The night was cold and at its zenith.
A blood-red moon bathed the streets, gardens, and groves in a crimson glow, casting everything in a hue that seemed almost sanguine. The mournful wind howled, carrying with it the lament of the damned, bending plants into a twisted waltz—nature dancing to a funereal opera. Wax lamps flickered timidly, their yellow haze softening the edges of alleys and corners where creatures too fearful to be seen clung to shadow. The avenues, meanwhile, stood barren.
And so, deep within the Fourth Circle of Hell, we arrive at a palace. Gothic in architecture, with spired rooftops and needle-sharp towers.
Weathervanes spun lazily atop dark pinnacles that scraped the violet clouds of eternal twilight. Polished black stone walls stood adorned with carved tracery and stained-glass windows that whispered forgotten tales. Pointed arches rose above creeping vines, which clung stubbornly to the buttresses like jealous memories. Light—faint and flickering—breathed from behind the glass, suggesting the building still pulsed with some secret life.
The main door, an imposing slab of wrought iron, creaked open, exhaling a breath of warm, ancient air, thick with incense and dust.
Planters framed the threshold, overflowing with flora that defied taxonomy—some earthly, others unmistakably infernal, their surreal forms betraying their origin in Avernus.
This is where our tale begins: in the bedchamber of one of the kings of the underworld.
The walls were draped in scarlet wallpaper, patterned with winged sigils in flight—circles of twin wings encasing five-pointed crowns—repeated like mosaic fragments across every surface. At the centre of the chamber stood a massive bed, clad in velvet and silk, so sumptuous it beckoned the weary into Morpheus's embrace.
On either side, an oil lamp flickered—not with fuel, but with faint flames conjured by magic—casting an eerie warmth upon mahogany dressing tables, hand-carved with baroque reliefs that seemed to pulse beneath the light.
Here lay two beings.
The first: Paimon.
His form was that of a wingless, anthropomorphic royal owl—regal and broad-shouldered. His feathers, a bright mahogany, shimmered beneath the haunted light. Great plumes rose above his eyes like immense, expressive brows, shadowing a golden crown encrusted with white diamonds that sat imperiously upon his head.
A long, tapering tail trailed behind him, brushing the floor with every step and amplifying his already imposing stature. Upon his face rested a white Victorian mask, adorned with gold filigree, through which burned two ruby eyes: irises blood-red, corneas black as the abyss—lanterns lost in a subterranean chasm.
His attire, cut in the style of the late 19th century, swathed his frame in deliberate grandeur. A white camisole lay beneath a wine-red waistcoat, clasped with gold buttons and trimmed with black cords. Between them spilled a garland-like chain—an emblem of lineage and occult authority, worn proudly above his garments like a badge.
Black leather gloves covered his hands—not the gloves of a courtier, but of a hunter. His trousers, dark and close-fitting, traced the lines of his legs with sombre restraint. Overall, a high-collared cloak fell to the ground, golden within—its fabric dusted with soft white specks like imprisoned starlight—and crimson without, a gradient of scarlet and maroon that culminated in an embroidered base of glittering jewels: an inverted constellation sewn into the void.
Paimon stood in argument with the second figure: his wife, Queen Octavia.
Her form was delicate, adorned with curves carved to perfection—beauty seemingly sculpted by the eternal itself. Like her husband, she too bore the shape of a wingless owl, though her feathers were ashen, tinged with pale blues and glimmers of ice.
Her face—immaculate and alabaster—was otherworldly. Six eyes adorned it: two positioned where any beings should be, and four more aligned vertically on her forehead, two per side. All glowed a deep red, save for the lowermost pair, whose irises shone a uniform white—molten ivory spheres that rendered her visage both mesmerising and unnatural. The effect was that of a celestial mask, similar to Paimon's, yet hers veiled her features entirely, giving her an ethereal gravitas.
Her brows were refined, human in expression, lending her face a quiet, ritual grace. A small, slender beak completed the vision of controlled gentleness—perfectly calibrated, and precisely that: calculated.
Her gown was a single, seamless garment—glimmering fabric cut so ornately it seemed like layered robes. Its style echoed her husband's Victorian fashion yet leaned towards opulence over severity. The cloth held all the hues of a starless cosmos: blacks, greys, icy whites, and deep blues that accentuated golden embellishments at the waist, collar, sleeves, and chest.
Long gloves of dark, semi-transparent silk veiled her arms, while a three-pronged golden crown—small but unmistakeable—rested lightly upon her brow, signifying her reign in silence.
To look at her was to feel both maternal warmth and cold reverence—an elegance born not of intention, but of innate divinity.
Their voices clashed.
Each word from their beaks sliced the air, glances exchanged like blades honed on old bitterness. Their resentment, ancient and abiding, swelled between them—thick enough to echo down through generations.
The storm of their quarrel disturbed the stillness of the palace—
—and, unknowingly, woke the little prince.
In the adjacent chamber, nearly identical in design to that of his parents, stood a cradle where a bed would have been. Carved from cedar and adorned with floating constellations, it rocked gently under a silent spell. A soft red cloth draped over it like a makeshift canopy, part veil, part protection.
Within lay a chick.
Small, round, with grey feathers and a pale white face. His four crimson eyes glowed like embers, echoing his parents' gaze. Swaddled in striped, blue pyjamas and wrapped in a navy blanket, he clung to it tightly—trembling at the shouts seeping through the walls.
Beside him sat a stuffed toy: red, vaguely rabbit-shaped, with a grotesque grin and sharp, oversized teeth. A toy clearly ill-suited for any child.
Back in the master chamber, the argument raged on.
"Don't get angry?" Octavia spat, her voice trembling with barely contained wrath. "Of all the idiotic things you could have done! Are we not meant to be the example?"
Each word shook under the strain of knotted disappointment.
"Cease your insolence, woman," Paimon snapped. "Do not forget—among the Goetia, I command. Know your place."
"Oh, pardon me, Your Majesty…" she hissed, voice drenched in venom. "I forgot—royalty is exempt from such petty concerns as fidelity."
"Your sarcasm," he said, narrowing his eyes, "will get you nowhere."
"You slept with my whore of a sister! Would you think it wiser to consult His Highness Lucifer? To know what he thinks of his favourite dog being unable to set the standard?"
Paimon's blood bubbled with heat—a direct reaction to Octavia's threat.
It was true: Paimon was at the head of the Goetia, along with the other kings. But Lucifer? Lucifer was above everything and everyone. If Paimon fell, the kings fell with him. And if the kings fell… then Lucifer himself would be put to shame.
That was impermissible.
Driven by his instincts, Paimon grabbed Octavia by the throat with one hand, while the other cupped her face across her cheeks. Without a word, he slammed her against the wall with all his might.
The blow sounded sharp and cruel.
Octavia, struggling for breath, held the choking hand with both hands. In self-defence, she opened her beak and plunged it furiously into her husband's flesh.
The peck only fuelled his rage.
Paimon immediately released his wife, only to clench his fist and strike her brutally.
Her beak cracked, and a trickle of blood ran down her face, soaking feathers and staining her clothes.
As Paimon turned away to stare at the barely noticeable mark on his skin, he staggered, his eyes alight with pain and fury.
The emotional impact reverberated more than the physical: the violence shook the atmosphere with such intensity that the little prince in the next room burst into tears.
His cry was high-pitched, desperate. It pierced the walls like a dagger, becoming audible in every corner of the palace.
It was a pure, visceral cry, born of fear… and brokenness.
That sound was enough to break something inside Paimon. He had endured enough insults for one night.
"You're a filthy animal!" Octavia spat, her voice thick with contempt as she struggled to hold back tears.
Out of pure maternal instinct, Octavia wiped her face with her sleeve and rushed to the desperate call of her son—who was already in the arms of a willing butler.
The latter had anticipated the conflict, entering as soon as the crying had begun. But the little one gave no quarter: his cry was inconsolable, as if each sound were a plea for order and comfort.
The imps—creatures of small stature, not half the height of a Goetia—were red-skinned and horned, white with black stripes, or black with white stripes… or of a single colour, with no definite pattern. Inferior in every physical or hierarchical respect, but equally essential: they made up the bulk of the infernal population.
This particular one had medium-sized, pointed horns, fully erect upwards, with three distinct black stripes. His skin was red, except for a pale tinge around his right eye, where the red faded slightly to white.
He sported a curious white moustache and a similarly snowy mane—obvious signs of his advanced age.
From his back extended a tail topped by three spines, with an arrow-shaped tip.
He was dressed in sober elegance: a white shirt with a high collar, a reddish-purple bow tie, a grey coat, black trousers, long white socks, and well-polished black patent leather shoes.
"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," said the butler, his voice heavy with shame and defeat. "I could not help but interrupt your conversation."
But his tone changed immediately when he noticed the wounds on the Queen's face.
"My! What an outrage!" he exclaimed in horror. "I will call the doctor at once."
"There is no need, Rael; you may go," Octavia sighed, her voice breaking with soul-deep exhaustion.
"At once, Your Highness."
The imp withdrew without another word, carefully handing the prince over. Octavia received him in her arms, and at once the gloomy weeping died away—as if her presence alone were enough to restore peace.
"There is nothing to worry about, little one. Mummy is here."
The baby, with trembling little hands, reached for his mother's face. He did not laugh or babble, but in his movements, you could feel the agony—that pure form of sadness that only a child can express without understanding.
"Calm down… Mummy is fine. Promise me you will go to sleep and stop crying?"
Incomprehensible sounds were her answer. Octavia, with infinite tenderness and ancient wisdom, reached for the toy. As soon as she offered it to him, the little one clung to it with force, waving his arms and legs as he gave a weak smile.
Octavia gently returned him to his cradle, settled him carefully, and watched him for a moment longer. Then she rose.
"Sweet dreams, my dear Stolas," she whispered, gently closing the door.
Back in her bedchamber—choking with the wish she had not—Octavia returned to face her husband.
Paimon seemed unmoved by all that had happened. Confident in his authority, convinced that he had committed no wrongdoing. For him, if there were consequences, they would be for Octavia. And if there were injuries, she deserved them.
"The doctor's coming to check on you. I want no questions at breakfast tomorrow," he growled—more command than warning.
While Octavia was absent, Paimon had begun to undress slowly. He removed his shirt, folded it meticulously, and tossed it into the basket with the rest of his clothes. He now wore only his underwear.
His body was to be admired: powerfully built, with muscles defined without excess. The broad chest, the shapely pecs—everything about him was a sculpture of strength.
But for Octavia, that attractiveness had ceased to exist. His beauty had become irrelevant —buried under layers of emotional poison.
Paimon, however, did not understand. In his mind, he still believed that his charms had the same effect as ever—that his physique was enough to erase his sins.
And so, he approached his wife. He grasped her shoulders firmly and began to caress them sensually, as if his touch could justify the unforgivable. As if it were an apology that would never be said.
Octavia looked away in disgust and tried to pull out of his grasp. She did not succeed at first. It was not until someone knocked on the door that Paimon finally released her… granting her momentary freedom.
"Come in," Paimon said in a deep, cold tone.
"With your permission, Your Majesty. Was I summoned?"
The voice came from the other side of the door. A new imp entered with measured steps.
This one had short, horizontally curved horns, almost like the handlebars of a motorbike, crossed by two black stripes. His round, prominent nose protruded from a plump face, partially covered by exaggeratedly large bottle glasses.
He wore a black suit reminiscent of the old plague doctors—though without the iconic raven mask—giving him a warmer, less frightening appearance.
He carried a black leather case, from which he pulled out a series of instruments: all designed to examine the Queen's face and neck—the areas abused by her husband.
He worked quietly and efficiently. First, he applied a salve which, on contact with the wounds, erased them as if they had never existed. Then he placed a towel over Octavia's beak, under which rested a strange, non-melting ice.
The original whiteness of her complexion returned in a matter of seconds.
And yet, the scene was still deeply creepy.
"This ice is a blessing from the Ninth Circle," the doctor commented with a good-natured chuckle. "They never thaw. Just hold this over the beak for a few more minutes and you can go to sleep."
"Thank you, Doctor. When you are finished, you may go," Paimon ordered.
"Do not worry, Your Highness. It was nothing serious," added the imp in a comforting tone, turning to Octavia.
After a couple of minutes, Octavia handed him back the frozen cloth. The doctor bowed to them both, put away his tools, and withdrew without further words, leaving the alcove silent again.
"Next time… let this serve your memory," Paimon said, his voice sharp as a whip. "Now let us go to sleep. I do not plan to be late tomorrow."
He walked over to the bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his wife—as if everything were in order.
Octavia, still sore, gently removed her dress. She was left in her underwear: a thin pair of panties and a simple bra. With trembling hands, she slipped on a soft cloth dressing gown to serve as pyjamas.
And—against all her wishes—she lay down next to her husband.
Paimon immediately wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in an icy, hypocritical embrace. His body pressed close to hers with barely concealed lasciviousness, as if the world had not shattered minutes before.
Octavia squeezed her eyes shut, her beak trembling slightly, as her claws dug into the sheet—searching for an anchor in the storm raging inside her.
And so, the two of them slowly fell into sleep…
…one convinced of his right.
The other, wishing not to wake up.
***
The sun emerged slowly on the infernal horizon, casting its anomalous rays across the violet sky. Its light, incandescent and surreal, began to seep through the palace windows, caressing the black stone walls with ungodly warmth.
The plants reacted to the bain-marie of this insane star. Their petals opened with ritual slowness, in communion with a dawn that did not promise peace—only continuity.
Rays of light filtered into the royal chambers. First into the kings,' then into the adjoining chamber, where a small figure slept under the shelter of his enchanted cradle. As the light touched his face, the prince's eyelids fluttered. Slowly, with the fragility of one who does not yet understand the world, he began to awaken.
His first sound of the day was a cry. Not of fear like the previous one, but of habit. An almost ceremonial chant that announced the beginning of a new day.
"Woman…"
Paimon's voice crawled between the pillows like a frustrated command, stifled by the weight of his own ennui. He mumbled without looking, waiting for the world to respond to his complaint before he opened his eyes.
Octavia, in her infinite wisdom—and mastery of morning choreography—waited a moment. A single minute was enough for the crying to stop. The baby was calm again.
Still drowsy, the Queen knew exactly what to do as she left her bedchamber.
"Good morning, my prince," she sang with a gentleness that belied the previous night.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," a feminine voice behind her replied.
"Good morning, Rym."
After handing the child over, the governess bent down to pick up a toy from the floor. She did so with pinpoint precision, without disturbing a crease in her impeccable uniform.
Her presence was elegantly commanding. Barely taller than an average imp, Rym moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, guiding with firm, smooth gestures the other housekeepers who followed her like reflexes. They tidied, cleaned, prepared—each task performed with the grace of a silent procession.
Meanwhile, Stolas played with his mother's beak. He held it in his small hands, tugging gently, as if to assess its texture… or make sure it was still there.
Octavia rocked him slowly. A gentle, almost imperceptible swaying, as if her body resisted the movement—but her duty demanded it.
"The bath is ready, mother," came another voice.
A young imp, of similar build to Rym and in an identical uniform, approached with a shyly casual tone.
"Thank you, girl."
And so, Octavia kissed the little prince's forehead. Her kiss was brief but charged with a tenderness so precise it seemed meditated.
Then she returned him gently into the arms of the housekeepers, wishing she could hold him forever, as if she alone could protect him from the world… though she knew it was not so.
She left the room with a sigh that barely broke the silence. Behind her, the routine continued.
And preparations for today's meeting were still underway.
***
It was not long before it was time to leave.
Only a few steps from the carriage, Rym handed Octavia the pram where Stolas rested, hidden beneath a discreet veil. The little prince, clinging to his stuffed rabbit as though it were a shield, was dressed in his finest attire: a small red shawl with gold buttons and braided laces over a perfectly pressed white camisole. His feathers shone like dew at dawn—soft to the touch, cool as living silk.
He glowed in tandem with the contraption that carried him: a purple pram of ostentatious design. Constructed from burnished metal, it was composed of curved poles that intertwined at impossible angles. Its creamy white fabric roof contrasted with fine black detailing—funereal and beautiful in equal measure. The large wheels turned smoothly, allowing for easy ascent into the carriage.
The vehicle itself resembled a moving sculpture more than a means of transport. Its dense steel frame was adorned with highlights of white, yellow, and red gold. The rest gleamed a deep black, like the abyss itself, dotted with flickering laminates that evoked stars suspended in the void.
With a simple gesture—the lazy dance of the king's finger—faint smoke, purplish with cerulean hues, rose as the horses began to pull with spectral precision.
The ride was brief, yet graceful. And at last, the destination appeared in the distance.
A heady mansion stood in sight. Not particularly grand, yet its exquisite architecture spoke volumes. The exterior breathed Renaissance, while the interior let the Gothic shine through in all its splendour. Colours of white and deep black marble mingled with brushstrokes of crimson that accentuated arches, columns, and stained-glass windows.
Paimon's beak squeaked at the sight. His fist clenched, tense, as if he wished to crush the very air.
The carriage doors opened of their own accord with a metallic rustle. From within descended Paimon, Octavia, and little Stolas—who laughed jovially as his pram floated gently out, carried by subtle magic.
Barely audible, like a distant echo, came the whispering chorus of the outside staff communicating with those within. Prominent among them were two hellhounds stationed at the main entrance—anthropomorphic, wolf-like creatures, each gripping a spear with the confidence of warriors who were their weapons. One announced the guests' arrival, while the other stepped aside to allow the manor's butler through.
The butler—a short imp—hurried out with quick steps, his small, curled horns making him resemble a mountain goat beside the towering wolves. Despite his stature, his voice—low and gentle—seemed to float beneath his presence, soft yet commanding.
As he passed the gargoyles flanking the entrance, his form seemed even more diminutive. The statues, with membranous wings and bodies of imp-like decay, looked frozen in time—moments from collapse, yet eternally vigilant. They guarded the perimeter gardens, separated from the world beyond by a modest fence of dwarf shrubs—just enough to keep vulgarity at bay.
The entire estate moved to the rhythm of an invisible larghissimo: music composed of running water, songs from birds that were not there, a bonfire burning in a non-existent hearth. Footsteps on dry grass. Leaves breaking in phantom wind.
Sounds with no origin.
A perfect illusion.
A symphony meant to invoke inspiration… or meditation.
"Welcome, Your Majesty! Welcome! An honour to have you here" intoned a gentle woman's voice, stepping out to meet them.
She was closely followed by a man, whose voice rang out with measured courtesy:
"Your Majesty. I am grateful you accepted our invitation to this humble refreshment."
"Crocell. You know why I am here," Paimon replied, blunt and direct. His voice, quick and curt, allowed no space for pleasantries.
Then, without looking back, he gave the woman a brief nod.
"Theia."
A single word. But in the king's mouth, it was greeting, recognition, and judgment in one.
Crocell appeared as a hybrid between raven and harpy eagle. His humanoid form was cloaked in ashen grey plumage, accented with dull white feathers that crowned his head. Unlike Paimon and Octavia, Crocell had wings—but only one. A single black wing, like his eyes, which dissolved into his feathers like the void.
Theia, by contrast, was his mirror.
An almost celestial white cloaked her figure, rendering her nearly ethereal. Her dove-like body moved within a long, Greco-Roman gown—fit for the age of Socrates or Diogenes. Yet beneath that serene façade lurked a latent darkness.
Not visible. But palpable.
"Your Majesty," Theia said gently, her voice trailing a macabre echo. "Oh… and I see the young prince is with us."
Without hesitation, she approached the pram, leaning in with a warmth that elicited soft babbles from Stolas.
"Second cycle… and he still refuses to speak," Octavia commented lightly, her tone and posture flowing with measured grace.
Little Stolas, delighted by the attention, giggled, and squealed. Octavia, smiling faintly, scratched under his beak, making his head turn like clock hands before he let out a high-pitched chirp of joy.
"He knows better than to speak if he has nothing good to say," Paimon said, his gaze falling judiciously on his son.
"Well… let's not waste time, Your Majesty," Crocell added nervously, grasping for civility. "You must be hungry."
The young prince raised both hands eagerly.
"And it seems someone agrees with me," Crocell chuckled.
The group moved toward the backyard, their conversation resuming:
"So… what are your reports from the First Circle?"
"The flow of souls has stabilised, Your Majesty," Crocell answered, relieved. "Just as His Majesty Lucifer predicted…"
"For the sake of those idiots, it better stay that way."
"Your Majesty, when will Adam be brought to pay for his inaction? It is not the-"
Crocell stopped. Paimon's gaze had pierced him like an invisible blade.
The tension broke only when they crossed into the garden, as though the space itself demanded it.
The garden was vast and unnaturally beautiful: flora of impossible colours, leaves that pulsed as if breathing. White cast-steel tables and chairs waited in ordered rows. The illusionary sounds returned—rushing water, invisible birds, absent winds.
A banquet worthy of Avernus itself awaited them: fruits in radiant hues, steaming bread, abyss-black coffee, water clear as myth. As earthly as they seemed, these delicacies did not belong to the world of the living.
"Expect nothing from the one who condemned his own kind," Paimon muttered, mockery hidden in velvet.
He lifted a glossy apple with his claw. A tiny worm emerged from its skin and began burrowing. Before it reached the core, a second, larger worm erupted from inside, devouring the first and consuming the apple until only the memory of its shape remained.
"Everything grows as you let it."
The second worm leapt toward a plate of fruit—but before it could touch it, a fatuous fire engulfed it, reducing it to ash in an instant.
"And if it grows too big… it will not be long before it gets out of control. Adam is a fool, yes—but if we start relying on others, we will be next. And His Majesty Lucifer's work will have been in vain."
"I know, Your Highness," Crocell whispered, defeated.
"Prove it."
The silence that followed settled like a tombstone. Not even the clink of cutlery stirred it.
At the end of breakfast, Octavia let Stolas play freely in the garden. The boy scampered among the plants, babbling and squealing as if in dialogue with the world itself.
Meanwhile, Octavia and Theia drifted away, ready for a separate conversation—well beyond the reach of their husbands.
Then, certain they were alone, Paimon broke the stillness:
"In any case, Crocell… Did you do as I ordered?"
"I did, Your Highness. But…"
"This is no time for your insecurities. I may have to change plans. I need it ready."
Crocell swallowed.
"It is…"
"Perfect."
***
Away from the husbands, the two wives were sharing their own chatter.
"So, what's the point of having concubines then?" Theia let out a soft, almost musical laugh. "Though I am not surprised either… coming from Tella. Leviathan will be dying to hear this."
They both looked towards the men, who were talking in the distance. Theia's gaze exuded the opposite of surprise: it seemed more like the consequence of a cause she already knew, or the cause of an effect she had seen repeated.
Octavia's, on the other hand, was harder to read. It was a mixture of sadness and anger, or nostalgia and resignation. Her eyes did not linger on any fixed point, as if looking directly was more painful than not seeing.
"I appreciate the humour… but I don't know if this is the time."
"And you don't plan to expose him?" Theia asked, her tone hardening subtly. "He's not a man who learns on his own."
"Nothing would make me happier." Octavia sighed. "I caught him in the act! And he did not even flinch… But…"
Stolas' laughter interrupted the sentence like a heavenly echo, filtering through the windows like a perfume of childhood. He played among the plants, speaking to them in a language of babble and joy, catching insects as if they were edible fireflies. His innocence was a beacon. A spark of divinity.
Octavia looked at him, and her eyes glowed with a love so pure it seemed out of place in this world.
"Lucifer protect you, Octavia," Theia murmured, not as a wish, but as a desperate prayer.
***
As early afternoon descended, Crocell offered to let them stay for luncheon.
Paimon declined without excuse.
His face conveyed firmness—almost conviction—but his body, stiff as a statue, belied it. A tension clung to his shoulders, as though the slightest gesture might betray him.
Octavia, for her part, walked beside him. Her posture was stoic, almost ceremonial, yet her steps faltered each time little Stolas turned to look at her. Her smile was faint, no more than a whisper across her features. Uncertainty surrounded her like a low fog, murmuring echoes of futures she knew too well… and wished she did not recognise. The silent war between accepting the inevitable and postponing the obvious.
"I'm counting on you, Crocell," said Paimon, resting a clawed hand on the man's shoulder with a pressure that outweighed a thousand commands.
"Yes, Your Majesty. So be it."
With that, the two returned to the palace.
***
The food was good.
The dining room, silent.
In another chamber, far from the judgement of the family throne, a wet nurse fed the young prince in peace.
The afternoon passed with an almost unbelievable stillness. Paimon withdrew to his study, surrounded by papers, artefacts, and thoughts he shared with no one.
Octavia, meanwhile, remained with Stolas. In a voice soft as moonlight, she taught him to read, guiding his tiny hands through ancient letters and forgotten symbols. She whispered to him stories of bygone ages—tales of humanity, strange fables, histories half-remembered by time.
Stolas listened, enraptured. His gaze never wavered, his wonder unbroken—the kind of sacred attention only children can give.
And when Octavia spoke, her words were not merely sound. They became visions—living images that shimmered in the air, constellations of thought and memory drawn against the velvet dark.
A duckling, left behind by its kin, floated gently through a river of stars…
A girl danced endlessly, until her feet were severed to make her stop—yet the shoes kept dancing, alone.
Octavia read. She sang. She held him as the stories carried them both. And when at last Stolas drifted into slumber, she allowed herself to rest… though never fully.
Her mind lingered elsewhere. She had not yet decided what to do.
And she knew—when the moment came—there would be no return.
If a choice must be made, it would be for her son.
Only then, perhaps, could she begin to think of herself.
On this plane, there is always time.
But lies have short legs.
And the truth—eventually—always finds its way home.
In this way, dawn arrived without waiting for anyone.
Breakfast was taken at home, and as always in Hell, the masks were adjusted at dawn: what failed was replaced. But the echoes of the previous day still clung to the palace; they appeared in uncomfortable silences, in gazes that avoided other gazes.
While breaking the bread, a stab of memory pierced Paimon: the conversation with Crocell continued to fester like an open wound.
***
Crocell spoke with surgical care, as if each word were a piece that had to fit to avoid unleashing a storm. "I must insist that it is not insecurity, Your Highness," he said. "It is prevention."
Paimon took the goblet without looking at him, and the crystal cracked between his claws. The wine slid over his feathers like an open vein, but he did not avert his gaze from the duke. "Prevent for yourself, Crocell. I for myself."
The wind moved the tablecloth, but the duke did not move. He only breathed deeply, containing the impulse to reply.
He had learned to do it. To swallow truths to survive half-lies.
Paimon continued: "Your reward is guaranteed by your obedience."
That word—obedience—made Crocell's jaw tense slightly. A minimal gesture, almost imperceptible… but enough for Paimon to notice.
The king narrowed his eyes, like an animal that smells doubt. Crocell lowered his gaze with rehearsed respect, but his voice remained firm: "My obedience is yours alone, Your Highness."
"Then prove it," Paimon replied. "Take care of the presidents. I do not want another Dracula. And if your memory does not fail as much as your judgment, you will know why."
Crocell breathed slowly. He was accustomed to humiliation, but it never stopped burning. "With respect, Your Highness… that sinner was a direct order from Lucifer."
Paimon turned his head slowly. Very slowly. "Are you insinuating that Lucifer makes mistakes?"
The silence that followed was a knife suspended in the air. Crocell felt a cold sweat run down his neck. "No, Your Highness," he responded at last, with a controlled bow. "I only say… that I fulfilled the task. The guilty have already been executed."
Paimon leaned back in the chair, satisfied.
Not because Crocell was right… but because he had seen him crack without breaking. "That is how I like it. Do not let it happen again."
The duke nodded, but the weight in his chest did not yield.
Not there.
Not in front of him.
***
The king bit into the bread with disdain, while his gaze drifted toward his wife.
His crumbs covered the plate entirely, and each bite was a clumsy attempt to distract himself as if chewing violently could erase the uncomfortable echo still stuck in his chest.
The metallic vibration of the cutlery was the only harmony.
For a brief instant —very brief, imperceptible even to himself— the silence unsettled him. His mind returned to the previous day, not out of guilt, but from a stab of wounded pride: he had lost control.
And Paimon hated losing control.
He hardened his jaw. Nothing in his realm should oppose him, not even memory.
"By Lucifer… get over it already." Said the owl.
Paimon could feel the heat of the emotions emanating from his wife.
The comment, far from calming her, only ignited the spark.
Octavia stood up without a single retort and withdrew halfway from the dining room, heading to her child's room.
The table was left in silence.
The stained-glass windows tinted the carved wood with muted reds and violets, and in front of Paimon remained only the leftovers of a breakfast he had not enjoyed. The royal crest in the center of the glass gleamed faintly, a mute reminder that authority must be maintained even when the house trembled.
***
Meanwhile, Stolas remained in his room.
He had breakfasted early with the nurses: Paimon still did not authorize the prince to share the family table.
His favourite stuffed toy rested beside him, almost his same size, enough to melt any heart.
Octavia smiled at the tenderness of the image.
"Good morning, beautiful prince," she greeted, her voice bathed in affection.
The little one responded with babbling and squeals, dragging across the carpet a second, smaller stuffed toy in the shape of a mouse, which he pecked at from time to time.
Rym watched him from a prudent distance, like someone who knows that a wrong move would make her the target of those tiny pecks.
"Your Highness," Rym hurried to say upon noticing the queen's arrival.
"You may withdraw, Rym." Octavia's voice was soft, but laden with a firm monotony. "You will resume your duties at lunchtime."
The imp bowed her head and left without a word, her steps quick and her gaze fixed on the floor.
Stolas, attentive to his mother's voice, turned immediately.
The stuffed mouse hung from his beak in a scene so funny that Octavia could not help but laugh.
The little one dropped his toy immediately and extended his hands, begging for attention.
Octavia held Stolas against her chest, breathing deeply, as if the weight of her son were the only force keeping her on her feet.
The breakfast argument still pounded in her temples.
She knew she could not go on like this.
But while rocking him, something calmed within her.
If destiny was inevitable, not today.
Not while he remained small… and hers.
"Do you want to take a walk with mommy?"
The little one calmed instantly, and the decision —though fragile— sealed itself.
If she were going to break, it would be later. For now, she would walk. And think.
Octavia smiled, a fragile curve on her ethereal mask, and headed toward the garden doors.
At the foot of the exit, a passageway of cracked grey stone began, splitting the terrain in two. And on each side, the plants and trees showed themselves with honesty, seeming to receive with joy the prince's visit to their home.
The dense air laden with the aroma of sulphur and ash, mixed with perfume. Each breath was like receiving life itself—curing the impurities of the soul and the being.
Stolas adored seeing the flora, whatever it was. At Crocell's house, in his own home—wherever there were flowers, he could not resist seeking them out.
The queen led her son through the winding paths as she had done a thousand and one times before. Always describing each plant as if it were the first time.
"This one is called Bloodroot," said Octavia, lifting the white flower. "It represents courage, strength… and protection."
The little one tried to eat it, and she laughed before placing it on her own plumage.
"Some say it announces something new…"
The little one listened attentively to his mother's words, and as expected, he tried to eat it almost immediately. But his mother stopped him, placing it on her own plumage while he tried to reach it again, stretching his hands toward her.
"It looks good on mommy, don't you think?"
After giving him a smile, Octavia continued the lesson. They stopped in front of a patch of yellow flowers that shone on their own.
"Lightblossoms. Innocence that resists even in the darkness."
The light danced on Octavia's fingers while Stolas looked at them with enormous eyes, as if they were stars within reach.
At least until they reached the next one.
"Deadly Nightshade," she continued, stopping in front of the purple flowers. "They represent dangers… and betrayals."
Stolas huddled against her chest upon hearing the word danger.
Octavia held him tighter, her hand trembling slightly. She quickly moved to the next:
A thorny bush rose before them, severe, magnificent.
"Ironrose," whispered Octavia. "Love can be strong… and still hurt."
Stolas observed it with suspicion.
Finally, they arrived at the luminous tree.
"This is the Duramen," she said, with reverent voice. "It represents beauty and inner strength."
Stolas looked at it fascinated, tiny before its majesty.
Octavia also contemplated it, feeling in her chest not only awe… but a question.
What inner strength did she have left?
And how much more could she endure?
At the end of the tour, Octavia and Stolas returned to the palace. Paimon was no longer in the dining room; a detail that did not move a single feather of the queen but did stir her mind. His absence screamed the usual: another of his whims consuming his time.
And that idea heated her blood.
Without hesitation —as one who feigns firmness without feeling it— she advanced through the hallways adorned with portraits of the firstborn, the son where Paimon had placed his hopes.
A bitter irony: all those paintings had been commissioned by her, a monument hung on walls that no longer felt hers.
The stained-glass windows tinted the colours with an almost poetic hue, like verses that are only understood when everything has ended.
Stolas observed the pictures in silence, trying to decipher his mother's fixation… or perhaps resentful that those portraits had captured the eyes he so adores.
Without saying a word, Octavia continued to the library: an immense room, with shelves that climbed to touch the ceiling. Furniture filled with human and demonic works, thoughts preserved from before the German printing press of the 15th century, even from times prior to papyrus or bronze.
Divine, pagan, or human knowledge turned penitent; inhabitants of Limbo like Homer, Horace, Socrates, or Plato seemed to breathe from the pages.
Octavia took a seat, letting herself be enveloped by the bohemian aroma of wood and mahogany that the light, out of mere courtesy, allowed to glimpse.
A book levitated before them: The Botanical Gardens of the World, a guide to earthly flora, a book curiously available only in Hell.
She opened it, and the pages began to whisper as they turned.
She pointed to one plant after another as they appeared in the illustrations, and Stolas watched her with an excited gleam, attentive to every word. Just like in the garden, she told him about their properties, their importance, their role.
Until the little one's eyes began to grow heavy.
Octavia leaned back gently, allowing herself to rest with him among the books that seemed to guard their silence.
***
After a few minutes—or perhaps hours, for time dilutes between dreams just as dreams do with dawn—the calm ended with a roar that woke the baby… and, consequently, Octavia.
A universal roar, recognizable in any culture when noon begins to die.
It was past two in the afternoon, and the body demanded sustenance.
The prince knew it, his mother, even more.
And in an act of rebellion against the status quo, Octavia seized the occasion: she took the little one to the dining room, completely skipping the nurse. She wanted to give herself that small pleasure whose lifespan she never knew how to measure.
But Paimon was already there, settled in his favourite seat, conversing with a servant with the haughty attitude of a French aristocrat giving orders in a restaurant.
Anger flooded her; she had not even managed to savour the illusion of freedom.
A stool appeared beside her to seat the cherub. Surprise was a poor word for what she felt, but to a gift horse…
In times when etiquette was law, it was normal for children to have their own corner to train before sharing sustenance with adults.
So that permissiveness took on a strange hue.
"Do you think I don't know what you're trying to prove?" Paimon murmured.
"That a son can eat with his parents."
"You cannot teach him to speak, and you pretend to teach him to swallow. If your wish is to erect a monument to disgrace and my humiliation, who am I to stop you?"
"Weren't you the one who said yesterday that he simply has nothing to say?" Octavia responded while adjusting a napkin on the child.
"If so, perhaps he is not a lost cause."
The servant felt the atmosphere thicken until it became suffocating, forcing him to withdraw with discreet steps, like one trying to escape a scene whose shadow he fears.
The food, although excellent —tender meat that melted on the beak, juicy, bathed in wine aged for eternities with a deep flavour— satisfied none of the present.
Except one.
Stolas, who had no concept of good or bad taste, only enjoyed eating with his mother, as if that normality had been returned to him for an instant. The joy shone in him so much that, at times, it overshadowed his father's imposing gaze.
But not even joy can overcome instincts.
Octavia did her best to fill him with discreet compliments, pushing him toward confidence… but no one defeats nature.
If he used his hands, some crunch scared him.
If he used his beak, the bent metal screeched.
By the time the ritual ended, Paimon had already destroyed half the utensils.
And, finally, everyone could return to their responsibilities without protesting.
***
To conclude the care of her son—who was already steps away from Morpheus's arms after a full stomach —Octavia took him to his crib to rest.
The innocence of a being had never shone as much as Stolas did now. Melancholy sunk in a mother's bitterness who had to force herself to decide between the sword and the wall while she was heard singing:
"Little baby in the bleak house, you have seen the sun rise. Why are you crying? Why are you screaming? You have awakened the God of the house. Who has awakened me? Says the God of the house. It is the baby who has awakened you. Who has scared me? Says the God of the house. It is the baby who has awakened you, it is the baby who has scared you. Making sounds like a drunk who cannot sit on his stool. He has interrupted your sleep. Bring me the baby now, says the God of the house."
She repeated this melody over and over while rocking her son's crib until ending with a kiss on his forehead, paid with a smile that filled his mother's heart with warmth.
***
The king was received in the study by the smell of old parchment, thick ink, and a faint trace of ceremonial smoke that floated like an omen. The windows let in a reddish light that pierced the suspended dust motes, giving the place the solemnity of a temple. On the desk—a monumental plain of black wood—rested the day's reports: sealed parchments, tables of figures, seals of authority marking the infernal hierarchy.
Paimon slid a claw over them with almost surgical precision. He read, classified, discarded.
Presidents, knights, heralds, dukes; each piece of the infernal machinery passed before his eyes as if time itself folded to serve him. His mind, sharp as a ritual blade, digested information at a pace no other king could match.
A seal fell on a report with a dry thump. Another. And another.
An entire column of names was marked as inefficient.
Another, as dispensable.
Paimon's hand stopped for an instant. A mute prayer of irritation ruffled his plumage. A constant noise had settled behind his skull, as if something were scraping the walls of his mind. Something small. Insistent.
Stolas.
The name pierced his thoughts like a needle.
Not because the child hindered physically. Not because he delayed anything.
It was the slowness. The clumsiness. The time he needed to do everything.
Time that Paimon did not conceive. Time that offended him.
He took another parchment. He opened it brusquely.
The ink smudged slightly: a minimal stain, enough to tense his jaw.
Octavia fed him with patience. She rocked him. She celebrated him.
Him, who did not know how to speak.
Him, who did not know how to eat.
Him, whose mere existence was a reminder that perfection could fail.
A failure he refused to call his own.
Paimon clicked his tongue, irritated by a thought he dared not formulate.
Octavia protected him too much. She did not let anyone else mold the heir. And if the heir withered… all blame would always fall on him.
Perhaps it was time to think about the inevitable.
A second child.
One that would guarantee his lineage if the first proved unworthy.
He served himself a drink of Burgundy, like one performing a ceremonial act. The ice cubes from the Ninth Circle tinkled as they fell, producing a clean, piercing sound that drew a flash of pleasure from him. Colder than death. More rigid than duty.
He could still convince Octavia.
He could make her believe that the distance between them was her fault.
He could postpone her threat to go to Lucifer, divert it, manipulate it.
The marriage must remain unquestionable.
Not for love.
For reputation.
A Goetia king could not be seen as an incapable husband.
Nor as a man who lost control.
Paimon brought the goblet to his beak and inhaled the aroma before drinking. The liquid descended burning, delicious, without softening the knot he had carried in his chest since morning.
The ice clinked again inside the glass.
A faint sound.
Dry.
Perfect.
The king closed his eyes, allowing himself an instant of calm before returning to the reports.
There was glory to claim.
And no one —neither his wife, nor his son— would stand in his way.
***
And so, the afternoon died.
The palace sank into a thick silence, barely broken by the occasional cry of a distant gargoyle.
Stolas slept and the hallway to his room felt longer than ever.
The bedroom was plunged into gloom. The candles had burned almost completely, leaving a faint smell of burned wax.
Paimon waited for her naked, standing beside the bed, like a statue abandoned by the light, but still in a seductive pose.
When Octavia crossed the threshold, he approached immediately. His hands took her by the shoulders with a force that tried to disguise itself as a caress. He was a brute pretending delicacy.
His plumage was icy. Even when pressing his body against hers, no warmth emanated. His beak descended down Octavia's neck in a gesture he believed seductive. Her head reacted barely, an involuntary movement.
"Tonight, you won't say no to me," Paimon murmured.
"Because you're so seductive," Octavia responded, without inflection. "Who could resist?"
That spark was enough to ignite his mute violence. His claws tried to undo Octavia's garments, slipping between layers, seeking skin. She moved only as necessary to prevent it, but Paimon enjoyed that minimal resistance, as if each failed attempt were a game.
"If you deny me, you seek what you find," he whispered, pressing her against his chest. "Don't complain later about where I seek my whims."
Octavia knew where that conversation would lead. She knew, above all, what would happen if she yielded. But she also knew what would happen if she did not.
She tried to push him away. She did not succeed.
The more she struggled, the more she felt him grow in his certainty.
"Unless you think your sister would be a better mother for a new child," said Paimon, brushing his beak with hers.
Octavia's world emptied.
All tension left her body at once.
Paimon noticed immediately.
"That's it," he whispered. "Come to your senses."
Paimon began to undo the knots of her dress. The layers fell one after another, silent, like petals torn from a flower that no longer fights. The corset yielded. The white fabric slid down her legs. Her body was exposed under the dying light, fragile and without will.
Paimon sat on the bed, observing her with a dark fascination. He called her with a gesture.
She advanced with slow steps, not for seduction, but for resignation.
As soon as she was within reach, he pushed her toward the mattress. The fall was soft, but the intention was not. Paimon's weight descended on her like a slab. Cold hands took her breast, her waist, her neck. Touches without tenderness. Touches without owner, only possession.
Octavia made no sound at all.
Not a single moan.
Silence was her only weapon while Paimon played with her body.
His claws traced light furrows over Octavia's feathers, scratching just enough for the pain to mix.
She lay there, immobile under his weight, the mattress sinking like an abyss that swallowed her whole.
Paimon, with a twisted smile, tilted his head to consume the contour of one of her breasts. Each lick was deliberate, slow.
Octavia clenched her eyes, forcing herself to close her beak to make no sound.
He took his time, exploring every curve that made her feel like an object. He moved his mouth from one breast to the other, attacking the nipple, his beak brushing the sensitive flesh.
She tried to cover herself, but it was pointless, Paimon noticed and celebrated with a low laugh, rubbing his hard erection against her thigh, leaving a sticky trail of precum that froze her.
His hands descended, claws scratching Octavia's flat belly, stopping at her hips to squeeze them with force, marking the skin with red furrows that would fade at dawn, but that in that moment burned like eternal fire.
He forced her to open her legs with a brusque movement, positioning himself between them, his penis brushing the entrance.
Paimon licked a line from her chest to her neck.
Octavia turned her head, looking at the ceiling adorned with patterns of wings and crowns, wishing the silence would engulf her, that the entire palace would collapse on them.
Paimon did not stop. One of his hands slipped between their bodies, fingers exploring her cloaca, inserting themselves rudely, curving inside her. He forced the fingers with an implacable rhythm.
She clenched her fists in the sheets, claws digging into the fabric. With each thrust of his fingers she felt her body tense, trying to expel the intruder by any means.
Paimon whispered, positioning his member against her femininity, rubbing it up and down to lubricate it. The thick tip pressed, stretching the opening, promising more pain, more submission.
Octavia's legs trembled, her cloaca contracting involuntarily around the tip that barely entered, an agonizing centimetre at a time.
Until he penetrated her.
A broken sigh escaped her throat. It was not pleasure. It was pain.
***
Paimon, on the other hand, enjoyed the moment. And Octavia's broken sounds were then interpreted as mutual pleasure and not as a plea for mercy.
The heat inside his wife was enough for him to believe she still desired him. The pressure of a body trying to expel him felt like one that did not wish to let him go.
The bodily fluids generated by the simple natural process of coitus told him that he was not only welcome but also expected and planned.
Meanwhile, Octavia perceived his coldness as an aggression.
Cold in his hands, in his chest, in his breath. A cold that devoured all heat before it could be born.
She knew what she had to do.
Pretend.
Smile.
Emit the sounds he expected to hear.
Paimon recognized every lie —and enjoyed them even more— because they spoke of his dominance, of the inevitable victory he sought with every gesture.
But there was an instant when Octavia could not avoid reacting: a brief startle, a spasm that crossed her body when the pain became inevitable.
Half of her eyes closed without permission, betraying her resistance.
Paimon's cold hands reached her neck, guiding her, forcing her to accept a reality she could not change. The sounds that escaped Octavia were not of pleasure; they were broken sighs, muffled moans that she tried to stifle so as not to wake Stolas.
She wanted to cry, but it was then that she understood.
Silence protected her… but it also protected him.
If Stolas woke up, the nightmare would stop —even if it were already too late.
So, she let the sounds grow.
She allowed the pain to break the air.
She let the crying mix with forced gasps, deliberately seeking for her son to hear.
Paimon silenced her immediately.
His hand covered Octavia's beak with violence, crushing it against the bed. He leaned over her, almost glued, breathing close, looking at her with an intensity so dark it seemed he wanted to pierce her.
Octavia struggled, trying to free her face, but Paimon's strength was impossible to fight.
A single tear escaped, rolling down her cheek until it was lost in the sheets.
The rest remained trapped behind her eyelids, as if her body had forgotten how to cry.
Paimon's body tensed more and more, pressing against her until, finally, his breathing broke into a contained tremor. Octavia felt an invasive heat inside her that drew a dry cry from her, without tears, without voice, without resistance. A pain that travelled through her interior in a thick liquid that reached the deepest part of her being.
Her body tried to push it in all directions, where only less than half managed to seep outside.
She felt her body throb, her femininity corrupted.
Paimon pulled away with satisfied calm and, breaking the silence, said: "See? It was not so hard to please your husband."
Octavia did not respond.
She only turned her body, giving him her back, seeking the farthest edge of the bed.
Paimon settled behind her, surrounding her with a heavy and possessive arm, reminding her—without words—of the place he believed corresponded to her.
In the crib, little Stolas heard nothing.
He slept deeply, hugged to his red stuffed toy, protected by warm blankets, his calm breathing ignorant of the darkness reigning a few meters away.
The night continued its course.
It sang.
And dawned.
Thus passed one night.
Then five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Forty.
Time where an old nightmare awoke again.
***
Paimon, who could wait centuries without blinking when it came to diplomacy or war, now discovered an impatience that corroded the edges of his soul. The nights accumulated like stones on his back.
Forty. An insignificant number for an immortal king —and yet, unbearable. Eternity was a concept, not a measure. But even concepts can fracture. He knew very well where his strength resided and where his cracks were.
Being king was knowing both.
And in those cracks hid his greatest fear: the real possibility that his lineage would be tied to an heir who was not up to his standard.
Stolas had been the first bet, the most logical, the one that should work. But the child's slowness, his fragility, the way he required time —time that Paimon did not conceive in others— pushed him to contemplate the inevitable. A second attempt. One that would secure the future before Octavia, in an act of desperation, could decide to betray him.
Thus, during those weeks, Paimon showed himself attentive, present, almost kind. The palace pretended to believe it, as if everyone had agreed to sustain a lie that no one could hold without effort. That attention was not love, nor affection, nor regret.
It was maintenance. An act of conservation. An investment in the survival of his lineage.
Octavia knew it.
The servants knew it.
The entire palace knew it.
Each gesture, each word, and each night had a single purpose: to ensure that what was born from the queen's womb was in optimal conditions.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Only the child remained ignorant.
The palace entered an artificial calm in the days that followed.
The hallways filled with a vigilant silence, as if the columns themselves had learned to hold their breath.
The servants spoke in whispers.
The shadows lengthened.
Octavia walked with a hand on her belly, feeling a weight that was not only physical. Her plumage lost shine. Her eyes looked sunken, not from lack of sleep, but from the tension that rooted in her interior like a parasite.
Stolas followed her in silence, tottering on his little legs.
A child who still did not master language, but who understood more than he could ever say.
The little one's room was illuminated by a faint blue glow. The air smelled of sweet herbs, new feathers, dreams that still did not know how to become nightmares.
Octavia sat beside the crib, with difficulty, breathing deeply.
Stolas dragged his red blanket to her, offering it as if it were a treasure.
"My heaven…" whispered Octavia, caressing his head.
Stolas placed the blanket over her legs and, without knowing why, fixed his gaze on her belly. His feathers bristled slightly. He took a clumsy step and touched the pronounced curve under the tunic.
The touch was light.
But the reaction was not.
Octavia held back a startle.
Something moved inside her, too brusque for the early stage of pregnancy. A movement that did not feel like life… but like presence.
Stolas tilted his head, confused.
He let out a grave sound, almost questioning.
"It's nothing," she murmured, lowering her voice. "Everything is fine, love."
But her hand trembled.
And Stolas noticed it.
His childish plumage stuck to his body, a primitive instinct of alert.
The child sought refuge in her lap, burying his face against the fabric of the tunic.
Octavia surrounded him with both arms, seeking consolation in him, not the other way around.
The palace, outside, remained mute.
Inside, something throbbed under her hand, a foreign rhythm, a pulse that did not respond to hers.
Stolas lifted his head and observed her with a shine that was not proper for his age.
A mixture of tenderness, curiosity… and a fear that he still did not know how to name.
Octavia rested her forehead against his.
"Forgive me," she whispered.
The movement returned, shaking her belly.
Stolas stepped back, as if he had felt a forbidden vibration.
His eyes opened wider than normal.
The red blanket fell to the floor.
Octavia picked it up with a mechanical gesture, trying to restore balance.
She leaned to place it on the child's shoulders, but Stolas did not move.
He did not retreat, either.
He only observed her with an unnatural stillness.
He emitted a grave song, imperfect, like the broken imitation of a herald.
Octavia took him in her arms, clinging to him as if she feared extinguishing if she let go.
The night fell without either of them noticing.
The room sank into shadows.
The only visible movement was the soft rise and fall of little Stolas… and the irregular spasms that ran through Octavia's belly like a warning.
***
The next morning, the servants avoided looking at her directly.
Not out of lack of respect, but because something in the air put them on alert.
The rumour of the new heir began to circulate, although no one dared to pronounce it clearly.
When Octavia descended the stairs with Stolas in her arms, she felt how the gazes withdrew immediately, as if her shadow burned.
At the breakfast table, the child played with a piece of hard bread, hitting it softly against the wood.
Octavia tried to stay upright, but each movement inside her forced her to tense.
A servant approached.
"Your Highness… do you need something?" she asked with a minimal voice.
Octavia opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden pain pierced her from the abdomen to the back.
A dry beat.
A brief shake, too strong.
Stolas dropped the bread.
His eyes fixed on her.
"I'm fine," she murmured, without conviction.
The servant retreated.
Stolas raised his arms to be picked up.
Octavia obeyed, feeling how her son's weight anchored her to the world.
From the top of the stairs, a figure observed her:
Paimon.
Immobile, attentive, evaluative.
Octavia squeezed Stolas a little tighter.
The child, upon seeing that silhouette, bristled his feathers.
The palace's silence became denser.
***
That night, while Stolas slept curled up with his red blanket, Octavia remained seated beside him.
The palace was plunged into absolute quiet.
Inside her belly, something moved again.
Stronger.
More conscious.
Octavia placed a hand on her abdomen.
The movement stopped immediately.
Stolas murmured something restless and turned.
Upon finding his blanket, his breathing calmed.
Octavia watched him sleep for a long time.
She knew the peace would not last.
But for now, in that small warm and silent room, it was still possible to pretend that nothing was breaking.
Although everything was already broken.