm not a leader, Stols," he admitted, the confession barely above a whisper. "I'm barely keepin' my own life together, let alone anyone else's." He laughed, but it was a hollow sound, devoid of any real mirth.
“You’ve led I.M.P.,” he countered gently.
Blitzø barked a bitter laugh. “That’s babysitting a bunch of chaos gremlins while I keep the lights on, not ruling a goddamn kingdom.”
“Is it?” Stolas asked softly, the weight in his voice making the question land heavier than Blitzø wanted to admit.
Blitzø's mind raced, replaying the crowd's expectant faces, the weight of their hope crushing down on him. He was a fraud, a jester thrust onto a throne he had no right to occupy. And now, thousands were counting on him not to fuck it up.
He walked over to the door, his hand shakily hovering over the doorknob. His breath came short and shallow, a rapid staccato that made his chest feel too tight. He stared at his feet, eyes wide, sweat dampening his temples.
Moxxie’s words replayed like a curse. If you don’t step up, who will?
Blitzø swallowed hard. His fingers curled around the knob, tighter and tighter, until the cold metal bit into his palm. "Fuck," he breathed.. "Fuck, FUCK, FUUUUUUCK!"
He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and with a swift motion, he yanked the door open, bracing for the onslaught of noise.
Instead, hundreds of eyes locked on him, a sea of red faces frozen mid-breath. Blitzø’s mind scrambled for something, anything, to say.
"Uh..." he started, his voice cracking.
How the fuck had Stolas done this?
As soon as the crowd saw him, it was like a dam bursting; the silence was shattered. Voices crashed over him in a torrent of pleas, demands, and desperation he couldn’t outrun.
“Enough.”
When had Stolas followed him out?
The moment his voice registered, the shouting had dulled. Not gone, but significantly subdued. Blitzø’s grip on the doorknob eased just enough to breathe.
Stolas stepped forward, tall beside him, eyes sweeping the room with quiet authority. “Blitzø,” he said softly, still watching the crowd. “I’m here with you.”
Something in Blitzø’s chest loosened, Stolas’s proximity steadying him, keeping him grounded. “Right,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He straightened, scanning the packed room, then jumped up onto Stolas’s desk for a better view.
The desk creaked under his boots. Stolas’s carefully piled folders and papers would now have his bootprints on them, something he was certain to hear about later. Below him, the office was crammed with red and ashen skin, glowing eyes, twisted horns, a whole cross-section of Hell’s underclass.
His tail twitched, betraying his composure. What the fuck am I doing here? The thought echoed in his skull. This wasn't some half-assed heist or a quick fuck with Stolas. This was real. This mattered. It was then that he saw them.
Dozens of little red lights blinked back at him. Hellphones, recording his very word, every twitch, every fuck-up, to be replayed, shared, dissected. Forever. His gut dropped. One wrong move here, and this moment would haunt him in a thousand different clips until the end of time.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, barely audible but enough to send a shiver down Blitzø’s spine. Another voice joined, then another. The pressure built, a dam ready to burst.
He couldn’t breathe.
Blitzø glanced at his mother's brooch, pinned at his throat. The familiar weight grounded him, a reminder of where he came from, of why he was there. He swallowed hard, pushing down the bile rising in his throat. Say something, dumbass. Anything.
"So. Yeah," he croaked, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his ears. "This is weird as fuck.”
The words hung in the air, raw and honest. Blitzø's eyes widened, realizing what he'd just said. Shit. Not exactly the rousing speech they were probably expecting from their accidental prince. But as he looked out at the crowd, he saw something shift in their expressions. A flicker of recognition, of kinship.
The tension broke. A roar erupted, a mix of hope and desperation. A voice cut through the din.
“What are you going to do about the food shortage? My kids are starving!"
Another joined in, raw with need."Ain’t no jobs left! How’re we supposed to survive?"
"The nobles?" someone else cried out. "What are you gonna do about them? What about the raids?"
The questions came fast and furious, a barrage that left Blitzø reeling as he struggled to process the onslaught. He squeezed his hands into fists, pressing his claws into the delicate skin of his palms.
"I, uh…" he started, voice cracking. Fuck. He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm not gonna stand here and bullshit you. I don't have all the answers." A ripple of unease moved through the crowd. He pushed forward. “But I know what it’s like down here. I’ve lived it. And I’m fucking sick of it.”
A cheer went up and Blitzø felt a surge of... something. Power? Terror? Both?
He looked beside him, meeting Stolas’s eyes. "You're doing remarkably well, Blitzø," he said softly, his aristocratic tone tempered with genuine warmth.
Blitzø barked out a laugh, harsh and brittle. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it." His eyes searched the owl demon's face.
Especially not me. The memory of Stolas’s warning slammed into him like a punch, forcing a harsh breath. Can I trust him?
His jaw clenched. "If I go down," Blitzø said, his voice low and intense, "I'll make sure to drag your fancy ass with me."
Stolas's beak curved into a small, knowing smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less," he replied, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and something deeper, unspoken.
With a final nod to Stolas, Blitzø squared his shoulders and turned back towards the crowd. The roar of them swelled as his eyes swept over them.
"Alright, listen up!" he bellowed, his voice carrying a new weight, a gravitas that surprised even him. "Y'all want change? Then we're making it happen. No more bowing, no more scraping."
Blitzø paused, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. He didn't know if they could win. Hell, he didn't even know if he'd survive the night. But in that moment, with the eyes of thousands upon him, he made his choice. Blitzø turned his gaze to the windows, staring out at the towering spires where the nobles lived in comfort.
"You think they’re gonna let us?" he shouted, pointing towards them. "You think they’ll just sit back while we take what’s ours?"
The crowd erupted, a low rumble that swelled into a storm, stomps and shouts rattling the floor beneath Stolas’s desk. Phones flashed as they were lifted high, many desperate to capture the moment. His words had lit the room like a fuse, and now the fire was spreading.
Blitzø let it ride, let it build, then leaned into the chaos with a snarl. “Those prissy noble assholes? They can line up and kiss my imp ass.”
The roar that followed nearly split the walls, a tide of fury and laughter crashing over him. For once, they weren’t jeering. They were with him.
Blitzø bared his teeth, his chest heaving with the burn of it, defiance cutting clean through his fear. "Good," he growled, his voice dark and unflinching. “Let’s make them regret ever fucking with us.”
The square erupted, a deafening roar of determination that shook the very foundations of Hell. As the energy surged around him, Blitzø felt a fierce grin spread across his face. Maybe we can do this, he thought, allowing himself a moment of wild, reckless hope. Maybe we can burn this whole fucking system to the ground.
He stood, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror, and swept across the undulating mass of demons before him.
"Holy shit," he muttered, his tail twitching nervously. "This is really happening."
The office pulsed with an electric energy, the air thick with the scent of brimstone and revolution. Blitzø's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a reminder of the weight now resting on his shoulders. He'd never wanted this, never asked to be a leader, a symbol, a fucking prince to the imps. But here he was, standing at the epicenter of a storm he'd unwittingly unleashed.
A chant began to rise from the crowd, growing louder with each repetition: "Prince Blitzø! Prince Blitzø! Prince Blitzø!"
He winced, the title still sitting uncomfortably on him. "Alright, alright!" he shouted, waving his hands. "Let's cool it with the 'prince' shit. I'm still just Blitzø, got it? The same asshole who's been screwing things up in this city for years."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, mingling with the cheers.
"Look," he continued, his voice carrying over the din, "I don't know how this ends. But I know we're done being stepped on. Done being treated like we're nothing." His fists clenched at his sides. "So yeah, this is just the beginning. And it's gonna be messy as fuck. But we're in this together now."
As the crowd roared its approval, Blitzø allowed himself a small, fierce smile. The revolution had begun, and for better or worse, he was right in the fucking middle of it all.
~o0o~
High above the teeming streets, Lucifer reclined on a rooftop ledge, one leg dangling carelessly over the edge.
He watched Blitzo’s little impromptu speech, his whole face gleaming with delight. He swirled a glass of blood-red wine, the liquid catching under the hell-sun.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Lucifer purred, his voice dripping with amusement.
Queen Bee shifted beside him, her wings twitching with unease as she scanned the surging mob through the windows. “You really think that imp can hold this together? This isn’t a game, Luci. Those people are desperate.”
Ozzie leans forward, watching Blitzø’s ragged fire blaze against the crowd. The crowd could have eaten him alive, yet there he stood, unpolished, defiant, stubbornly alive. It stirred something half-buried in Ozzie’s chest.
Hell, that was me once, hungry and reckless, daring anyone bigger to try and snuff him out, before the weight of kingdoms and contracts smothered the spark. Fire always burned brightest right before it consumed itself. And Blitzø? He was nothing if not combustible. He hadn’t expected to see that same spark again in an imp of all creatures, but damned if he didn’t respect the fight in him.
Lucifer’s lips curled into a grin, sharp as glass. “Oh, darling,” he drawled, lifting his glass in a mock toast, “I couldn’t care less if he holds it together. What delights me is how spectacularly he’ll try.”
He took a slow sip, eyes glinting like firelight as Blitzø disappeared back into the shadows. Oh, this will be fun.
He leaned back, stretching languorously like a cat toying with its prey. His smirk sharpened, teeth flashing. "And when he burns? Well, if nothing else, at least Satan will have learned his place."
On a roof several buildings away, two figures stood. Stella’s pristine white feathers gleamed, her posture rigid with disdain. Beside her, Andrealphus scoffed, folding his arms over his chest.
"Pathetic," he sneered, gesturing towards the crowd. "Look at them. Clinging to hope like it won't be their undoing."
Stella's beak twitched in a ghost of a smile. "Yes, darling," she murmured, her voice as cold as the void between stars. Her gaze fixed on Blitzø, assessing. "But what's more pathetic..." She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Is that he actually thinks he can win."
Andrealphus’s laughter rang out, sharp and mocking. Stella remained silent, her mask unbroken. Only her eyes betrayed motion, cold and exacting. Schemes were already coalescing, ones her brother could polish if he wished. But when they were done, they’d crush that loathsome imp and everything he held dear.
Notes:
Sincerely, thank you to everyone who commented, Kudos'd, bookmarked, and subscribed. It makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying this story!
I am slowly going through the comments, and I will answer any questions you all have.
I hope you all have a wonderful week!
Poisoned Ace
akiravadel on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Jun 2025 03:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
FalloutLego17 on Chapter 1 Wed 09 Jul 2025 03:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anguirus1955 on Chapter 1 Sun 17 Aug 2025 02:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
Guardian_Blitz_Rider on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 05:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
Madame_G on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 05:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
Madame_G on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 05:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
PoisonedAce on Chapter 2 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 02:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
juacamon on Chapter 2 Tue 29 Jul 2025 02:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Lady_Noir5 on Chapter 2 Wed 30 Jul 2025 02:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 3 Sun 10 Aug 2025 12:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Lady_Noir5 on Chapter 3 Sun 10 Aug 2025 01:48PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
gwencarson126 on Chapter 3 Sun 10 Aug 2025 03:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merviking666 on Chapter 3 Fri 15 Aug 2025 10:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anguirus1955 on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 07:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
Lady_Noir5 on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 02:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
HelluvaNerdZuki on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 04:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 02:19PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 17 Aug 2025 02:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anguirus1955 on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 08:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
PoisonedAce on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 09:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Carlos_102 on Chapter 4 Sat 06 Sep 2025 01:18PM UTC
Comment Actions