     Clean Slate
     
     
     
     The day arrived.
     A wail flooded the room, a scream that captured the pain with a rawness no words could match. It was a primal sound, tearing through the air like invisible claws, reverberating against the scarlet-tapestried walls, where the pattern of wings and crowns seemed to twist in response.
     The midwives —imps with jittery nerves and trembling hands, dressed in aprons stained with iridescent fluids— bustled about to assist the complicated birth. Their movements were precise but hurried, guiding with hot towels and steaming potions that smelled of burned herbs and damp earth. In other households, this ritual would be celebrated with excitement and anxiety; but here it was shrouded in the shadows of secrecy, excluded from public view as if it were an unforgivable crime.
     Only a pair of red eyes, framed in ivory white, judged the mother from the gloom. Paimon loomed in the doorway, his crimson cape falling like a cascade of coagulated blood, the rubies in his gaze glinting coldly under the flickering light of the magical lamps. She, Octavia, who bore the worst of it; her body convulsing in waves of agony, feathers matted with sweat, six eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of effort, seemed condemned for daring to suffer in a moment meant to be joyous. As if the pain were a betrayal, failing expectations entirely beyond her control.
     It was not until the egg finally emerged. A pale, glistening orb, covered in a viscous membrane that caught the light like a shattered prism, which was cleaned with meticulous care, wrapped in silk cloths that absorbed the sticky residue, that both—mother and father—allowed themselves a sigh born of profound exhaustion. The air thickened with the metallic scent of infernal blood, and the midwives retreated, their tails coiled in submission. No smiles or nervous laughter bloomed like late flowers in a withered garden. No one attempted, with jubilation, to cradle the newborn that had remained hidden in the womb for so long, a pulsating secret that had distorted her silhouette for months. Not even words of encouragement, the kind usually dispensed by mere observers, like the father who only watched from the shadows, his expression unyielding as a mask carved from obsidian.
     The only curious one was little Stolas, awakened by the echoes of screams and scandals filtering through the thick mahogany doors, confined once more to the impotence of his cradle in the adjoining room. His grey feathers bristled into irregular spikes, an instinctive shiver running through his tiny body as his mother's laments—muffled, broken, like the flutter of shattered wings—urged him to protect her as she had protected him, cradling him through nights of infernal storms. Though his clumsy little feet, barely able to hold him upright, could not reach her, crawling towards the bars carved with constellations that imprisoned him. His chest rose and fell with a painful throb, a silent echo of grief he did not know how to name, only feel like an invisible weight that stole his breath.
     “Is the egg ready yet?” Paimon urged, his voice slicing through the thick air with a tone sharp as a honed blade.
     All present fell silent, a mute response hanging like dense fog, laden with reverential fear.
     “Then take it to the throne room.”
     With that, preparations began. Servants moved with efficiency, carrying the egg wrapped in soft fabrics down the hallway where torches flickered like nervous eyes.
     Octavia was left alone in the alcove, the weight of the room falling over her like a suffocating blanket, the echo of footsteps fading like a treacherous whisper. The tears she had bottled for so long burst forth then, rolling down her face in silent rivulets that traced furrows in her ashen plumage, while her heart fractured under the harsh decision of what to expect. What outcome would bring her more peace... or, at best, less pain? Her hands rested on her now-empty belly, a void that ached more than the previous fullness, a reminder of what might have been and what probably would not be.
     
     ***
     
     The throne room was ready almost immediately, even before Paimon's entrance, as if the palace itself anticipated his will. The abyssal darkness only fed the faint flames of a few candles surrounding the new being, their lights dancing over walls etched with ancient runes that seemed to whisper forgotten secrets. The air was dense, charged with an aroma of ozone and melted wax, like the prelude to a contained storm.
     Deposited on a soft cushion of black velvet atop a pedestal marked with Paimon's seal, all centred in a large sigil painted on the floor with coagulated blood and iridescent pigments, a circle that pulsed faintly under the scarce light.
     With the doors closed —a dull thunder that sealed the space like a coffin— voices bounced from wall to wall like echoes from the past: a sad song without a mouth to sing it, melancholic and ethereal, filtering through the hinges with the shrill timbre of an invisible flute, only to cut off abruptly when the king gave the order, his presence bursting in like a cold gale.
     Given the signal, all who remained in the place abandoned it; servants retreated with bowed heads, their shadows elongating grotesquely; even the candles obeyed, extinguishing their flames with a collective hiss, leaving an acrid smoke that coiled in the air, for no one could witness the ritual, a secret guarded under penalty of obliteration.
     And so, within the profound nothingness; a void that absorbed sound and light, where time seemed to fold upon itself, the king's silhouette transformed. His form elongated, feathers merging into living shadows, red trails glinting at various points like eyes piercing the void without illuminating the shadows, a pulsating glow.
     Next, the sigils began to shine with a crimson radiance, rotating counterclockwise; a hypnotic movement that distorted the space around them, making a new one appear over the shell, an ephemeral symbol that etched itself into the surface like a brand of red-hot iron.
     The curtains could be heard dancing despite the absence of wind.
     The temperature rose without need of fire.
     And just as it began, the ritual ended abruptly.
     The curtains returned to calm, hanging inert; the candles relit; the windows opened with a creak, and the infernal sunbathed the grand hall once more with its light.
     With a tense fist, Paimon withdrew, his cape billowing like broken wings, and the egg consumed itself in ashes that scattered like black snow, a final whisper.
     The servants cleaned without words or opinions, erasing the evidence; ashes swept away, sigils faded, air purified with incense, as if rewinding time: everything returned to normal, a repeated cycle that concealed the fissures.
     Only the mother remained, inevitably bound to all life she created, now plunged into a grief that throbbed like a severed bond, a void extending from her belly to her soul, echo of a loss she felt in every heartbeat.
     
     ***
     
     “There will always be another chance,” Paimon declared, slamming the door behind him.
     Octavia held her silence, her eyes piercing the shadows of his words, unmasking the emptiness throbbing beneath.
     Her face, furrowed by the exhaustion of labour, captured the darkness of a departure into non-existence, and the turbulence gnawing at her interior: a fleeting breath in the momentary cessation, devoured by the dread that the pattern would resurface, perhaps with a more inexorable end, a perpetual turn towards the abyss.
     Paimon loomed before that stillness, his eyes fixed on hers with absolute incredulity, interpreting the muteness as a veiled affront, an effort to disassociate from the shared failure.
     “You could have avoided this if the child weren’t a failure.”
     “He is your son too,” Octavia broke the veil, her voice emerging like a blade.
     For him, creation was not grace, but mandate: to sculpt the successor in unassailable heights, with no cracks for the ephemeral like innocence or play. Chance could demand the handover at any breath, tempered in rigour, not illusions.
     Octavia embodied the reverse: she revered her son in his naked essence, in his unadorned frankness, battling to grant him an existence free of chains, aware that his essence harboured a dormant vigour, destined to bloom at its own rhythm, not under oppression.
     “And that’s why he should resemble one,” Paimon retorted, wounded deep down. “But instead, I have a child who does not know how to speak. Who barely walks. And is ignorant of the etiquette that befits him.”
     “He is a child. He resembles what a child should,” Octavia countered, her tone rising in irritation. “If Lucifer urged us to virtue, patience heads that chain.”
     “Insolent woman!”
     Paimon raised his hand to strike, halting at the zenith, the arm dangling like a pending leaf, while their gazes collided in a mute confrontation, each pupil a well yearning to engulf the other, their furies like colossi disputing dominion. Perhaps she had torn his armour of arrogance, or a remnant of something tangible—if such a vestige persisted in his hardened core—restrained him; but the impact evaporated, suspended, only to revive suddenly and crash against the queen’s pale face, which now burned in sharp sting. A painful feint.
     Silence reclaimed the space after the reverberation of the contact, a gap that sucked all vestige of sound, while Paimon recomposed his mask and buried his hands in the folds of his cape, a habitual gesture of containment.
     “I don’t know what you seek with him, but from now on he’ll be under my command,” Paimon concluded. “If he proves a burden, prepare for what comes.”
     Paimon abandoned the alcove, his mind already weaving schemes to forge the prince in his mould, discontent with the fruits of Octavia’s shelter, which appeared to him not as guidance, but as intentional erosion to his imperishable heritage, a reflection of thwarted dominion.
     “And I’ll keep delivering failure after failure,” Octavia whispered.
     Paimon, reluctant to yield the closure, turned with a warning that distilled venom.
     “Then I’ll find someone who grants me what I desire.”
     “Who? Your concubines? The offspring of King Paimon, a bastard?”
     Octavia’s reproach fanned the last spark in Paimon’s rage, who slammed the door with a roar that resonated like an augury, and in manifest mockery.
     
     ***
     
     Paimon burst into the passageways linking the palaces, his silhouette mutating into a common blur: feathers dissolving into nondescript skin, crown evaporating into a tattered hat, as he trod streets teeming with oblivious crowds. The people passed without perceiving how their steps brushed the royal threshold, a veil where the banal engulfed the forbidden, and dominion extended invisible, branching like veins in the darkness.
     Guards, attired as vulgar sentinels, bowed heads upon recognising his essence behind the disguise, their eyes averting in blind obedience while he advanced, weaving strata of falsehood that dissolved substance into chimera. The gothic towers rose brazenly, merging into the excess of the circle, where power filtered in murmurs, stifling proclamations.
     Within, the initial hall received him with armchairs guarding an elevated floor, a central vase erect like a mute watchtower, rival doors opening to passageways saturated with enigma. The left exhaled fragrant mists from baths and lagoons, the right aligned chambers like niches in an august corral, each a hollow where pleasure reclined under hollow promises of escape.
     Both converged in a salon where a vast bed governed, ornaments eclipsing the rest, reducing the harem to a modest inn. Here, the concubines awaited, anchored by whims that bought submission, their eyes reflecting the perpetual bond of greed and panic, entangled in gilded labyrinths that veiled precipices.
     “Patra.”
     Paimon’s voice invoked that name like an irrevocable edict. Patra emerged, primordial succubus, her contour recalling imps in her human half, but sealed by preserved wings, though diminished by conflict, shrunk to minimal relics, vestiges of a lost ascent.
     Her horns mocked moulds: they shifted into incalculable contours, often painted in the tone of her dermis, pink on pink, or mottled with ebony, even disparate in scale and hue, one dominating the other in arbitrary disorder.
     Such beings eluded all categorisation, a whirlwind of silhouettes that disdained the common. In the depths of the underworld, a tome like The Dark Encounters: Tales of Succubae and Incubi by Giacomo Casanova captured their essence; as it was in life, so in hell, they whispered before their demise at Asmodeus’s hands, who, though delighted by souls sinking into raptures, marked unbreakable barriers to offences.
     Patra emerged in those pages with insistence, delineated thus: A woman whose beauty exceeds the term, without touching even the subtlest fibre of her captivating hair; an exquisite effluvium that raptures the olfaction and holds it captive.
     Everything in her flows like Asian fabrics, her black hair and withered rose figure overload the impulses, as if they endured in this non-existence, until suffocating them, appropriating the touch.
     Her accent, smooth and enchanting, soothes the heartbeat while igniting it if such contradiction is possible. Her cadence drills like her gaze, stripping the ear until deafening all but her bewitching aria.
     Her mould, perfect in every arc, assures he who tasted countless in life, fuses a million profiles into one, with capacity for myriads. Invoke the utmost beauty and multiply it by hosts; guard that image, for it will have already confiscated the sight.
     The palate capitulates at last: sunk in her sorcery, her honey lips close the final taste of life, or in my eternity. I would praise the Creator for this gift, but it would be sin! To hell, in this pit what matters: thanks, Supreme, for this lethally refined creation!
     Patra personified the succubus paradigm, sovereign in Paimon’s harem, his favourite under a mantle of safeguard: free of physical obligations, she governed the enclave with command. Her attire announced her rank, exquisite threads and extravagances that outshone the others, mirror of the system Paimon dictated, where privilege quantified in strata of pomp.
     “Your Highness.”
     Patra responded with a profound curtsey, her silhouette inclining like a shadow folding before the abyss, before turning towards the residential wing. Her wings whispered a warning to the others, an echo propagating the master’s arrival through the passageways where desire entangled with fear.
     When Paimon reached his alcove, the other five already awaited alongside Patra, their forms aligned in a semicircle that captured the dim light, projecting shadows that danced like omens on the walls.
     “For you, my lord.”
     Patra extended her hands in a fluid gesture, presenting the others like a merchant displaying treasures before fleeting passersby, then withdrawing with silenced steps, leaving the captives alone with their sovereign.
     From left to right unfolded three hellhounds, an imp with striped horns, and a hybrid whose essence fused contradictory impulses. Livia, the first, held her white fur with a vitality that contrasted the confinement; Cornelia, beside her, hid tremors in varied greys; Faria, with earthy tones, projected a contained aggressiveness. Mella, the imp, balanced her pointed tail in a rhythm suggesting latent venom; Mirra, the mixed one, curved her form in a promise of inherited excesses, each an echo of submission forged in the crucible of truncated yearnings.
     Livia stood at the front, her white fur capturing the light like frost resisting thaw, red corneas glinting against pale eyes pierced by abyssal pupils. The tallest of the five, her form evoked a wolf forged in eternal blizzards: sharp ears rising like sentinels, mane cascading to the waist, veiling half her face in a mantle of mystery. Her tail swayed fluffy, a whisper of trapped clouds, while her silhouette curved in precarious balance—modest breasts yielding to wide hips. Even in the shadows of confinement, a gleam persisted in her gaze, a sliver of light defying the cycle’s weight, perhaps fed by youth’s brief respites.
     Cornelia, beside her, wrapped herself in greys spanning known shadows and others eluding name, her figure broader than Livia’s, accentuated breasts as if compensating what the other omitted. Close as entwined roots, even now they brushed in silence, a bond persisting despite their shared entry to the enclave with Faria. The least versed in its depths, her subtle tremor betrayed a primordial dread of Paimon, an echo reverberating from the first threshold crossed, stifling any yearning for dominion under a mantle of forced submission.
     Faria, the shortest of the three, kept distance, her body contained like a coiled spring, something that stirred murmurs when her age placed her above the others. Her fur mimicked the Mexican wolf, browns interwoven with blacks and greys suggesting a lurking coyote; her aggressive essence filtered in every rigid gesture, in the tail tensing like a warning, withdrawing to elude touches that might awaken internal storms.
     Mella, imp of elevated stature for her lineage in that era, short striped horns over intense crimson skin, balanced a reserved form that did not hide her allure: yellow eyes projecting illusory sweetness, while her red tail, elongated and sharp, curved like a scorpion’s stinger, ready to inject venom into the quiet.
     Mirra, the most unkempt in appearance, born of a fleeting cross between imp and succubus, surpassed Mella in height, but shrank in defence, a sign of how the others subdued her. Her ample proportions, maternal inheritance, curved the most captivating figure of all: skin in a shade between red and fiery pink, one horn striped like her imp father’s, the other tinted in succubus pink, a chaos whispering promises of excesses in every resigned movement.
     All were covered in ethereal veils that barely concealed nudity, fabrics adhering like second skins in disparate tones: burning red, deep blue, regal purple, immaculate white, abyssal black, each colour an echo of invisible hierarchies dissolving in the oppressive presence.
     “Welcome, master,” they intoned in unison, their voices weaving a veil that hid abysses of yearning and resignation.
     Paimon remained silent, his magic stripping him of garments that fell like shed skins, deposited in Patra’s extended arms. She collected them with a fleeting touch, withdrawing once the air charged with his exposed nudity, a silence sucking the space between them.
     The five rushed towards him, Livia with an impetus illuminating her eyes, Cornelia trembling in each step, Faria with a furrowed brow like a contained storm, and the others in a flow of giggles resonating infantile, gestures betraying a delight in surrender, a whisper of essence bowed before the yoke uniting them.
     “Your Highness, whatever you desire we shall do for you,” Livia whispered, her tone a thread entangling the air.
     The boldest, she adhered to his left flank, pressing her form against his, while Mella claimed the right, her curves melting in a shared pulse.
     “And whatever you desire, you may do with us,” Mella added, her voice an echo deepening the bond.
     Paimon scrutinised them coldly, though his eyes lingered on the lines of their bodies, their weight upon him kindling a heat branching invisible. Cornelia, Faria, and Mirra, less daring, knelt on the bed, Faria and Mirra to the right, Cornelia to the left, their postures a tapestry of waiting disguising internal storms.
     Livia and Mella took the initiative, lips brushing neck and cheeks, Paimon turning occasionally to capture theirs in an exchange venting his morning fury: nails raking skin, fingers squeezing curves, eliciting soft moans and tails thrashing uncontrollably, a cycle of pain transmuting into ecstasy.
     But limiting to those two denied the purpose of summoning the whole; so, he spurred the others, capturing Livia’s tail by the base during a sway, pulling it towards him. She responded with a veiled whimper, buttocks undulating, legs flexing to mitigate the sting, a movement he exploited, fingers tracing her moist folds.
     The shift from pain to delight kindled envies in Mella, Faria, and Mirra, while Cornelia petrified, her gaze a well of primordial wariness.
     Mella acted, coiling her slender tail around his arm, a mute plea for equal treatment. But Paimon’s eyes fixed on Cornelia, intensifying the pulse of envy.
     After tracing Livia’s contours repeatedly, Paimon broke the silence.
     “Cornelia, lift your sister’s paw.”
     All turned to her, who, with trembling hands, obeyed, elevating Livia’s limb. Their gazes crossed, Livia offering an anchor in the exchange, a gesture infusing courage amid the whirlwind terrifying her.
     But Paimon persisted in the game.
     “Eyes down, watch,” he ordered.
     Slowly, she yielded, eyes descending while he exposed Livia, claws parting folds in a crude display, she contains whimpers to not deepen her sister’s abyss, a precarious balance where desire crushed the fragile.
     Paimon whispered orders branching in the charged air, his claws guiding the flow like roots sinking into fertile yet sterile earth. “I have five of you to attend; help me with Livia.”
     Cornelia hesitated, her grey fur trembling in waves betraying the internal precipice, a hollow where the mandate collided with instinct.
     “We must obey, sister,” Livia responded, her tone a balm hiding fissures, infusing a sliver of light in the penumbra.
     After a suspended breath, Cornelia yielded, tongue tracing paths on her sister’s exposed form, licking the fingers still retaining moisture, an exchange transmuting the touch into a perpetual bond of surrender and containment.
     Livia resisted the ascent of ecstasy, but her essence betrayed her, moans escaping like echoes from an abyss devouring will, caresses and games interweaving pleasure suffocating any veil of reticence.
     In confinement, roles inverted: the younger became anchor, her innocence a refuge forged in prior shadows, while Faria, the middle one, tensed in fierce guard, her aggressive nature a barrier against intrusions that might shatter the fragile balance they had woven among themselves.
     The scene unfolded in a tangle of bodies and desires, each concubine yielding to Paimon’s whims with a mixture of resignation and forced fervour. Livia arched under his touch, her moans filling the air, while Mella’s tail coiled around his leg, pulling him closer. Cornelia, pushed beyond her limits, joined the fray, her tongue hesitant at first, then driven by the inescapable command.
     Faria watched with barely contained fury, her body rigid until Paimon’s gaze fell upon her, compelling her to kneel and serve. Mirra, the hybrid, moved with a chaotic grace, her mismatched horns glinting as she pressed against him, her curves a promise of untamed excess.
     The king orchestrated the symphony of their submission, his hands and mouth exploring without mercy, drawing out gasps and whimpers that echoed through the chamber. Pain and pleasure blurred, each thrust and caress a reminder of their place in his world.
     As the hours wore on, exhaustion claimed them one by one, their bodies spent and marked by his dominance. Paimon, sated at last, dismissed them with a wave, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and surrender.
     
     ***
     
     The palace corridors seemed narrower after that, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the weight of what transpired. Paimon returned to his duties, his mind already shifting to the next scheme, while the harem retreated into its gilded cage, whispers of resentment and fear lingering in the shadows.
     Octavia, unaware yet sensing the shift in the air, held Stolas closer that night, her instincts warning her of the gathering storm. The child’s innocent coos contrasted sharply with the darkness encroaching, a fragile light in a world of eternal twilight.
     But the pattern persisted. Paimon’s visits to the harem became more frequent, a silent declaration of his discontent. Octavia’s grief deepened, her resolve hardening like steel in fire. She whispered promises to her son in the quiet hours, vowing to shield him from the fate Paimon envisioned.
     The separation between king and queen grew, a chasm widening with each passing day. Meals were taken in silence, public appearances masked the rift, but cracks appeared: Octavia’s gaze a void devouring light, Stolas’ muteness a presage silencing innocence, Paimon’s step an advance crushing the ephemeral.
     Plebeians and courtiers caught the imbalance, murmurs propagating like a cycle anticipating collapse, a turn where the apparent dissolved into the inevitable, an end insinuating itself in every prolonged silence.
     
     ***
     
     Months passed like stars across the firmament: without noise, without pause, without asking permission.
     Paimon and Octavia grew accustomed to their informal separation with an almost ritual efficiency. Contact between them reduced to the strictly necessary, stripped of intimacy and laden with obligation.
     The voices of the people, however, knew no discretion.
     They arrived wrapped in laughter, disguised as mockery, carried by the jester while entertaining the prince. A condemned soul in clown attire, skin painted red to mimic an imp. His form was almost human but deformed by a nature that seemed to have taken vengeance on him… or perhaps not. Maybe he had always been thus.
     Among humans, he was described as a jester of unpleasant face, intelligence intact at his thirty years, small forehead, eyes too large, prominent nose, and clumsy body. A broad, flat belly, crowned by an impossible-to-ignore hump. If his act did not provoke laughter, his mere presence did. Sometimes both confused. In any case, he was a born jester.
     “There I was, yes, there I was, at the flea market,” he babbled while staggering. “The one that sets up near the wrathful when the purge approaches. As always, complaining about the Goetia… this and that.”
     He rolled on the floor and gave a clumsy somersault. Stolas watched him with absolute attention.
     “They dared mock you, my lord, and your wife. They said you looked… mismatched. As if you were not a couple! Or are you?”
     The jester burst into laughter, satisfied with himself, while exaggerating another fall.
     “If you are, get closer, Your Majesty. The queen does not smell bad… nor you are worse. Maybe it is the prince who has not had his nappy changed since last month.”
     “Since when do they say that?” Paimon asked, letting him continue.
     “Always! Only now they cannot hide it. What will Lucifer think? Ah… Lucifer.”
     Octavia laughed, brief, sincere. Exactly what she desired: that Lucifer see.
     “Are you insinuating it’s my fault?” Paimon’s voice rose barely.
     “Never, my king. Perhaps it is pride, climbing to your head and claiming even others’ faults.” He looked at Octavia, capitalising on her laughter. “If the queen laughs, perhaps she knows where the truth lies.”
     “And what would you do in my place?” Paimon asked. “Jester.”
     “What wouldn’t I? Drink until losing control, bed every available woman…” He paused, theatrical. “But if you want my sincere advice: smile wickedly and put my wife in her place.”
     Paimon laughed.
     Octavia stopped.
     “And I’d change sons,” the condemned continued. “He does not speak, does not walk… so small. Almost like me. Would you like to be a jester with me? For prince, you are no good. No, no.”
     The laughter died in the air.
     That was exactly what Paimon would not tolerate: his heir becoming object of mockery. And there it was, before him.
     “Him? A clown?” Paimon’s voice became pure pressure.
     “Depends on the sense of humour, Your Majesty. But how funny a fool as governor would be! Twice over!”
     “You’ve given me something to think about,” Paimon said with false calm. “Now go. Before another joke costs your life.”
     He made a sign.
     “Not again!” The jester clutched his head. “I, Triboulet, who served under Louis XII and Francis I… I have already had that fate! Let me die, I beg you.”
     He kicked while being dragged away. He pleaded for the end as if it were a favour. Perhaps the madman grew madder when surrounded by other madmen.
     “This is what I get for listening to Mammon,” Paimon muttered, rubbing his forehead.
     He withdrew, taking Stolas with him.
     Octavia had been too long without her son. And though her repudiation of her husband remained intact, the desire to be a mother again began to impose itself. A silent conflict grew within her: surrender to hold Stolas in her arms once more or persist in her war.
     She had staked everything on Paimon’s sole fear. She had sacrificed all. And yet she doubted.
     Paimon, meanwhile, continued the punishment with surgical precision: he closed rooms to force her to sleep with him; removed chairs to compel her to share the table; and the impending end of the cycle, with its public appearances, chained her to his side anew.
     Octavia watched her advantage crumble. The sensation was like climbing a mountain whose summit receded the closer she drew.
     She was running out of options.
     Paimon was not.
     Thus passed the days, until only thirty remained… and one more, before the end of another cycle. And the arrival of the Maledictum.
     
     ***
     
     “Crocell arrives tomorrow,” Paimon said as they prepared for bed. “Have the child ready in time.”
     Octavia nodded without responding immediately. After so long apart from her son, it cost her not to betray the jubilation those words provoked. She did not deceive herself: it was no gesture of reconciliation, nor forgiveness. Paimon did not change without motive. But the possibility of being a mother again, even for a few hours, surpassed any attempt to feign indifference or analyse what her husband plotted.
     That night, dawn did not find her asleep.
     She rose almost at the same time as the servants and went straight to her son’s room, the one denied to her for months. Stolas still slept when she took him against her chest, as if she had not seen him in an eternity. She held him with contained urgency, breathing his scent, memorising his weight.
     The little one woke as soon as he recognised her. His eyes opened wide, and a broad smile lit his face. Octavia returned the smile with equal intensity, a mother rediscovering something she thought lost.
     The scene was so serene that even Rym, accustomed to anticipating conflicts, paused upon entering.
     “Your Highness! If the king finds out…”
     “It is fine, Rym. I have his permission.”
     The governess hesitated a second before bowing her head.
     “Lucifer bless his benevolence. The prince has been inconsolable since His Highness the king gave the order.”
     For an instant, Octavia was about to nod. But the phrase stuck like a thorn. It was not benevolence. It was a concession. And Paimon’s concessions always demanded something in return.
     Still, she decided not to ruin the moment. If this were a loan, she would make the most of it as if it were permanent.
     “We have visitors today,” she said softly. “Stolas must look perfect.”
     The little one watched as Rym and Octavia discussed outfits, combined fabrics, discarded options and revisited others. They bathed him, combed him, arranged him again and again. Octavia moved from side to side with absolute concentration, determined to make him shine.
     And she succeeded.
     Stolas’ feathers gleamed, his eyes stood out against the white of his face, and his body looked so fluffy he seemed a newly unwrapped toy. But in the effort to perfect him, both women stopped truly seeing him.
     Stolas noticed.
     He babbled, tried to draw attention. Rym asked for calm while cleaning his beak. He attempted to stand, took one or two unsteady steps before falling. Octavia lifted him without looking, readjusting his feathers as if they were part of the costume.
     Each strove for distinct reasons.
     When exhaustion overcame will, Stolas surrendered. His eyes still shone, but something in his expression dimmed. No one noticed.
     At breakfast time, Octavia presented herself as the perfect wife. It could almost seem a silent negotiation: more time with her son in exchange for obedience. She knew exactly what image she projected and chose to ignore it.
     Such was her zeal that she even waited for Crocell at the entrance alongside the servants.
     “Woman, stop making a fool of yourself and come to breakfast,” Paimon reprimanded.
     “And Crocell?”
     “He will arrive later. Next time, control your impulses and ask for the full details.”
     He was right. Octavia only knew Crocell was coming and the child must be ready. Her anxiety for Stolas had eclipsed everything else. The servants, who had worked against the clock on her orders, exchanged frustrated glances.
     The prepared breakfast was for two families.
     Work, time, and resources wasted.
     Octavia sat at the table beside Paimon and Stolas as in times past. The humiliation showed in her body’s rigidity. Stolas, determined to show what he had learned, tried using the cutlery. They were not the right ones. He did not hold them well. Still, he did not bring food to his beak without ensuring his mother watched.
     He did not understand the difference between being in someone’s field of vision… and being seen.
     Octavia ate in silence, absent. She noticed none of his efforts. Stolas lowered his gaze. Guilt, that strange sensation, began to take shape.
     “You’ll need to behave during his visit,” Paimon said between bites. “I hope I’m clear.”
     “Yes, Paimon.”
     “If necessary, imitate his wife.”
     Octavia clenched her fists under the table.
     “Of course, love,” she said, adopting the role immediately.
     “If only your son learned as quickly.”
     When they finished, Octavia took Stolas in her arms again while the servants cleared.
     “And when is later?” she asked, turning her back.
     “Any moment. I asked him to arrive after breakfast.”
     Octavia closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then she carried Stolas to the front garden. She wanted to gain time. Air. Perhaps meet Theia upon arrival, vent at last.
     Too much time had passed since they last saw each other.
     
     ***
     
     Not an hour passed before the dukes’ arrival was announced.
     Crocell’s carriage, though more sober than the hosts,’ sacrificed no elegance. In that circle, even austerity was a carefully designed luxury.
     As soon as it stopped at the main entrance, Octavia was notified. As discreet revenge, she remained near the threshold without alerting Paimon. The servants advanced to receive them, replicating the efficiency of Crocell’s house. Only when protocol demanded did Octavia step forward with Stolas in arms.
     “Your Highness, Octavia,” Crocell greeted with firm voice.
     “And little Stolas,” Theia added, approaching with a genuine smile.
     “Crocell. Theia,” Octavia replied with almost convincing cordiality. “Welcome. Paimon awaits inside.”
     “He finally returned your son,” Theia commented softly as they walked together.
     She did not know the full truth but intuited enough. Octavia decided to hold the facade until alone with her.
     “In the end, the mother knows best,” she responded.
     “Completely.”
     They advanced through the palace while Stolas tried impressing the visitors with clumsy babbles. The sounds sufficed to alert Paimon, completing Octavia’s small ploy. He feigned surprise, laughed awkwardly, and blamed the servants for not notifying him. Crocell and Theia cared little.
     “Octavia,” Paimon intervened. “Take Theia to the garden, please. Crocell and I will talk in the study.”
     The study had been prepared in advance: bottles of various liquors, appetisers arranged with care, two chairs facing a low table. No interruption would be permitted.
     Crocell, aware of Paimon’s reputation, was ready to offer excuses. But silence won.
     Too much had happened during the cycle. Of all the dukes, he was the one Paimon turned to when something broke. Emerging alive already seemed an acceptable victory.
     Paimon indicated he sit. Crocell obeyed. Paimon served himself first, drinking calmly, waiting.
     “Crocell,” he said at last. “Explain something.”
     “Of course, Your Highness.”
     “There was a recent accident. Hellhounds and imps found with a blessed weapon.” He twirled the glass slowly.
     When the problem involved damned souls, the culprit was usually evident. They were bound to their circle by sins. But a creature born in hell was another matter. Free transit. Politics. Consequences. As long as not caught.
     “If I may, Barbatos…”
     “Barbatos rules the fifth circle. This happened here. And one escaped with the weapon. That makes it my problem; your problem.”
     Crocell swallowed.
     “During interrogation, it was confirmed they were fifth-circle residents.”
     “A loose blessed weapon is not an incident, Crocell. It is a risk.”
     “My Counts—”
     “Useless. Like Barbatos.” Paimon did not let him proceed. “I don’t know what your daughter saw in him.”
     “Had I known—”
     “Have they located the weapon?”
     “Furfur believes it is hidden in the fifth circle’s mines. But the damned are colluding.”
     Paimon sighed.
     “I do not care what that woman says. I want Malthus, Raum, and Bifrons to raze the place if necessary.”
     “And Satan?” Crocell asked. “Lucifer was clear on circle self-management.”
     “Then advise your son-in-law.”
     “If Satan doesn’t permit—”
     “Crocell.” The tone sufficed. “Don’t fail me.”
     He accepted. No alternative.
     After such reprimand, they spoke for hours more: wealth, circles, promising damned, minor names beginning to stand out. When they realised, it was lunchtime.
     
     ***
     
     When Paimon and Crocell withdrew to the study, Octavia, and Theia—with Stolas still in arms—headed to the palace’s rear garden.
     There, for the first time in months, Octavia seemed to relax. Not full relief, but a truce. Theia knew the rumours circulating about the marriage but ignored the deterioration’s magnitude. Octavia had never told her clearly. Not out of loyalty, but an irrational fear that, with Stolas’ seizure, had reinstalled itself violently.
     Theia noticed without words.
     The way Octavia clutched her son.
     How she did not avert her gaze from him.
     How Stolas nestled against her chest, refusing to let go.
     They sat. The table was already set with refreshments. The grass swayed around their claws, the infernal sun heralded afternoon, and the breeze carried flower perfume. Still, none beautified the scene truly. Tension lingered, contained.
     “The Maledictum feast approaches, my queen,” Theia said. “Will you speak to Lucifer? Paimon would not suspect.”
     Octavia’s body tensed immediately. No need to think the answer.
     “No,” she denied firmly. “As soon as he finishes displaying before the Goetia, he will not detach from Lucifer. You know how it works.”
     “Are you sure? He could help if—”
     “You don’t understand,” she interrupted, voice cracking. “If for a whim he could take Stolas from me… even if Lucifer punished him… I must protect him.”
     Theia fell silent.
     “Months,” Octavia continued. “Months seeing him suffer without doing anything. If he deems it necessary, he can dispose of us both.”
     “But every king needs an heir.”
     “He’d ask Tella,” Octavia frowned. “My sister fell from grace as soon as we arrived here.”
     “If not indiscreet… What became of her?”
     “Ask her during the Maledictum,” she cut off. “I would rather not speak of that. Tell me about you. I am tired of hearing myself.”
     Theia understood the limit. Changed course without insisting.
     “There have been problems too, Your Highness. Valefar will not stop consulting me about her poor husband.”
     Her expression changed. She too needed to release something.
     “Barbatos and Crocell still do not get along. Lately it is worsened. Constant complaints from the Counts…”
     “Then his visit isn’t casual.”
     “If Paimon’s interested, it cannot be good. Didn’t he tell you anything?”
     Octavia evaded the question.
     “And your brothers?”
     “Gusion and Eligos? Too busy boasting about Agares and his future as duke. About Andras… I could not say. He does not seem to have a good relationship with him.”
     “Andras will be marquis. Something to do with that.”
     The conversation lightened. Octavia set Stolas on the grass, as usual. He, sensing his mother’s calm, stopped clinging and began exploring clumsily.
     “That marriage is… sui generis,” Theia commented. “It never would have happened up there. A brother with his sister.”
     “Up there we had no marriages.”
     “It truly was heaven.”
     They laughed, brief, sincere. The weight accompanying them dissipated just enough to let them breathe. For a while, they were not queen and duchess. Just two women of equal rank, remembering what they had been before.
     The truce lasted little.
     Lunchtime approached.
     
     ***
     
     Octavia called Stolas back and, with him in arms again, escorted Theia to the entrance. She was ready to say goodbye when Paimon appeared with Crocell, interrupting any final intimacy.
     “I hope you come with appetite,” he said, pointing to the grand dining room.
     Octavia blinked, disoriented. Still, she followed her husband’s pace as he guided all inside. The table was set with excessive display even for the house’s standards. Elaborate dishes, unnecessary abundance. None had been announced.
     Stolas was also invited to sit. By Paimon’s express order.
     The combination was too precise for coincidence. Octavia understood immediately: not hospitality. A test. And she seemed the only one knowing. Crocell and Theia served themselves normally. Paimon’s gaze, however, did not leave her.
     “I’m curious, Theia,” he said at last. “Your grandchildren. What ages?”
     “Stella turns three this cycle. Andrealphus, six.”
     “Right. Octavia mentioned after our last meeting.” He smiled. “And do they behave?”
     “Of course. Andrealphus already started training as marquis. Even shows interest in his father’s tasks.”
     “And his sister?”
     “Stella walks and says her first words.” Theia held a light laugh. “Andrealphus does not find it so charming. She follows him everywhere.”
     “So, she walks and talks.” Paimon nodded, then looked at his wife. “Their parents must be proud.”
     “Stolas takes his time,” Octavia interjected with tense smile. “Perhaps I spoil him too much.”
     “Humans say late talking signals great intelligence,” Theia added, doubtful. “It wouldn’t be strange, being your son.”
     “What do you say?” Crocell replied, uncomfortable. “Of course he is.”
     “What do you think, Octavia?” Paimon asked.
     “He’s your son,” she answered.
     “Still,” Paimon concluded. “A bit of motivation harms no one.”
     The meal continued in thick silence. Octavia kept Stolas impeccable, attentive, correct. At any cost. The little one obeyed, rigid, confused by a harshness he did not recognise in his mother.
     The patient woman vanished.
     The obedient queen took her place.
     And Paimon smiled inwardly. This was the mother he had always expected.
     The afternoon advanced without incidents. When plates emptied, Crocell and Theia thanked the hospitality and prepared to leave. Before crossing the threshold, Theia turned to Octavia.
     “Tell him, Octavia.”
     
     ***
     
     When the door closed and they were alone, Paimon approached Octavia.
     She still held Stolas. She did not let go.
     Paimon placed a hand on her shoulder. Not violent. No need.
     “That child will start the next cycle behaving as befits,” he said softly. “Or you will not see him again. This is your last chance.”
     His red eyes rested on Stolas without disguise. No anger in them. Only disapproval.
     The little one did not understand the words, but the tone. He clung to his mother’s chest, seeking refuge.
     Octavia did not move. Did not respond. Did not lower her gaze.
     
     ***
     
     The following weeks, Octavia devoted herself entirely to Stolas.
     Not from conviction, but fear.
     Not from tenderness, but threat.
     Paimon, meanwhile, oversaw closing the last pending before the Maledictum. Reports, meetings, corrections. Hell did not govern itself.
     From Greed’s swamps came constant reports. Mammon had settled there, and with him circulated hard-to-ignore stories: an imp who had subdued the sharkins, infernal shark-bodied creatures, using them for goods transport. According to reports, he operated under Mammon’s direct protection.
     The more he reviewed the presidents’ notes, the clearer the pattern: even acting in self-interest, Mammon bore indirect responsibility for the fifth circle’s events. He had even acquired a recent circus, one standing out among the lower classes’ miserable businesses.
     As long as he granted no real power, Paimon could not intervene. And that wait irritated him. Sharing circle with Mammon was one of the few things truly able to discomfort him.
     The rivalry was not secret. Where Mammon left filth and decay, Paimon demanded order and splendour. Mammon hoarded for himself; Paimon wanted all his to seem wealth. According to him, as long as lines were not crossed, no conflict. Mammon, of course, shared no such courtesy.
     He also ensured the rescued damned caused no problems. Freshly freed, trauma kept him hidden in the darkest alleys. As long as he stayed there, protected, he would pose no risk.
     Among minor matters, Paimon began reserving time to observe the child’s progress. The Maledictum neared. Stolas must be up to par.
     During those weeks, the little one learned to stay upright and took his first steps. Octavia wept with pride the first time he succeeded.
     It was not enough.
     She tried motivating him as she could, but at that age he responded only to play, colours, curiosity. Each day he showed less interest in exercises. Even when she softened her tone, insistence filtered in every gesture.
     He still did not speak.
     The more Octavia encouraged, the more silence she found. She came to frown, close her beak obstinately, as if words were something to protect.
     Still, Paimon began showing closer to Octavia. Almost like a husband, if ignoring constant threats to separate her from Stolas at the slightest opposition. It was his way of rewarding obedience. Punishment and concession. Thus, one taught, according to him.
     The rewards were not generous. More trial time. Sharing bed again. Insinuations admitting no clear response.
     None convinced Octavia to try conceiving another heir. No matter soft words or veiled pressures. Stolas was not replaceable. And she knew it.
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