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The once-glorious Hellfire Citadel groaned under its own silence.
Where flames once danced in towering sconces and infernal banners rippled with pride, there now lingered the acrid scent of smoke and the faint echo of pain. Half its walls had been torn open during the rogue invasion — black stone cracked, gilded columns reduced to jagged ruins. Ash floated lazily through shafts of pale light filtering in through the broken dome.
In the Citadel's infirmary, the air was thick with the smell of herbs, blood, and smoldering incense meant to mask decay. Healers whispered spells over the wounded. The faint hum of magic flickered like fading candles in a storm.
At the far end, beside one of the cots, Stefan stood guard.
He hadn't moved from that spot for two days. Not when exhaustion carved lines beneath his eyes. Not when the Citadel itself trembled. Not even when his own wounds bled through his bandages. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of his sword — not from paranoia, but from an instinct carved into his bones. Beside him, on the cot, Miriam lay pale but breathing, her lips parted slightly as she dreamt — or perhaps struggled — within her fevered sleep.
He glanced down at her every few minutes, as though assuring himself that she was still there.
Then, the infirmary doors burst open with a loud clang.
The noise tore through the stillness, startling even the healers. Two figures strode in like a storm dressed in silks — Lysa and Nyra, Hades' mistresses, their presence immediately unsettling the air.
Lysa's crimson gown trailed like spilled wine, her eyes flashing with irritation. Nyra, with her long sapphire hair and voice like honey steeped in venom, crossed her arms, her sharp nails glinting under the dull light.
"Where is he?" Lysa demanded, voice cutting. "Where's the King?"
Stefan straightened instantly, snapping into attention. "Lady Lysa. Lady Nyra." He bowed low, his expression respectful though weary. "The King is away. He—"
"We know he's away," Nyra interrupted sharply, her tone dripping disdain. "The question is why. Why hasn't he returned to his kingdom after it was nearly torn apart? Or does His Majesty find us all so disposable he'd rather play guardian to that fragile little human Queen of his?"
Stefan's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "The King's mission is classified," he said carefully. "All I can tell you is that he's tracing the source of the storm — the one that nearly destroyed the Underworld itself."
"Classified," Lysa spat, the word curling like acid on her tongue. "That's all we ever hear. 'Classified.' 'Restricted.' 'The King knows best.'" She stepped closer, her crimson heels clicking against the stone. "While we stayed here fighting for our lives, he was off gallivanting with his little pet Queen."
Nyra snickered. "And the Queen — where is she now? Still clinging to his arm like a frightened child, I imagine."
"That's enough," Stefan said quietly, his tone carrying warning.
Lysa's lips curved mockingly. "Oh, look at that. The soldier speaks." Her eyes gleamed. "Tell me, Stefan — do you actually believe in her? That weak human girl who couldn't even stand against the mistresses if her life depended on it?"
He remained still. His silence was firm, not submission. "The Queen," he said finally, "is your ruler as much as the King is. You'd do well to remember that."
The words hung in the air, heavy, daring.
Both mistresses' expressions turned cold.
Nyra's laughter broke the tension like glass shattering. "How noble. How quaint." She turned to Lysa, her tone dripping amusement. "He sounds just like her — all faith and devotion but no understanding of power. Humans. Always believing courage is enough."
Lysa smirked. "Velia was right after all. Hades' new order is a joke. The mighty King of the Citadel reduced to babysitting a human queen and surrounded by sentimental fools."
At that, Stefan's control cracked. His gaze lifted, sharp as a blade. "You will not speak her name here," he warned. His voice, though calm, vibrated with restrained fury.
They both stared at him, half-amused, half-offended.
Then Lysa stepped closer, lowering her voice. "And what will you do if we do, soldier? Strike us down? Your King's precious concubines?"
Before he could reply, a weak gasp broke the standoff.
Miriam had woken.
Her eyes fluttered open — a soft shade of hazel clouded with pain. She blinked rapidly, disoriented, then pushed herself up on trembling arms. "W-what's going on?" Her voice was fragile, but the instinct to show respect was stronger. She attempted to rise, to bow, but her legs gave out beneath her.
In an instant, Stefan was beside her, catching her before she could fall. "Easy," he murmured, his arm firm around her waist. "You're still weak."
Miriam flushed, trying to pull away. "Please — the King's Ladies are here, I can't—"
Lysa's laughter interrupted, sharp and cruel. "How precious. The servant tries to curtsy while half-dead."
Nyra tilted her head, her smile vicious. "Shouldn't she still be unconscious? I thought the Rogue general made quick work of her."
At the mention of Amon, Stefan's eyes darkened.
"She was targeted," he said, keeping his voice steady. "By the commanding general himself."
"Serves her right," Lysa sneered. "Maybe next time she'll learn that weakness has consequences."
Miriam's fingers tightened around the edge of her blanket, knuckles white. She bit her lip, forcing herself not to speak. But the sting of their words lanced through her chest all the same.
"At least," Nyra continued sweetly, "everyone else in this Citadel can fight. Even the healers know defensive magic. But the Queen and her little pet here?" She laughed softly. "They're nothing but burdens — prey for whatever beast happens to stroll by."
That was the final straw.
"Enough," Stefan said, his voice low but cutting through the air like steel. The room seemed to still. Even the healers turned to look.
The two mistresses blinked, stunned by the sharpness of his tone.
"What did you say?" Lysa asked dangerously.
"I said that's enough." Stefan's gaze was calm but deadly now, his tone a soldier's warning. "You may be the King's former mistresses, but remember your place. The Queen outranks you. Speak of her or her maid with that kind of venom again," he stepped closer, his aura flaring slightly, "and I'll personally remind you what happens to those who forget their rank."
Nyra scoffed, feigning offense. "Are you taking their side, soldier?"
"Yes," he said simply. "And if you were wise, you'd walk away before your arrogance gets you burned."
The mistresses exchanged a look — disbelief tinged with fury — before Lysa's lips curled into a smirk. "You've grown bold, Stefan. Let's hope that loyalty doesn't get you killed."
They turned sharply and swept from the room, the echo of their heels fading down the corridor.
For a moment, the infirmary was silent again.
Miriam stared up at Stefan, wide-eyed, her lips parted in shock. "You shouldn't have said that," she whispered. "They're still your superiors. You could be punished—"
"I don't care." His tone was blunt but not unkind. He turned to her, his expression softening. "There's only one person I want to protect right now. And she's right here."
The words hung between them, fragile and fierce all at once.
Miriam's breath caught.
Her pulse quickened, warmth flooding her chest. But before she could speak, a sudden wave of pain wracked through her body. She gasped, clutching her bandaged neck — the place Amon had bitten. Stefan was at her side in an instant again, guiding her gently back onto the cot.
"Lie down," he said firmly. "You're not healed yet."
"I can't," she breathed, trying to sit up. "How long was I out?"
"Two days."
Her eyes widened. "Two days?" She tried to rise again, panic creeping into her voice. "I have to get to my Queen. If those monsters attacked here, they'll come for her next!"
Stefan gripped her shoulders gently, forcing her to look at him. "Miriam, listen to me. She's with Hades. No harm will come to her."
"You don't understand!" she said, shaking her head, tears threatening to spill. "I felt it when the rogues attacked. It was like— like something calling to me. If it was Amon, then it wasn't just random. They're after her!"
"Miriam," he said again, more firmly this time. "You can barely stand. You need to rest."
But she pushed his hands away, determination flickering in her eyes. "I don't care. I swore to protect her. Even if it costs me my life."
That broke him.
Stefan's control snapped, his voice rising before he could stop himself. "And how exactly are you going to do that?" he demanded, the emotion in his tone raw and unguarded. "How are you going to protect your Queen when you need protection? You have no power, Miriam. No strength. What can you possibly do?"
The words echoed through the room — cruel, though he hadn't meant them to be.
Miriam froze, her chest tightening painfully. Tears welled up in her eyes, stinging. She looked at him — at the man who had stayed by her bedside, who had defended her just moments ago — and for a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe.
"I might be weak," she said softly, voice trembling, "just like they said. But I have courage. And sometimes, courage is enough to stand between death and someone you care about."
Stefan's expression faltered.
"I don't need power," she continued, her voice gaining strength through the tears. "I just need to be there. To buy her time if I can. To make sure she lives — even if I don't."
Her hand trembled as she brushed away a tear. "That's what loyalty means, Stefan. That's what love means."
Silence.
The words pierced deeper than any weapon could. Stefan's chest ached, the air thick between them. For a moment, he wanted to reach for her, to apologize — but the look in her eyes stopped him. There was no anger there, only quiet resolve. The kind of strength he'd accused her of lacking.
Miriam took a shaky breath, turned, and started toward the door.
Her steps were unsteady, but her resolve was unshaken.
Stefan's hand twitched, as if to stop her — but he didn't. Not this time. He simply watched as she disappeared down the corridor, her cloak fluttering behind her like the last ember of something too fragile to burn yet too strong to die.
The infirmary was silent once more.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the ruined Citadel — the sound of a storm waiting to break again.
And Stefan, alone in the dim light, whispered to no one:
"She's stronger than all of us."