Last chance


        The passing months resembled the twinkling stars in the sky. Paimon and Octavia had grown accustomed to their informal separation, with minimal contact except when necessary. However, the jester’s mocking of others’ opinions during his performance for the prince resulted in the people’s voices being heard loud and clear. 
        A deformed man, dressed as a clown and with skin painted red to mimic an imp, appeared almost human yet twisted by nature. Perhaps he had always been a buffoon, as he was described among people, with a displeasing face, as intellectually capable as the day he was born when he reached his 30s, possessing a small forehead and large eyes, a colossal nose, a bad physique and a protruding belly accompanied by a hump. 
        His performance often triggered laughter, but his awkwardness and unpleasant appearance also added to the amusement. At times, the hilarity stemmed from the act and its performer. Regardless, he was, without a doubt, a natural buffoon. 
        —There I found myself at the flea market, located near the enraged and the angrier when the purge is close. —He stumbled as he spoke—. They frequently expressed dissent concerning the Goetia, among other things. They even had the audacity to ridicule your appearance, my lord, and that of your wife. They questioned whether you made a suitable match. 
        The jester performed cartwheels for Stolas while laughing, presuming to be clever. Stolas watched the display attentively. 
        —If you are, thy should be closer together, your majesty. Or is it something to do with the queen’s scent or asserting that one person smells worse than another. There may be an explanation for any potential odours, such as the prince having not had his nappy changed recently.
        —How long has this been going on? —Paimon asked, winding up the comedian’s words—.
        —It’s been going on forever! Only now they don’t know how to pretend. What will Lucifer think? Oh, not to speak of Lucifer!
        Octavia didn’t bother to keep from laughing at this. It was exactly what she wanted; for Lucifer to account for Paimon and his lack of virtue.
        —Are you saying it’s my fault? —Paimon raised his voice—.
        —I didn’t say that Your Majesty. It appears that pride may have clouded thy judgement, and now it is you who attempts to claim unfavourable titles? —He gave a nod to Octavia’s laughter and winded the matter up—. But if even the queen laughed, perhaps she knows more of what is true.
        —-And what would you do in my place? Jester. —Paimon challenged the condemned man—.
        —What I wouldn’t do! But to drink myself out of control and engage in promiscuous behaviour with all women. But if you want to know what I would do in your position, then I would say: Calmly assert my authority and set my wife straight.
        Paimon found the comment amusing, while Octavia’s previously cheery expression quickly turned to one of disgust.
        —I would also exchange my son for another. —The jester continued—. He neither speaks nor stands still. And all small, almost like me. Would you like to be a jester at my side? Because you’re not fit to be a prince, no, you’re not.
        Paimon’s discomfort was made real in this joke. What he wanted to avoid was for his son to be the cause of ridicule, and here he had someone ready to make fun of him.
        —Him? A clown? —Paimon questioned, raising his voice—.
        —Well, it depends on your sense of humour. But how funny it would be to have a fool of a governor! Twice!
        —You’ve given me something to think about, you buffoon. Now get out of here before another one of your jokes costs you your life. —Paimon gave the signal to be taken away—.
        —Not again! —The pitiable man held his head with his hands—. If I, the court jester Triboulet, who served under Kings Louis XII and Francis I, have already undergone such a predicament, I implore you to end my suffering.
        As the hapless individual struggled, his voice beseeched for an end to his torment. Perhaps it was the case that insanity amplified in the midst of madness.
        —This is what I get for taking Mammon at his word. —Paimon rubbed his forehead as if he experienced a headache—. 
        Paimon departed, taking Stolas with him. Octavia had yearned for her child, despite her rejection of her husband, causing a dilemma within her. Her intense desire to hold Stolas again clashed with her infatuation towards him.
        She was left with no alternative since she had entrusted it all in her husband’s one fear, and Octavia had already made tremendous sacrifices, and yet, she harboured doubts about her chances of victory.
        Meanwhile, Paimon relentlessly tormented his wife, closing out any room that wasn’t theirs to sleep in and removing chairs from the dining hall, so she was compelled to share meals with him. Moreover, the end of the cycle, which necessitated public appearances, left her with no choice but to spend time with him.
        Meanwhile, all that she had worked towards seemed to vanish and she could only observe as her supposed advantage gradually slipped away. This sensation was akin to scaling a mountain, only for it to expand just as she nears the summit.
        Octavia had exhausted all her options, while Paimon still had the same choices available. Consequently, the days passed until only 30 and one remained for the preceding end of another cycle.
        
        ***
        
        —Tomorrow Crocell will be visiting, so please ensure that the child is prepared in time. —Paimon informed to Octavia as they got ready for bed—.
        Having spent considerable time apart from her son, she laboured to conceal her elation at hearing his words. She acknowledged that Paimon’s sentiments were not a reflection of a change in his heart, nor a form of absolution. Nonetheless, the simple pleasure of being a mother once again surpassed any inclination to pretend indifference or a hit at her husband’s inevitably dubious intentions. Regardless, she eagerly anticipated the arrival of the next day.
        And upon the arrival of a fresh new day, the woman awoke, nearly as early as the household staff who stir to commence their duties. Hastening towards her son’s chambers, which had been kept from her for an extended period.
        Although he was not yet awake, she embraced him tightly as if they had been apart for an eternity, which was indeed the case for her. Stolas, who longed for his mother’s affection, promptly recognized her scent. Upon awakening, he quickly gazed into his mother’s eyes, grinning broadly. She reciprocated the smile with an equal amount of affection, having missed him dearly.
        The atmosphere at the meeting was so tranquil that even Rym, who had been overseeing Stolas in her absence, entered with anticipation of chaos –only to be pleasantly surprised by the positive atmosphere.
        —Your Highness! If the king finds out-
        —All right, Rym, I have his permission.
        —Lucifer bless his benevolence. The prince has been inconsolable since his highness, the king, gave the order.
        Octavia hoped the moment would not be spoiled, so she hesitated for a moment before finally agreeing. However, upon reflection, she perceived that it was not a kind gesture; instead, it seemed like a harbinger of something to come. With this realization, she knew she should savour the time she spent with her son, as if it were her final moments with him.
        —We are expecting visitors today and Stolas must look impeccable. —Octavia deliberated—.
        Stolas had no choice but to watch as his mother and Rym deliberated over outfits, matching one with the other. He stood still as they bathed him and combed his feathers, completely focused on making him shine.
        The meticulous grooming of Stolas resulted in his impeccable appearance, with his glistening feathers and striking eyes contrasting his complexion. As Rym and Octavia focused solely on Stolas’ looks, the poor offspring attempted to garner attention, particularly from his mother.
        He babbled as if he wanted to communicate, but Rym wiped his face and asked him to be calm. He attempted to stand up and take a few steps, but he fell on his side, with Octavia helping him up and fixing his feathers.
        They both struggled for different reasons. Regrettably, Stolas gave up quickly, as children often do. Although his eyes and feathers were bright, the light in his eyes faded. Neither Rym nor Octavia understood what Stolas was trying to demonstrate.
        When it was time for breakfast, Octavia presented herself as the flawless wife again. It seemed that this was her way of trading with Paimon for more time with her son. Inadvertently, she proved the jester’s advice to her husband right, and if this had been a public event, it would have enhanced the image of their marriage. Despite knowing this, Octavia ignored it and focused on winning Stolas back as much as possible. She exhibited such devotion that she was prepared to wait for Crocell by the entrance with the servants.
        —Octavia, stop embarrassing yourself, and let us go for breakfast. —Paimon scolded—.
        —What about Crocell? –She asked—.
        —He will arrive later. Next time, don’t act on your impulses. Instead, ask for additional details. —He replied—.
        Paimon was right; Octavia only knew about Crocell’s visit and the need to have the child ready on time. However, her fascination with Stolas made her disregard what she truly required to know. Even the servants who worked diligently at her command were frustrated, as they expected accurate and sustained orders from their superiors.
        Octavia’s failure resulted in the food being wasted as they had prepared for both families. This not only wasted time and labour but also materials. In the end she felt extremely humiliated.
        As Octavia sat down beside Paimon and Stolas at the table, her feeling of helplessness emanated from her gaze. Little Stolas was still eager to impress his mother with his newly gained knowledge, trying his best to use the available cutlery, albeit not correctly. Nonetheless, he made sure to look at his mother before taking a bite.  
        Stolas was unclear on the distinction between one being in someone’s peripheral vision and that person being fully engaged with them. So, to him it felt like Octavia was ignoring him, causing him to feel not skilled enough. This only served to reinforce his self-doubt, leading Stolas to blame himself for his shortcomings and feel inadequate.
        —I find it necessary to ask you to behave yourself during Crocell’s visit. —Paimon requested between bites—. I hope I am making myself clear.
        —Yes, Paimon.
        —If necessary, imitate his wife.
        Octavia tried not to look insulted, clenching her fists.
        —Of course, my love. —Octavia wanted to tear out her tongue—.
        —If only your son were as quick a learner as you.
        Once they finished, while the servants cleaned up and prepared snacks, Octavia returned to take care of Stolas.
        —And when will this later be? —Octavia asked, turning her back to Paimon as she carried her son—.
        —At any time, I asked him to report back after breakfast, so it’s up to them.
        Octavia closed her eyes and took a deep breath before going out onto the front lawn with Stolas, hoping to spend some time with him. Her wish was to intercept Theia as she arrived, as it had been some time since they last met and there was mutual interest in hearing from each other.
        
        ***
        
        It did not take even an hour before the arrival of the dukes was heard. Their carriage was simpler than others’, but it was not lacking in elegance –a clear example that even austere tastes were not equated with ugliness in that society.
        Octavia was informed as soon as he parked in front of the main entrance, and in subtle revenge, she stood near the entrance without warning Paimon. The servants took charge of receiving the guests, as was the case in Crocell’s mansion. At the appropriate moment for introductions, she promptly walked over with Stolas cradled in her arms and cordially greeted her guests.
        —Your Highness, Octavia. —Crocell raised his voice—.
        —And little Stolas. —Theia continued, coming over to greet him—.
        —Crocell, Theia. —Octavia smiled, almost believably—. Welcome, Paimon is waiting inside.
        —He finally gave you your son back. —Theia continued her conversation with Octavia—.
        Although she didn’t know the truth, Theia had an idea of what was going on; based on what she got to discuss with Octavia before and their public behaviour. However, Octavia intended to keep up her charade until they were alone; just to be on the safe side.
        —In the end it’s the mother who knows the most, you’ll agree.
        —Completely. —Theia confirmed—.
        Everyone entered the palace simultaneously, with Stolas endeavouring to impress the guests through his speech attempts; however, these ultimately resulted in minor noises and incomplete syllables. Paimon observed their arrival as a consequence of the babbling, thereby fulfilling Octavia’s scheme, causing him to appear preoccupied. Although not the most severe humiliation, it was inappropriate given that he was the one who invited them into his home. 
        Paimon laughed insincerely and even reprimanded the servants for not warning him, despite his wife’s prior knowledge. However, Crocell and Theia were not concerned, as one was eager to meet with a friend and Crocell preferred to forego formalities and proceed directly to the point.
        —Please, Octavia, take Theia into the garden while I and Crocell talk. —Paimon deliberated—. Crocell, let’s go to my studio if you don’t mind.
        And while Octavia took Stolas and Theia out to the garden, Paimon and Crocell ensconced themselves in the studio, as previously commanded by Paimon to prevent any interruptions.  
        In the room, various bottles of liquor and aperitifs were available, along with two chairs positioned in front of a table.  
        Although Crocell initially felt on edge due to Paimon’s authoritative demeanour, he became increasingly uncertain and was left speechless.  
        A great deal had transpired during the cycle and since their last exchange, and among all the dukes and duchesses, there was no doubt that Paimon had implored him the most to repair the damage. His only concern was how to exit the situation unscathed. 
        Yet, Paimon remained taciturn, extending a seat to Crocell; he accepted graciously and even assisted himself to refreshments before taking a seat opposite Paimon. It was evident that Paimon hoped Crocell would acquiesce and begin singing on his own. If Crocell was determined to live, he would need to endure a bit longer.
        —Crocell, could you explain something to me? —Paimon looked at his wine glass as he swirled it in circles—.
        —Of course, Your Highness.
        —I heard there was an accident recently, where hellhounds and imps were caught with a blessed weapon in their possession. —His gaze now pierced Crocell’s eyes—. I have no doubt you know what those weapons are for.
        When the issue concerned the damned, identifying the offender was uncomplicated because, unlike the hell-born, they were permanently trapped in the same circles due to their sins and could not transition to other areas. However, when the issue involved a being native to hell, it turned into a political matter since they had the freedom to move around wherever they pleased. In some cases, uncovering their origin could become an insurmountable challenge or, on the contrary, catastrophic if discovered.
        —If Your Highness will permit me, Barbatos.
        —Barbatos —He interrupted—. Oversees the fifth circle the last time I checked, and this was in our territory. And not only that, one of them managed to escape with the gun, which also becomes our responsibility.
        And Paimon was not inaccurate. This is why it could prove problematic to uncover the source. If a king had an issue with another from a different circle, or a duke with another, or so on, it was not unusual for them to boycott each other as an avoidance strategy for reprisals or being held accountable.
        —Your Highness, during the interrogation it was discovered that they are residents of the fifth circle. —Crocell tried to explain. If anyone is responsible, it is him.
        —And therefore, Satan is responsible for him. You, on the other hand, are Lucifer’s responsibility, and therefore my responsibility. And a blessed weapon on the loose is more than just a problem, it’s a risk.
        —There is no doubt that his Counts...
        —Other good-for-nothings, just like Barbatos. —Paimon seemed to have no intention of letting Crocell atone—. I don’t know how he ended up with your daughter.
        —I assure you that, had I known of his incompetence, I would have intervened myself. —Crocell couldn’t catch his breath—.
        —Have they located the weapon yet?
        —According to Furfur, it is believed to be hidden in the mines of the fifth circle. But they have not been able to investigate because the sinners in the area seem to be in collusion.
        Annoyed by increasingly unsatisfactory answers to each question, Paimon was left with no choice but to compel Crocell to produce results instead of excuses.
        —I don’t care what that woman has to say, I want her to take her good-for-nothing gang of Malthus, Raum and Bifrons and destroy the place if necessary.
        —And Satan, your highness? —Crocell sounded concerned—. Lucifer made it clear that each circle was to be self-governing, no one knows that better than you.
        —Then advise your son-in-law.
        —Even so, if Satan does not permit it.
        —Crocell. —Paimon interrupted in a surprisingly calm tone of voice—. 
        —Your Highness? —Crocell replied, his voice on the verge of cracking—.
        —Don’t fail me.
        Unable to decline for fear of exacerbating the situation, he acquiesced –leading Paimon to ultimately divert the discussion. As the cycle draws to a close, there remains an abundance of outstanding tasks; and even though infinity is vast, it always appears to be insufficient.
        As an additional means of deriding God and his creation, at the start of this new underworld, the ruler established his own celebratory occasions. Among these was a blunt parody of Christmas, which was to take place a week prior to the end of the cycle. The event served as a ritual for planning the upcoming purge and determining the direction of hell and its rings for the subsequent cycle. The nearest comparable analogy would be one’s New Year’s resolutions –though performed on dates coinciding with the nativity.
        This was of utmost importance to Paimon as it served as a way of showing that he could carry his and Lucifer’s burden on his shoulders –so that he could focus on the whole of hell as supreme king. And as they had discussed last time, to demonstrate the competence of his rule to the other kings so that they would follow in his footsteps.
        —And how are we doing with the condemned? —Paimon resumed the conversation—.
        —No problem, sir. According to the presidents, we are below all other circles in number of fugitives, most do not exceed the destructive capabilities of a trained hellhound. —Crocell’s voice turned proud only to wobble again—. Except for, well...
        —Continue.
        —Your pet.
        —He will live what he has to live.
        —What about Her Highness Octavia?
        —I’m sure she won’t cause any trouble. —Paimon sounded sure of himself when speaking of her—. 
        —A relief for sure.
        Their conversation continued for several more hours on other subjects of much lesser importance. They compared the fourth circle with the rest, discussed minor strategies for managing the wealth of the residents, talked about inmates with low risk that would soon serve their time (sponsored by Gamigin), and even mentioned the occasional minor demon that appeared to gain some significance. 
        Before they realised, it was time for lunch.
        
        ***
        
        When Paimon and Crocell went to converse, Theia and Octavia –who had Stolas in her arms –headed to the garden located behind the palace. Octavia appeared more relaxed and peaceful than she had in previous months. Theia was aware of the rumours surrounding their marriage, but she was unaware of the full extent of the abuse Octavia had been enduring. Octavia had never confided in anyone due to her irrational fear that the abuse, which had subsided, would resurface, as it did when Stolas was taken away. Theia detected Octavia’s desire to recount everything that had occurred since their last encounter. Whether it was her familiarity with having a daughter and two grandchildren, or some kind of sixth sense, Theia could not tell, but to her, it was merely an observation. 
        The way she hugged Stolas tightly, the way she kept looking at him -and the way Stolas kept clinging to his chest. 
        Upon their arrival, refreshments were already arranged on the table. The grass gently swayed around their paws as the sun shone mercilessly, indicating the early afternoon. The waft of floral fragrance drifted back and forth in the breeze, detectable to anyone with the ability to smell. However, despite the plethora of sensory details, the description failed to enhance the scene.
        —The Maledictum is near my queen. Will you speak to Lucifer? —Theia asked—. Paimon would not suspect.
        Octavia’s entire physique became rigid, and her gaze ultimately revealed her apprehension. One might have expected her to allow a brief interval to elapse before responding, in order to contemplate a suitable reply. However, it appeared that she had already given the matter sufficient consideration, as she did not hesitate for even a moment.
        —No. Besides, as soon as Paimon finishes bragging to all the Goetia about how excellent he is, he won’t leave his side for the rest of the evening. —Octavia sounded defeated—. You know it will happen; it always does.
        —Are you sure? I could help you if you want.
        —You don’t understand. —Octavia interrupted her, almost bursting into the tears she wanted so badly to get out—. If on a mere whim he took Stolas from me... even if Lucifer would punish him... I must protect him.
        —So, all this time...
        —Months where I could only watch my son suffer. —She interrupted Theia again, dedicated to expressing her pain—. He is capable of getting rid of both of us if he sees fit.
        —But every king needs an heir.
        —No doubt she would ask Tella. —Octavia grumbled—. My sister truly fell from grace when we got here.
        —And by the way, if you don’t mind my asking, what has become of your sister, Your Highness?
        —Ask her during the Maledictum. —Octavia made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about her at all—. You’d better tell me about yourself, I’m tired of talking about my problems.
        Theia discerned that Octavia had no intention of further discussing the details pertaining to her recent conflicts with Paimon, as it would potentially jeopardize Stolas. Consequently, while indulging in the appetizers and beverages, Theia directed her thoughts towards alternative matters, refraining from engaging in idle conversation.
        —There have been difficulties too, your highness. Valefar does not cease to consult me about her poor husband.
        Theia’s countenance changed as she began to speak; as if she, too, needed to unburden herself of her inconveniences. Gradually the atmosphere around the two became less hostile, and she remembered that the two had always been close - but that life’s situations had put them in an unequal order.
        —Apparently Barbatos and Crocell still don’t get along; and recently it got worse. —Theia continued—. Continuous complaints from the Counts....
        —Something to do with this visit, then.
        —Whatever it is, if it has His Highness Paimon interested; it can’t be good. He didn’t tell you anything?
        Octavia, sure she didn’t want to have the conversation on her side again, made up a question.
        —What about his siblings?
        —Gusion and Eligos? They spend more time bragging about Agares and his future as a duke. Andras, I have no idea; but it seems the two of them are not getting on very well.
        —Andras will be left as a marquis, I say that that has something to do with it.
        Octavia began to feel calmer as they moved on to talk of other things, even leaving Stolas aside to play in the garden as usual; and Stolas, who could slightly feel that calmness in his mother, slowly stopped clinging to her.
        —That marriage is definitely suigeneris. It would never have happened there. A brother marrying his sister.
        —We didn’t have marriages there, sister.
        —It really was heaven.
        They both laughed a little and finally what was left of the heavy atmosphere had vanished. As the talk between Paimon and Crocell went on, Octavia and Theia’s talk blossomed despite the tragedy that had them struggling against the tide.
        And before they knew it, talk had already extended to that of two friends of the same rank and without so much formality –but the pleasure would be short-lived, since it was time for lunch.
        
        ***

        Octavia called Stolas back and with him in her arms again, escorted Theia from the garden to the entrance; ready to bid her farewell when Paimon arrived with Crocell, who interrupted his wife’s every action.
        —I hope you come with an appetite. —Paimon commented, pointing in the direction of the great dining hall—.
        The queen, perplexed by this situation, calmly listened to the words of her husband, who proceeded to guide everyone to the hall. They all settled into their seats at the grand table, adorned with exquisite cuisine. This occurrence would have been unremarkable if it were not for the fact that the gathering was unexpectedly informal, and no such feast had been scheduled. Additionally, Stolas was in attendance at the behest of Paimon. The convergence of these two circumstances left Octavia feeling vulnerable, as it was evident that this event was a deliberate act of protest, or a snare orchestrated by Paimon –a test of sorts.
        Furthermore, Octavia appeared to be the only one taken aback by the situation. Crocell and Theia were helping themselves to the food as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while Paimon’s attention remained fixed on her.
        —I’m curious, Theia. –Paimon said aloud, finally looking away from his wife—. Your grandchildren, how old are they?
        —This cycle will be Stella’s third and Andrealphus his sixth, your highness.
        —Right. Now that I remember, Octavia mentioned it after our last meeting. And they’re on their best behaviour? —Paimon sounded strangely friendly—.
        —Of course, your highness. Andrealphus has already begun his marquis training this cycle and has even shown great interest in his father’s duties.
        —What about his sister?
        —Stella has recently started walking and is already saying her first words. —Theia tried to not make a chuckle—. Her brother doesn’t find it so pleasant, of course, since she follows him everywhere.
        —Then she is walking and talking. Her parents must be proud. —Paimon turned his gaze to his wife—.
        —Stolas is still taking his time. —Octavia interrupted, trying to sound good-humoured—. Perhaps I spoil him too much.
        —According to humans, talking late is a sign of great intelligence. —Theia felt she had somehow insulted the prince—. As your son, it would be no surprise if this were the case, your highness.
        —What are you talking about, woman. —Crocell sounded annoyed—. Of course, that’s the case.
        —Do you agree, Octavia? —Paimon asked—.
        —He is your son, after all.
        —Of course, I don’t think a little motivation could hurt anyone. —Paimon concluded—.
        The meal progressed with an air of tension, as piercing glances were exchanged among the diners. Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the occasional interruption from Octavia. She was determined to maintain Stolas’ composure in front of their esteemed guests, no matter the cost. The little boy, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar hostility emanating from his mother, had no other option but to comply, driven by fear of this previously unknown aspect of her character.
        The queen, known for her gentle and patient nature towards her son, found herself compelled to adopt an unyielding and callous demeanour. Paimon, in his relentless pursuit, had ultimately emerged victorious, for his wife had transformed into the mother he had always envisioned. The evening progressed seamlessly, with the indulgence in delectable dishes persisting. As the final morsels were savoured and consumed, Theia and Crocell expressed their gratitude for the warm hospitality extended to them. With a final exchange of words, the two women bid farewell, leaving Octavia with a solemn task.
        —Tell him, Octavia—. Theia implored; her voice laden with unspoken meaning—.
        
        ***
        
        As the heavy door swung shut, enveloping the room in an eerie silence, the trio found themselves alone. Paimon, his imposing figure casting a foreboding shadow, closed the distance between himself and Octavia, who cradled Stolas in her arms. With a firm grip on her shoulder, he leaned in, his voice dripping with menace. 
        —That child. —Paimon hissed, his words laced with a chilling threat—. Shall initiate the cycle by adhering to the utmost propriety, or you shall never lay eyes upon him again. This, my dear, is your final opportunity. 
        Paimon’s crimson eyes bore into Stolas, a seething disapproval emanating from his very being. The young boy, sensing the tension, sought solace in the comforting embrace of his mother’s bosom, seeking refuge from the palpable animosity that hung in the air.
        
        ***
        
        In the ensuing weeks, Octavia dedicated herself wholeheartedly to Stolas, driven by threats and fear, in her quest to mold him into the desired heir of Paimon. Meanwhile, Paimon found himself preoccupied with tying up loose ends and addressing lingering issues before the impending Maledictum. 
        News trickled in from the swamps of greed, where Mammon had chosen to establish his domain. Rumours circulated of an imp who had somehow gained mastery over the sharkins, a species of infernal creatures with various shark-like forms. It was said that this imp worked in tandem with Mammon himself, facilitating the transportation of valuable goods. 
        As Paimon delved deeper into the notes provided by the presidents, he began to realize that Mammon, driven by his own self-interests, bore some responsibility for the turmoil that plagued the fourth circle. Not only did Mammon own a circus that was gradually gaining prominence among the lower-class establishments, but he also seemed to be at the center of it all. 
        However, Paimon’s hands were tied as long as he lacked true authority. He yearned for the day when he could exert his power, for sharing the circle with Mammon was a constant source of irritation. Their rivalry ran deep, and the stark contrast between their realms mirrored their conflicting desires. Mammon’s lands, much like his insatiable greed, were squalid and dilapidated, while Paimon’s were resplendent, pristine, and abundant. 
        Mammon sought personal enrichment, while Paimon desired to showcase his opulence in every aspect. To put it in a more positive light, their rivalry could be seen as a clash of visions. As long as Paimon refrained from crossing any boundaries, they could coexist without seeing eye to eye. Mammon, on the other hand, cared little for this so-called feud, dismissing it as inconsequential. 
        Next on Paimon’s agenda was ensuring that the convict he had essentially abducted did not unleash chaos upon their realm. Fresh out of his sentence, the trauma still lingered within the man, causing him to retreat into the shadows of the darkest alleys. Under Paimon’s protection, he remained safe as long as he remained hidden.
        In the same vein, trivial matters were attended to, freeing up time for Paimon to assess the child’s burgeoning abilities. The Maledictum loomed just days away, and Paimon was determined to make a lasting impression on all who resided within Lucifer’s opulent palace. 
        During those weeks, Stolas had finally mastered the art of standing and even took his first tentative steps. Octavia couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride when she witnessed this milestone, yet as always, her husband remained unsatisfied. 
        She attempted to inspire Stolas, but a child of his tender age was motivated solely by games, colours, and the innocence that accompanies youth. If anything, he grew increasingly disinterested in his mother’s attempts at training, even when she approached it with a gentler and more permissive demeanour. Octavia’s unwavering insistence on his improvement was palpable, and it only served to further dampen his spirits. To exacerbate matters, he adamantly refused to speak, and the more she pressed him, the less sound he emitted. His beak clenched tightly; his brow furrowed in frustration. 
        Yet, Paimon exhibited a renewed interest in Octavia, almost resembling a doting husband once more, if one were to disregard the constant threats of snatching Stolas away should she dare to confront him. Perhaps this was his way of rewarding her for adhering to his commands. After all, some individuals respond to punishment and reward, and Paimon believed this to be the most effective means of guiding Octavia along the correct path. From his own skewed perspective, of course.
        However, when it came to Paimon, one could hardly anticipate conventional rewards. The notion of a reward, in his case, extended far beyond the realm of the ordinary. It encompassed the very essence of Octavia’s probationary period as a mother to Stolas, the prospect of rekindling their intimate connection, and, dare I say, even the possibility of indulging in his amorous advances within the confines of their shared bed. Yet, despite Paimon’s relentless pleas, not even the most eloquent of words could sway Octavia to reconsider her stance on seeking another heir, should Stolas prove unsuitable for the position. Paimon’s efforts had grown wearisome, and his patience was wearing thin.
        
        ***
        
        And so, as the Maledictum approached, casting its ominous shadow over the realm of hell, Paimon found himself torn between a sense of relief and an underlying unease. The fourth circle, with its myriad of threats, seemed to be somewhat under control, thanks to Paimon’s tireless efforts. Yet, there remained unresolved dangers, like the sacred weapon lost within Satan’s domain. Paimon held onto a glimmer of hope, a desperate desire to bring Satan to his senses during this crucial period. After all, with Lucifer himself in attendance, no one wanted to appear weak or incompetent on this fateful night. 
        But while the Goetia revealed in the impending arrival of the Maledictum, the rest of hell trembled in fear. Those who did not belong to the Goetia, or lacked the protection of one, faced the very real possibility of having their lives abruptly cut short by the merciless exorcists. It was a curious phenomenon, how swiftly hell had adapted to a life that mirrored the earthly realm. Laws, though relatively optional, had been established and were begrudgingly respected by the inhabitants. Even in a place where murder could be committed at any moment, or one could fall victim to it, this sense of panic only truly gripped them during this special occasion. 
        Perhaps, in the midst of chaos, there existed a delicate balance within oneself. A choice to refrain from wrongdoing, even when it was within one’s power to do so. And conversely, the existence of doing right, even when it was not necessary. In a place where the lines between good and evil were blurred, where the right answer seemed to be the opposite, who then determined what was truly right and wrong? 
        Nevertheless, each circle within hell was consumed by a similar frenzy as the Maledictum drew near. Some sought refuge within the confines of their homes, hoping to shield themselves from the impending storm. Others took to the streets, eager to prove their worth and engage in battle. And then there were those who saw an opportunity amidst the chaos, venturing out to partake in the mayhem or reap some personal gain. Yet, in the end, all these strategies proved futile, for their adversaries were none other than the merciless executioners themselves. There was no hiding from their wrath, no escape from their relentless pursuit. 
        Indeed, hiding was a futile endeavour.
        But let us not hasten the narrative, dear reader, for there remains ample time for preparation should you deem it requisite. At present, you may also partake in the revelry, as the grand celebration unfolds. It is a commemoration of the momentous triumph, the celestial defeat at the hands of the infernal realm - the demise of the divine trinity, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
        Indeed, certain mischievous imps have joined in these festivities, paying homage to their predecessors and the profound legacy they bequeathed. Hellhounds, sharkins, and other denizens of the netherworld have all, in their own unique manner, contributed to this resounding victory - yet perchance, that tale shall be unveiled in due course.
        In the realm of eternal damnation, a peculiar spectacle unfolds before one’s eyes. It is a captivating blend of desperation and redemption, as individuals flee for their lives while others revel in the twisted existence, they have carved out for themselves. This is particularly true for the Goetia, a breed apart. 
        With each passing cycle, the infernal landscape takes on a more human hue. One need only observe the raucous festivities that ensue to comprehend this transformation. Hellhounds, unburdened by servitude, congregate in communal spaces, where their kin gather in great numbers. These gatherings, though lacking in culinary delights, are imbued with the warmth of familial bonds. Their entertainment, however, is a spectacle to behold. Physical altercations between friends and kin serve as a means to reset the cycle or bid farewell in the face of impending extermination. For some, it even serves as a mating ritual, a pretext to indulge in their primal desires. 
        Similar species, such as the sharkins, hellcats, and lesser demons, are not far behind in their revelries. They too partake in these activities, each with their own unique twist and pastimes. 
        In stark contrast, imps, succubae, and their ilk prefer a more intimate setting. They gather in homes, forming tight-knit groups of family and friends. Their proclivities lean towards the excessive consumption of alcohol, substances, and any form of recreational indulgence they can conjure. And, of course, the pursuit of carnal pleasures is never in short supply. Succubae and incubi, in particular, have been known to organize parties solely dedicated to this purpose, reminiscent of the ancient Greek revelries of old.
        Even the condemned sinners, typically the primary targets of exorcists, managed to find a way to revel in their own existence. In truth, they were not so dissimilar from the humanoid creatures, and thus found themselves mingling with them on a somewhat equal social plane. Consequently, it was not uncommon for them to receive invitations to these gatherings. However, it soon became apparent that their attendance was merely an opportunity for others to ridicule them. 
        Curiously enough, the damned would often plead or even fight for the chance to attend these parties, hoping to gain some advantage during the inevitable extermination and live to recount their experiences. Naturally, this desperate desire was swiftly exploited by the infernal beings themselves. Some would offer protection to the guests, while others would betray them, transforming them into mere bait. 
        Ultimately, for any denizen of hell, the Maledictum served as a unique occasion to indulge in particularly wicked behaviour and bid farewell to the mortal realm in grand style, or to witness the birth of a new day and proudly declare, "I have survived." 
        Yet, for the Goetia, who held no regard for such final days, and revealed in every form of joyous debauchery, it was customary to gather together and celebrate the triumph of evil over good. Or rather, their own twisted interpretation of good triumphing over evil.
        
        ***
        
        It is at this juncture that our journey takes us to the realm of the treacherous, the abode of Lucifer, that haughty demon who dared to betray the Almighty God and thus emerged victorious –the slayer of the highest good and the progenitor of all that was, is, and shall ever be. 
        Dante, in his profound odyssey, aptly depicted this realm, but it is evident that his encounter predates the great war, for the current state of affairs surpasses his description. Indeed, it resembles a frozen forest, contrary to popular belief that an eternal inferno engulfs it. Instead, a biting cold pervades the air, searing the flesh and inflicting torment. 
        Many of the poet’s depictions of torture and punishment still persist, albeit in different locations. Now, it resembles more of a perpetual winter city, draped in a blanket of snow with fires ablaze incessantly. Picture, if you will, a hamlet nestled amidst icy mountains or a township at the utmost northern extremity, where the sun never sets and yet the ice never yields to thaw. 
        Now, endeavour to conceive the grandest of castles, and multiply its magnificence infinitely –even then, you shall fail to fathom the splendour that encapsulates even a fraction of diabolical pride. Here lies the epitome of all that is wretched in both hell and earth, united in a single abode.
        The castle stood tall and proud, its walls gleaming like snow in the winter sun. But it was the roofs and walkways that caught the eye, painted a deep red that seemed to drip like blood. It was a sight to behold, a masterpiece of architecture that left one breathless. 
        Yet, as one approached the castle, the glasswork became apparent. Chaotic and confusing, each mural told a story that no one could decipher. It was as if the glass held secrets that were meant to be kept hidden. 
        And then, as the snow began to fall, the truth was revealed. The flakes were not snow, but ashes, remnants of a secret fire that had consumed its victim. It was a haunting sight, one that left a chill in the air. 
        But it was what lay behind the castle that held the true answer to this visual paradox. Lucifer himself, his original body, stood there, an angel of indescribable beauty but seemingly on the brink of falling. His mouth was open, emitting moans that spoke of both hatred and terror. His body was putrefied, serving only as a gateway to Purgatory, where the souls who sought forgiveness resided. 
        Some claimed that within those screams, one could hear the voice of Lucifer, Judas the traitor, and another unknown entity. It was a mystery that had yet to be solved. 
        But it was the flapping of the angel’s wings that brought with it the cold. It was a restless fluttering that turned the circle into a wintry area, and the upper floors into a fiery inferno. Like a campfire in the forest, the air only fanned the flames, creating a spectacle that was both beautiful and terrifying.
        
        ***
        
        The grandeur of the palace’s interior rivals its majestic exterior, a sight that leaves one breathless. Within these opulent walls, trophies of conquests past adorn every corner, each a testament to the indomitable spirit of desire that has prevailed. Portraits, meticulously crafted, depict the battles fought and those yet to come, capturing the essence of valour and anticipation.
        Yet, dear reader, I find myself at a loss for words to adequately convey the profound inspiration that permeates this hallowed place. It is a sensation that defies the boundaries of our linguistic repertoire, an ethereal essence that eludes description. Alas, my feeble attempts to articulate this overwhelming emotion fall short, for there exists no lexicon capable of encapsulating its true essence. 
        Forgive me, for I am unable to complete this portrayal in its entirety. However, I beseech you, dear reader, to summon your own imagination and allow it to weave the missing threads of this tapestry. Envision the splendour, the allure, and the enigmatic allure that this place exudes. Let your mind wander through the corridors of this palace, filling in the gaps left by my inadequate prose.
        
        ***
        
        Finally, the grand spectacle unfolded before our eyes. Carriages adorned with regal insignias rolled in, carrying kings, princes, dukes, and marquises. Some arrived on majestic beasts, while others utilized the enchantment of transportation magic. Yet, despite the coveted invitations extended to all, it was not uncommon for a notable figure to be absent from time to time. Mammon, renowned for his perpetual nonattendance, had already established a reputation in this regard. 
        However, one figure was never to be missed - Belial, the esteemed king of the ninth circle. As Lucifer’s true right-hand man, it was imperative for him to remain steadfastly by his side. Yet, it comes as no surprise that Paimon, not exactly Belial’s closest confidant, posed as his formidable competition. 
        Alas, Furcas, the valiant knight of the ninth circle, was forbidden from attending the gathering. His duty entailed guarding the entrance to Purgatory, ensuring that no soul could pass through its gates by any means. This prohibition was particularly enforced after the unfortunate incident involving Dante. 
        Henceforth, it became a common topic of speculation as to who would grace the Maledictum with their presence and who would be absent - akin to attending a family reunion with the uncertainty of encountering every relative that year. 
        The festivities commenced in full swing as the guests trickled in, and as one can imagine, an abundance of drinks and delectable fare awaited them. The third circle, along with the gracious sponsorship of Queen Beelzebub and King Cerberus, ensured that no indulgence was spared.
        The grandeur of the palace’s front garden stretched out infinitely, as if it could contain the very depths of hell itself. And now, it housed the infernal royalty that had arrived.
        Among them stood Leviathan and Tella, the first to unite in matrimony after the great war, reigning as the king and queen of purgatory. Leviathan, resembling the Sharkins in appearance, bore the likeness of a sea serpent intertwined with a humanoid form. His hands, neck, and head were human-like, while his lower body extended into a long tail, serving as both support and a substitute for legs. His skin, a mesmerizing blend of green and blue, was adorned with scales. Leviathan, much like his physical stature, harboured an insatiable suspicion for that which did not belong to him. Constantly yearning for what was not his own, he grew to be almost as large as his covetous desires. His figure, too, carried a hint of plumpness.
        In stark contrast, his queen possessed an almost entirely human countenance, her skin as pale as ash. Yet, her beauty was unparalleled. Like her husband, she too coveted the beauty of others, ceaselessly striving to acquire more. Angelic wings adorned her back, though they appeared worn and neglected, as if they had suffered damage or injury. As the rulers of purgatory, their attire mirrored the celestial fashion. Leviathan, in his regal garments, seemed to emulate the attire of a Greek philosopher from the era of great thinkers such as Aristotle or Plato. Tella, on the other hand, donned a simple white toga, her crown fashioned from flowers symbolizing purity and sanctity.
        In the realm of divine duty, their primary task had always been to guide the cleansed souls towards the gates of heavenly bliss. However, with the lamentable downfall of God, their purpose underwent a sinister transformation, as they now found themselves consumed by a malevolent desire to taint these souls with the poison of sin or, worse yet, cast them aside into oblivion. As the legends of comedy would have it, purgatory stood as an arduous mountain, a treacherous ascent that one must undertake to reach the hallowed grounds on the other side. And with each step taken towards the summit, the path grew steeper, the obstacles more formidable, and the journey increasingly perilous.
        —Good evening. —Paimon greeted them cordially, glancing at Tella—.
        —Good evening, sister. —Octavia commented as if she was obliged to greet them too—.
        Paimon and Octavia, with Stolas cradled in her arms, made their grand entrance. Heads turned and bodies bowed, even though they were not of the fourth circle. It was unclear whether the gestures were out of respect or mockery, but one thing was certain –the Great Owl commanded attention. 
        Paimon, however, was unfazed by the reactions of others. As long as they did what he said, their opinions were of little consequence. 
        The duo soon encountered Crocell and Theia, who were accompanied by their daughter Valefar and her husband Barbatos of the fifth circle. The family group was a sight to behold, with Stella and Andrealphus trailing behind them. 
        Barbatos was the son of Agares and Amdusias of the sixth circle, Agares whom had passed on to the afterlife. Gusion and Eligos, brother and sister, had married to produce Andras and Agares (II), who also belonged to the sixth circle. The rest of the Goetia demons were either in smaller families or completely independent.
        Valefar, a woman of ethereal beauty, could only be likened to the graceful, black-necked swan. Her lower plumage, as pure as freshly fallen snow, contrasted starkly with the darkness that enveloped her from breast to head, akin to the night sky untouched by any flickering torch or dancing flame. Her body, adorned with curves that rivalled those of a regal swan, exuded a captivating allure. 
        Beside her stood Barbatos, her husband, a peacock adorned in resplendent green and blue plumage. As long as Valefar bestowed her radiance upon him, it seemed as though he embodied every hue known to the universe. His long, dazzling tail, when unfurled, revealed a mesmerizing sight –each feather, instead of the typical droplet shape associated with peacocks, resembled eyes. Within these eyes, pupils sparkled like precious gemstones, be they rubies, emeralds, or countless other treasures. And when his tail was gracefully folded, the colours shimmered through, casting a spellbinding aura. 
        Valefar’s attire, reminiscent of the formal garments worn during the Viking age, held a mysterious allure. Though unable to articulate the reason behind her fascination, it was widely assumed that her affinity for this era stemmed from its violent nature and the fervour for battle and honourable death. A long green fabric enveloped her figure, adorned with a brown, furry collar reminiscent of a bear’s pelt. Proudly displayed on her back was a griffin, a mythical creature from Norse folklore, while beneath the green fabric lay a red dress adorned with golden embellishments. 
        In stark contrast, Barbatos donned the attire of an English soldier from the 1600s. A scarlet coat, adorned with yellow buttons solely at the chest, draped his form. Beneath it, pristine white shirt and trousers, paired with high black boots, completed his ensemble. There existed no visual harmony between their respective outfits, and I assure you, had I not disclosed their marital bond, you would never have surmised it. 
        Yet, despite the stark divergence in their appearances, there existed an undeniable connection between Valefar and Barbatos. It was a bond that transcended the superficial, a union of souls that defied the constraints of mere visual perception.
        In the realm where the boundaries of two species intertwined, a peculiar union gave rise to Stella and Andrealphus, their existence a testament to the enigmatic fusion. Though bearing similarities, they possessed distinct qualities that set them apart. Stella, akin to a fledgling swan, possessed an ethereal beauty that belied her tender age of merely two cycles. Her appearance mirrored that of Stolas, adorned in a coat of black and white plumage, yet she possessed an air of uniqueness, for her eyes harboured a predisposition to the intense emotion that is hatred, concealed beneath a delicate hue of Mexican pink. 
        Resembling her mother, the black-necked swan, Stella inherited certain somber shades that adorned various parts of her plumage. Only through careful observation could one discern the subtle differences between her and Stolas –the colour of her body, the shade of her eyes, and the delicate pinkness of her beak. Draped in a resplendent pink dress, she exuded an air of grandeur and charm that captivated all who beheld her. 
        Valefar and Barbatos, eagerly awaiting the growth of Stella’s tail, yearned for it to mirror her father’s, yet retain the softness reminiscent of her mother’s.
        Andrealphus, a mere five cycles old, displayed a remarkable maturity beyond his years. He walked and talked with the confidence and poise of someone much older, embodying the very essence of what Paimon desired from Stolas.  
        His coat, a pristine white with delicate blue undertones, seamlessly transitioned from one shade to the next, creating a mesmerizing gradient. His upper body mirrored that of his mother’s, save for the striking blue hue that adorned his beak. Only his legs, a stark contrast in black, deviated from the otherwise harmonious colour scheme. The magnificent peacock’s tail, a trait inherited from his father, Barbatos, boasted a unique feature - instead of the usual kaleidoscope of colours, it showcased a pattern of brilliant blue diamonds.  
        From an early age, it became evident that Andrealphus harboured a complex about his appearance. A peculiar blend of disdain and unwavering self-assurance permeated his being. He constantly sought to impress others with his impeccable looks, yet the mere mention of his father’s name would send him spiralling into a deep melancholy. In the presence of those he held dear, his embarrassment would cause him to retreat and hide away.  
        Engaging in discussions about his appearance yielded one of three outcomes - a display of contempt, an overwhelming sense of self-importance, or a mixture of both.  
        His attire mirrored that of a nobleman from the Victorian era, befitting a child of noble lineage. Naturally, his garments matched the hues of his vibrant plumage, creating a seamless harmony between his clothing and his natural beauty.  
        Andrealphus would fix his gaze upon Stolas, nestled in Octavia’s arms, then shift his attention to the queen, and finally to Paimon –the one who held the most power over him, the one who intimidated him to his core.
        
        —Andrealphus. —Paimon spoke—.
        The little boy immediately stood tall and defensive. He had already heard how hard he was on his grandfather Crocell and had overheard his father’s conversation about the king’s orders –the boy was ready not to be attacked.
        —Yes, your highness? —Andrealphus replied.
        His tone of voice was high-pitched; common for a boy of his age, somewhat difficult to understand what he was saying, but clear enough that he did not have to repeat himself. Moreover, he knew well how to address others according to his rank of power.
        —What are we celebrating today?
        —The victory of King Lucifer against God and the end of another cycle.
        —Why do we have cycles?
        —To cleanse Hell of dangerous souls. —Andrealphus seemed to run out of breath as he gave long sentences, but he refused to give up—. And to prepare it for the new souls that will enter after the purge.
        Paimon’s satisfaction overflowed, surpassing mere contentment. The answer he received not only possessed a modicum of correctness, but it also provided him with a justification to regard Stolas with disdain. The wily Stolas, concealed within the vessel of Octavia, could not escape Paimon’s discerning gaze, which reflected his displeasure. Each cycle, akin to a rigorous examination for the sinners condemned to damnation, served as a litmus test to determine their worthiness for the betterment of the infernal realm. It was a trial to ascertain whether they could be of any use or if they should be swiftly eliminated. However, Paimon knew all too well that no one adhered to such a rule, as he had previously elucidated. Ultimately, it was nothing more than a flimsy pretext to eradicate anyone who posed a potential threat to those who held the reins of power.
        —What cycle are we entering now?
        —The Twenty-first.
        —Congratulations Barbatos, Valefar. —Paimon said in a tone that didn’t even sound like a compliment—. May he serve his highness Lucifer, well.
        Both bowed in thanks.
        —Barbatos, your brothers, mother...? —Paimon seemed to look around for the rest of the family—.
        —An apology your majesty. They are at the party, but I don’t know where or with whom.
        —That’s fine, I was planning to avoid them.
        Silence hung heavy in the air as Paimon wordlessly took hold of Octavia’s waist, guiding her towards the center of the grand hall. Theia, with a mere glance, reminded the queen of their last discussion. 
        Exiting the main hallway, one finds themselves in the grand foyer, a vast and empty space that serves as a gateway to the throne room and the curved stairs leading to the upper floors. Though several demons lingered about, Paimon paid them no mind, his focus solely on the great hall where the feast was to be held. 
        There, the other kings had already gathered, with the notable absence of Mammon as per usual. Tella and Leviathan remained outside, out of sight. The anticipation of the feast hung thick in the air, a palpable energy that seemed to electrify the very walls of the hall.
        Lucifer was also gone; Lilith was nowhere to be seen. Paimon had no choice but to wait for them to show up to kick off the festivities - and then he could brag about all he had accomplished, criticize the others, and remind him again that he was there to fulfil his wish for a virtuous hell.
        And while he seemed anxious, Octavia seemed to want to get out of there - she knew that if she had the chance she would speak out and accuse her husband of adultery. The only doubt was how she would make the announcement, or whether she would do it at all. Whatever her decision, fate had already taken her in her place.
        In the realm of darkness, amidst the ethereal whispers and the haunting shadows, Paimon found himself in the presence of none other than Satan himself. Accompanied by his wife Vine, the couple engaged in a private conversation, their little daughter Sitri standing by her countenance reflecting sheer boredom. Paimon, seizing the opportunity, sought to unravel the mystery of the missing holy weapon, and to gauge Satan’s response to the threats he had issued to Crocell. 
        Satan, the very embodiment of Lucifer’s antithesis, bore a striking resemblance to his counterpart, often leading mortals to mistake one for the other. However, there existed a fundamental divergence between the two. While Lucifer retained a semblance of humanity in his visage, Satan blended his humanoid features with the grotesque physique of a lesser demon, amplifying his terrifying countenance. His pallid skin, tinged with a sickly red hue, verged on a ghastly shade of grey. Horns, reminiscent of a goat’s, protruded menacingly from his forehead, exuding an aura of intimidation. His elongated, pointed ears added to his otherworldly allure, while his eyes, a lifeless crimson, seemed to hold the secrets of the abyss. 
        Clad solely in a chest plate akin to that of Roman soldiers, Satan left his shoulders and hands exposed, a display of his formidable power. A skirt, fashioned from a fabric concealed beneath a series of vertically aligned metal plates, adorned his lower half, reminiscent of the armour donned by ancient warriors. Completing his infernal ensemble were his ebony, goat-like legs, encased in metal guards, and his wings, black as night, evoking the imagery of a vampire from the pages of a gothic novel.
        His wife Vine, one couldn’t help but marvel at her almost human face, marred only by a flattened nose and a pronounced mouth that bore a striking resemblance to the features of a lioness. She was like Satan himself, with horns that were similar to those of an imp, but not just two –she possessed seven, three on each side and one in the middle of her head, all but two of them backwards as if combed, and the two at the bottom facing forward like the horns of a mountain goat. Her figure was feminine and slender, but devoid of meat, if you catch my drift –and her grey eyes matched her skin, while her lips were even darker, only compared to her wings, which were similar to those of her husband. 
        Vine was dressed in a strange armour, tightly attached to her body and seeming to be part of her own skin. The first piece covered her neck, shoulders, chest, abdomen, and became one piece when they joined at her crotch - leaving her legs completely exposed. Her paws, more like those of a feline, were also exposed and unarmoured, leaving her claws exposed and poking at the ground. 
        Satan’s voice was deep and commanding, while Vine’s was feminine and aggressive. Moreover, it seemed that several voices were coming out of her mouth, saying the same thing, like an echo in her speech. It was a sight to behold in awe and in fear.
        Lastly, there was Sitri. At just eight cycles old, she had already taken on the lioness aspect of her mother, her entire form transformed into that of a full-fledged lioness with wings. Her ashen fur was mixed with the expected yellow of her animal form, and her wings were unlike any other - feathered like those of an angel, yet perfectly in line with her unique colour scheme.
        But it was her voice that truly set her apart. Though she appeared as a fearsome predator, her speech was that of an ordinary girl, with feline accents that added a touch of otherworldly charm. And her eyes –oh, her eyes! A bright yellow that shone like the sun, they stood out from her face and drew the gaze of all who beheld her.
        Despite her formidable appearance, Sitri’s clothing was surprisingly conservative. A few pieces of cloth, artfully arranged to form a dress that echoed the dark tones favoured by her parents. It was a striking contrast to her wild nature, and only added to her allure.
        —Satan, what a pleasant coincidence. —Paimon sneered—.