The silence after the scream was almost worse than the noise itself. It was a ringing, hollow thing, filled only with the pitter-patter of acidic rain falling through the now-open ceiling and onto the ruined marble.
"Well," Blitzo said, brushing glass dust off his shoulder with a theatrical flourish. "This has been a fucking revelation. Moxxie, Millie, we're leaving. The client can wait. My mental health—which is a pristine and delicate fucking flower—cannot."
Moxxie, still peeking from behind the sofa, looked at the small, trembling form of Darkness. "S-Sir, are we just going to leave a… a natural disaster in the shape of a child here? Unsupervised?"
"He's not unsupervised," Stolas said, his voice weary. He hadn't moved from his crouch. "I am here."
"Great! Babysitter of the Apocalypse is on duty!" Blitzo gave a sharp, two-fingered salute. "C'mon, Loonie. Let's bounce before the tiny terror decides to make it hail eyeballs or something."
Loona just snorted, put her headphones back on, and sauntered out, stepping over the cracked floor with practiced indifference.
As IMP beat a hasty retreat, Octavia slowly approached her father and the child. Darkness's wings were folded tight again, and he was staring at the puddle of rainwater and glass forming near his bare feet. He didn't look dangerous. He looked lost. And… small.
"So," Via said, her voice softer now. "What's the plan, Dad? Call in a decorator and an exorcist?"
"The plan, my little starfire," Stolas sighed, rising to his feet with a soft groan, "is to attempt the impossible. First, we must show him he is safe. Or at the very least, that not everything here will hurt him."
"Safe," Octavia repeated, watching as Darkness cautiously reached a single claw to touch the wet marble. The moment his finger made contact, the water seemed to flinch away from him, beading up and rolling backward as if repelled. "He just trashed the foyer with his lungs. 'Safe' might be a stretch."
"For us, Via. We must make him feel safe. His power is… reactive. A defense mechanism of catastrophic proportions." Stolas adjusted his robe, thinking. "Paimon's notes were… sparse. He is driven by base emotion. Fear, anger, confusion. We must avoid triggering them."
"So, no loud noises, no sudden movements, no Blitzo," Octavia listed flatly.
"Essentially."
At the mention of loud noises, Darkness's head snapped up. His four eyes fixed on Octavia. She froze, expecting another tremor, a gust of wind. Instead, he just… stared. His head tilted, like a confused bird. One of his lower eyes blinked slowly.
"He's… looking at me," she muttered, uncomfortable.
"He's cataloging you," Stolas said, a hint of his scholarly curiosity breaking through the stress. "You are a new variable. Non-threatening in posture, familiar in scent to me. This is good."
"I'm not non-threatening," Octavia grumbled, but she didn't move away.
Stolas took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Darkness," he said, the name feeling cruel and heavy on his tongue. "Come. Let's find you a room. Somewhere… quiet."
The child didn't understand the words, but the tone—low, steady, devoid of the sharp edges of anger or the false sweetness of deception—seemed to register. He took a hesitant step toward Stolas, then another, his claws clicking on the broken tile.
It was a procession of the absurd: the tall, elegant Goetia prince in his silken robes, leading a feral, four-eyed child through the wreckage of his own home, followed by a skeptical goth teenager.
Stolas chose a room in the west wing, far from the main halls and guest suites. It was small, meant for a storage or a lesser servant, with thick stone walls and a single, high window. The only furniture was a large, low divan heaped with unused velvet cushions.
"Here," Stolas said, gesturing to the room. "This is your space. Yours."
Darkness hovered at the threshold, sniffing the air. He peered inside, his eyes scanning every shadow. After a long moment, he scurried in, not to the divan, but to the farthest corner. He sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and wrapped his wings around himself like a ragged, iridescent cocoon. A single, green-slitted eye peered out from the feathers.
Octavia leaned against the doorframe. "Cozy."
"It's a start," Stolas whispered. "We must establish routine. Predictability. He needs to learn the rhythms of this house."
"What does he eat?"
"...I don't know."
"Where does he… you know."
"...I shall have to research."
"Dad."
"Yes, Via?"
"We are so fucked."
Stolas let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. "Indubitably, my dear. Indubitably."
---
Down in the ruined foyer, as the summoned imps began the horrifying task of cleaning up, a single, sleek black feather drifted down from a shattered rafter. It was not from Stolas, nor from the child.
It was from a third party, who had been observing from the shadows of the high ceiling, unseen.
The feather landed in the acidic puddle, and with a soft hiss, dissolved into smoke and a whisper of satisfied amusement that no one heard.
The gift had been delivered. The chaos had been ignited. And elsewhere in the rings of Hell, interested parties were beginning to take note. Prince Stolas had acquired a new pet. And pets, especially dangerous ones, were always a potential weakness.
In his dark corner, buried in the smell of dust and velvet, Darkness felt the last echoes of the distant, amused gaze fade. He didn't understand it. He only knew it felt like the Cold Hum that had named him. A shiver ran through his small frame, and the stone of his corner grew suddenly, imperceptibly colder.
The first day was over. The first night in the strange, quiet box had begun. And outside, the unnatural acid rain over the palace gardens finally ceased, leaving the hellish flora scorched and smoking. A fitting welcome.