Lucien's lip still throbbed where Vaeloth's claw had pressed. The coppery taste lingered on his tongue—half fear, half blood. He hadn't even realized he'd bitten it until now.
He remained in his knees, wedged between the Demon King's legs, hands shaking as he held his clasped hands in front of him.
"Pray on," Vaeloth instructed him again, softer now—almost as though he dared him to.
Lucien's throat was parched. The words in a rasp. "Divine Light… shield me…"
Vaeloth's thumb on his jaw. "Your god hears less than I do."
And with a snap of his fingers, Lucien was released. The magic restraining him uncoiled like a shed noose, and he fell back, gasping for air.
Vaeloth rose from his throne of bones, tall and terrifying. "Enough for tonight," he declared, voice echoing in the room like the knell of doom. "Let the court see him.".
The large doors groaned open, the noise rasping like waking beasts. Shadow poured across dark stone flooring, preceded by creatures unlike anything Lucien had imagined. The first were abominations—spider limbs, smiling ribs, hideous torsos joined to scaled serpents or skeletal wings. Lower demons, little more than feral thought wrapped up in shape.
They hissed and gibbered when they caught the smell of Lucien.
Then there were the courtiers.
These demons wore human faces—or better. Women and men whose beauty had been sharpened to something inhuman: too symmetrical, too perfect, too still. Their eyes shone softly like banked coals, and they moved like dancers.
One left the gracious tide. Silver-haired, he was tall, his tunic glistening like oil on water, moving up with a sneer.
"So this is the pet?" His voice dripped silk and cruelty.
Vaeloth did not look at him. "Watch yourself, Tyrion. He is not yours."
"But," Tyrion replied, a sneer twisting his lips. "They all break."
Lucien, reeling with magic and shame, tried to stand—and fell.
Vaeloth's hand stopped him, not cruelly. He lifted him up, putting his arm around him like a chain. "Take him to court."
Lucien stumbled, pale skin wet. The court encircled, eyes devouring him like wine.
Vaeloth's voice boomed, haughty and wintry. "This one shall not be disturbed. He is mine."
Gasp and abuse rippled.
"He reeks of faith," growled a demoness sporting ink-black antlers.
"More fun then," purred a many-eyed noble.
But only one person had a note of curiosity. A tall form in the background, clad in raven feathers, leaned ahead. "He still carries light."
Vaeloth's smile grew harder. "Exactly. Mortals were brought to die. This one will survive."
Lucien burned with their looks. Shame twisted in his gut.
Far beyond the Veil—
Inside the temple's innermost sanctum, the High Priestess knelt before the holy basin, its water as chill as stone. Her reflection glared back—grayer, weari-er than she remembered.
"He is gone," she whispered. "Yet I still feel him."
A young priest stood at the entrance, voice low. "I heard someone praying last night. In the nave. I thought… it sounded like him."
The High Priestess did not answer. "Do not indulge phantoms."
"But what if it was a sign?"
She grasped the rim of the basin. "Signs come before sacrifice. Not after."
The youth backed away, speechless. The High Priestess alone bent her head.
"He believed," she said. "He trusted us."
And they'd sent him to the wolves.
In the Demon Realm—
Lucien was led from the throne room by two demon slaves—lovely in appearance, their shadows grotesque. One wore hair the black of polished coal; the other, skin as molten gold. Neither said a word as they took him through torchlit corridors, walls sculpted with obscene bas-reliefs and runes that shifted when he looked too long.
He was taken into a room less harsh than the last—velvet drapes, incense dark, a blackwood tall-backed chair.
Serava sat there.
His robe shimmered like dusk. Jewels encircled his wrists, and his fingers held a quill suspended in air, frozen in thought. When the door groaned open and Lucien was ushered in, Serava shifted—and for the first time in centuries, forgot to speak.
He's so lovely, the thought escaped unbidden.
Not with the gentle tact that most court favorites used—Serava had seen too much shallowness. No, this priest, this boy, seemed to emanate something else. Something else aside. Grief. Terror. Fire.
Lucien stood shaken, pale, but unbroken. Even in this place, even at this moment, his eyes had no respect for Serava or for the palace. Only contempt.
Serava slowly rose, fussing over the creases of his robe with newfound fastidiousness. "You are Lucien," he said, his voice gentler than usual.
Lucien's jaw clenched. "Another demon."
Serava hesitated, then gestured to a velvet chair. "Sit. You've had a long night."
"I'll stand."
Serava gave a tight smile. "Very well."
He was still glaring, lips drawn thin. His hands, though trembling, remained at his sides—not fisted in fear, but restrained, as if bracing to strike.
"You hate us," Serava said gently.
"I loathe you."
Expected, and yet… hearing it still stung.
"You don't understand what this place is."
"I see clearly. A prison. A joke. A plague."
Serava leaned forward. "You were born for prayer, weren't you? Every part of you screams for it. Your stillness. Your resistance."
Lucien's eyes tightened. "Your kind enjoys watching things break."
"No," Serava said. "I enjoy watching what doesn't."
The silence that followed was hard-won. It was war waged with glares.
Serava breathed. "You'll stay here for now. Vaeloth's word is law, and you are to be guarded."
Lucien scoffed—a bitter, scornful sound. "Guarded? From whom?"
"From those who begrudge the king. From those who'd question your flesh before your faith."
His eyes flashed toward the drapes, seeking escape, but there was none.
Serava advanced, then wavered. "You are beautiful, Lucien. Even now, despite anger emanating from you like heat. Do you know that?"
Lucien's expression remained unyielding. "I'm not here to be complimented."
"No," Serava affirmed. "You're here to be reshaped."
There was silence from Lucien.
Serava gazed at him for another moment, then turned, hands behind his back. "You'll be brought food. There are uniforms. Clean water. You may still pray."
Lucien flinched. "He wants me to break."
"He wants to know if you'll burn," Serava replied. "Or be something else."
"I won't."
"That's what they all say."
Lucien stepped back, away from Serava's shadow.
"I'll never be a part of this place."
Serava smiled faintly. "Perhaps not. But even stars fall."
END OF CHAPTER 2