     Before Breaking
     
     
     
     The night was cold and at its zenith.
     A blood-red moon bathed the streets, gardens, and groves in a crimson glow, casting everything in a hue that seemed almost sanguine. The mournful wind howled, carrying with it the lament of the damned, bending plants into a twisted waltz—nature dancing to a funereal opera. Wax lamps flickered timidly, their yellow haze softening the edges of alleys and corners where creatures too fearful to be seen clung to shadow. The avenues, meanwhile, stood barren.
     And so, deep within the Fourth Circle of Hell, we arrive at a palace. Gothic in architecture, with spired rooftops and needle-sharp towers.
     Weathervanes spun lazily atop dark pinnacles that scraped the violet clouds of eternal twilight. Polished black stone walls stood adorned with carved tracery and stained-glass windows that whispered forgotten tales. Pointed arches rose above creeping vines, which clung stubbornly to the buttresses like jealous memories. Light—faint and flickering—breathed from behind the glass, suggesting the building still pulsed with some secret life.
     The main door, an imposing slab of wrought iron, creaked open, exhaling a breath of warm, ancient air, thick with incense and dust.
     Planters framed the threshold, overflowing with flora that defied taxonomy—some earthly, others unmistakably infernal, their surreal forms betraying their origin in Avernus.
     This is where our tale begins: in the bedchamber of one of the kings of the underworld.
     The walls were draped in scarlet wallpaper, patterned with winged sigils in flight—circles of twin wings encasing five-pointed crowns—repeated like mosaic fragments across every surface. At the centre of the chamber stood a massive bed, clad in velvet and silk, so sumptuous it beckoned the weary into Morpheus’s embrace.
     On either side, an oil lamp flickered—not with fuel, but with faint flames conjured by magic—casting an eerie warmth upon mahogany dressing tables, hand-carved with baroque reliefs that seemed to pulse beneath the light.
     Here lay two beings.
     The first: Paimon.
     His form was that of a wingless, anthropomorphic royal owl—regal and broad-shouldered. His feathers, a bright mahogany, shimmered beneath the haunted light. Great plumes rose above his eyes like immense, expressive brows, shadowing a golden crown encrusted with white diamonds that sat imperiously upon his head.
     A long, tapering tail trailed behind him, brushing the floor with every step and amplifying his already imposing stature. Upon his face rested a white Victorian mask, adorned with gold filigree, through which burned two ruby eyes: irises blood-red, corneas black as the abyss—lanterns lost in a subterranean chasm.
     His attire, cut in the style of the late 19th century, swathed his frame in deliberate grandeur. A white camisole lay beneath a wine-red waistcoat, clasped with gold buttons and trimmed with black cords. Between them spilled a garland-like chain—an emblem of lineage and occult authority, worn proudly above his garments like a badge.
     Black leather gloves covered his hands—not the gloves of a courtier, but of a hunter. His trousers, dark and close-fitting, traced the lines of his legs with sombre restraint. Over all, a high-collared cloak fell to the ground, golden within—its fabric dusted with soft white specks like imprisoned starlight—and crimson without, a gradient of scarlet and maroon that culminated in an embroidered base of glittering jewels: an inverted constellation sewn into the void.
     Paimon stood in argument with the second figure: his wife, Queen Octavia.
     Her form was delicate, adorned with curves carved to perfection—beauty seemingly sculpted by the eternal itself. Like her husband, she too bore the shape of a wingless owl, though her feathers were ashen, tinged with pale blues and glimmers of ice.
     Her face—immaculate and alabaster—was otherworldly. Six eyes adorned it: two positioned where any being’s should be, and four more aligned vertically on her forehead, two per side. All glowed a deep red, save for the lowermost pair, whose irises shone a uniform white—molten ivory spheres that rendered her visage both mesmerising and unnatural. The effect was that of a celestial mask, similar to Paimon’s, yet hers veiled her features entirely, giving her an ethereal gravitas.
     Her brows were refined, human in expression, lending her face a quiet, ritual grace. A small, slender beak completed the vision of controlled gentleness—perfectly calibrated, and precisely that: calculated.
     Her gown was a single, seamless garment—glimmering fabric cut so ornately it seemed like layered robes. Its style echoed her husband’s Victorian fashion yet leaned towards opulence over severity. The cloth held all the hues of a starless cosmos: blacks, greys, icy whites, and deep blues that accentuated golden embellishments at the waist, collar, sleeves, and chest.
     Long gloves of dark, semi-transparent silk veiled her arms, while a three-pronged golden crown—small but unmistakeable—rested lightly upon her brow, signifying her reign in silence.
     To look at her was to feel both maternal warmth and cold reverence—an elegance born not of intention, but of innate divinity.
     Their voices clashed.
     Each word from their beaks sliced the air, glances exchanged like blades honed on old bitterness. Their resentment, ancient and abiding, swelled between them—thick enough to echo down through generations.
     The storm of their quarrel disturbed the stillness of the palace—
     —and, unknowingly, woke the little prince.
     In the adjacent chamber, nearly identical in design to that of his parents, stood a cradle where a bed would have been. Carved from cedar and adorned with floating constellations, it rocked gently under a silent spell. A soft red cloth draped over it like a makeshift canopy, part veil, part protection.
     Within lay a chick.
     Small, round, with grey feathers and a pale white face. His four crimson eyes glowed like embers, echoing his parents’ gaze. Swaddled in striped, blue pyjamas and wrapped in a navy blanket, he clung to it tightly—trembling at the shouts seeping through the walls.
     Beside him sat a stuffed toy: red, vaguely rabbit-shaped, with a grotesque grin and sharp, oversized teeth. A toy clearly ill-suited for any child.
     Back in the master chamber, the argument raged on.
     “Don’t get angry?” Octavia spat, her voice trembling with barely contained wrath. “Of all the idiotic things you could have done! Are we not meant to be the example?”
     Each word shook under the strain of knotted disappointment.
     “Cease your insolence, woman,” Paimon snapped. “Do not forget—among the Goetia, I command. Know your place.”
     “Oh, pardon me, Your Majesty…” she hissed, voice drenched in venom. “I forgot—royalty is exempt from such petty concerns as fidelity.”
     “Your sarcasm,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “will get you nowhere.”
     “You slept with my whore of a sister! Would you think it wiser to consult His Highness Lucifer? To know what he thinks of his favourite dog being unable to set the standard?”
     Paimon’s blood bubbled with heat—a direct reaction to Octavia’s threat.
     It was true: Paimon was at the head of the Goetia, along with the other kings. But Lucifer? Lucifer was above everything and everyone. If Paimon fell, the kings fell with him. And if the kings fell... then Lucifer himself would be put to shame.
     That was impermissible.
     Driven by his instincts, Paimon grabbed Octavia by the throat with one hand, while the other cupped her face across her cheeks. Without a word, he slammed her against the wall with all his might.
     The blow sounded sharp and cruel.
     Octavia, struggling for breath, held the choking hand with both hands. In self-defence, she opened her beak and plunged it furiously into her husband’s flesh.
     The peck only fuelled his rage.
     Paimon immediately released his wife, only to clench his fist and strike her brutally.
     Her beak cracked, and a trickle of blood ran down her face, soaking feathers and staining her clothes.
     As Paimon turned away to stare at the barely noticeable mark on his skin, he staggered, his eyes alight with pain and fury.
     The emotional impact reverberated more than the physical: the violence shook the atmosphere with such intensity that the little prince in the next room burst into tears.
     His cry was high-pitched, desperate. It pierced the walls like a dagger, becoming audible in every corner of the palace.
     It was a pure, visceral cry, born of fear... and brokenness.
     That sound was enough to break something inside Paimon. He had endured enough insults for one night.
     “You’re a filthy animal!” Octavia spat, her voice thick with contempt as she struggled to hold back tears.
     Out of pure maternal instinct, Octavia wiped her face with her sleeve and rushed to the desperate call of her son—who was already in the arms of a willing butler.
     The latter had anticipated the conflict, entering as soon as the crying had begun. But the little one gave no quarter: his cry was inconsolable, as if each sound were a plea for order and comfort.
     The imps—creatures of small stature, not half the height of a Goetia—were red-skinned and horned, white with black stripes, or black with white stripes... or of a single colour, with no definite pattern. Inferior in every physical or hierarchical respect, but equally essential: they made up the bulk of the infernal population.
     This particular one had medium-sized, pointed horns, fully erect upwards, with three distinct black stripes. His skin was red, except for a pale tinge around his right eye, where the red faded slightly to white.
     He sported a curious white moustache and a similarly snowy mane—obvious signs of his advanced age.
     From his back extended a tail topped by three spines, with an arrow-shaped tip.
     He was dressed in sober elegance: a white shirt with a high collar, a reddish-purple bow tie, a grey coat, black trousers, long white socks, and well-polished black patent leather shoes.
     “My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty,” said the butler, his voice heavy with shame and defeat. “I could not help but interrupt your conversation.”
     But his tone changed immediately when he noticed the wounds on the Queen’s face.
     “My! What an outrage!” he exclaimed in horror. “I will call the doctor at once.”
     “There is no need, Rael; you may go,” Octavia sighed, her voice breaking with soul-deep exhaustion.
     “At once, Your Highness.”
     The imp withdrew without another word, carefully handing the prince over. Octavia received him in her arms, and at once the gloomy weeping died away—as if her presence alone was enough to restore peace.
     “There is nothing to worry about, little one. Mummy is here.”
     The baby, with trembling little hands, reached for his mother’s face. He didn’t laugh or babble, but in his movements you could feel the agony—that pure form of sadness that only a child can express without understanding.
     “Calm down... Mummy’s fine. Promise me you’ll go to sleep and stop crying?”
     Incomprehensible sounds were her answer. Octavia, with infinite tenderness and ancient wisdom, reached for the toy. As soon as she offered it to him, the little one clung to it with force, waving his arms and legs as he gave a weak smile.
     Octavia gently returned him to his cradle, settled him carefully, and watched him for a moment longer. Then she rose.
     “Sweet dreams, my dear Stolas,” she whispered, gently closing the door.
     Back in her bedchamber—choking with the wish she hadn’t—Octavia returned to face her husband.
     Paimon seemed unmoved by all that had happened. Confident in his authority, convinced that he had committed no wrongdoing. For him, if there were consequences, they would be for Octavia. And if there were injuries, she deserved them.
     “The doctor’s coming to check on you. I want no questions at breakfast tomorrow,” he growled—more command than warning.
     While Octavia was absent, Paimon had begun to undress slowly. He removed his shirt, folded it meticulously, and tossed it into the basket with the rest of his clothes. He now wore only his underwear.
     His body was to be admired: powerfully built, with muscles defined without excess. The broad chest, the shapely pecs—everything about him was a sculpture of strength.
     But for Octavia, that attractiveness had ceased to exist. His beauty had become irrelevant—buried under layers of emotional poison.
     Paimon, however, did not understand. In his mind, he still believed that his charms had the same effect as ever—that his physique was enough to erase his sins.
     And so, he approached his wife. He grasped her shoulders firmly and began to caress them sensually, as if his touch could justify the unforgivable. As if it were an apology that would never be said.
     Octavia looked away in disgust and tried to pull out of his grasp. She didn’t succeed at first. It wasn’t until someone knocked on the door that Paimon finally released her... granting her momentary freedom.
     “Come in,” Paimon said in a deep, cold tone.
     “With your permission, Your Majesty. Was I summoned?”
     The voice came from the other side of the door. A new imp entered with measured steps.
     This one had short, horizontally curved horns, almost like the handlebars of a motorbike, crossed by two black stripes. His round, prominent nose protruded from a plump face, partially covered by exaggeratedly large bottle glasses.
     He wore a black suit reminiscent of the old plague doctors—though without the iconic raven mask—giving him a warmer, less frightening appearance.
     He carried a black leather case, from which he pulled out a series of instruments: all designed to examine the Queen’s face and neck—the areas abused by her husband.
     He worked quietly and efficiently. First, he applied a salve which, on contact with the wounds, erased them as if they had never existed. Then he placed a towel over Octavia’s beak, under which rested a strange, non-melting ice.
     The original whiteness of her complexion returned in a matter of seconds.
     And yet, the scene was still deeply creepy.
     “This ice is a blessing from the Ninth Circle,” the doctor commented with a good-natured chuckle. “They never thaw. Just hold this over the beak for a few more minutes and you can go to sleep.”
     “Thank you, Doctor. When you’re finished, you may go,” Paimon ordered.
     “Don’t worry, Your Highness. It was nothing serious,” added the imp in a comforting tone, turning to Octavia.
     After a couple of minutes, Octavia handed him back the frozen cloth. The doctor bowed to them both, put away his tools, and withdrew without further words, leaving the alcove silent again.
     “Next time... let this serve your memory,” Paimon said, his voice sharp as a whip. “Now let’s go to sleep. I don’t plan to be late tomorrow.”
     He walked over to the bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his wife—as if everything was in order.
     Octavia, still sore, gently removed her dress. She was left in her underwear: a thin pair of panties and a simple bra. With trembling hands, she slipped on a soft cloth dressing gown to serve as pyjamas.
     And—against all her wishes—she lay down next to her husband.
     Paimon immediately wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in an icy, hypocritical embrace. His body pressed close to hers with barely concealed lasciviousness, as if the world had not shattered minutes before.
     Octavia squeezed her eyes shut, her beak trembling slightly, as her claws dug into the sheet—searching for an anchor in the storm raging inside her.
     And so, the two of them slowly fell into sleep...
     ...one convinced of his right.
     The other, wishing not to wake up.

     ***
     
     The sun emerged slowly on the infernal horizon, casting its anomalous rays across the violet sky. Its light, incandescent and surreal, began to seep through the palace windows, caressing the black stone walls with ungodly warmth.
     The plants reacted to the bain-marie of this insane star. Their petals opened with ritual slowness, in communion with a dawn that did not promise peace—only continuity.
     Rays of light filtered into the royal chambers. First into the kings’, then into the adjoining chamber, where a small figure slept under the shelter of his enchanted cradle. As the light touched his face, the prince’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly, with the fragility of one who does not yet understand the world, he began to awaken.
     His first sound of the day was a cry. Not of fear like the previous one, but of habit. An almost ceremonial chant that announced the beginning of a new day.
     “Woman...”
     Paimon’s voice crawled between the pillows like a frustrated command, stifled by the weight of his own ennui. He mumbled without looking, waiting for the world to respond to his complaint before he opened his eyes.
     Octavia, in her infinite wisdom—and mastery of morning choreography—waited a moment. A single minute was enough for the crying to stop. The baby was calm again.
     Still drowsy, the Queen knew exactly what to do as she left her bedchamber.
     “Good morning, my prince,” she sang with a gentleness that belied the previous night.
     “Good morning, Your Majesty,” a feminine voice behind her replied.
     “Good morning, Rym.”
     After handing the child over, the governess bent down to pick up a toy from the floor. She did so with pinpoint precision, without disturbing a crease in her impeccable uniform.
     Her presence was elegantly commanding. Barely taller than an average imp, Rym moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, guiding with firm, smooth gestures the other housekeepers who followed her like reflexes. They tidied, cleaned, prepared—each task performed with the grace of a silent procession.
     Meanwhile, Stolas played with his mother’s beak. He held it in his small hands, tugging gently, as if to test its texture... or make sure it was still there.
     Octavia rocked him slowly. A gentle, almost imperceptible swaying, as if her body resisted the movement—but her duty demanded it.
     “The bath is ready, mother,” came another voice.
     A young imp, of similar build to Rym and in an identical uniform, approached with a shyly casual tone.
     “Thank you, girl.”
     And so, Octavia kissed the little prince’s forehead. Her kiss was brief but charged with a tenderness so precise it seemed meditated.
     Then she returned him gently into the arms of the housekeepers, wishing she could hold him forever, as if she alone could protect him from the world... though she knew it was not so.
     She left the room with a sigh that barely broke the silence. Behind her, the routine continued.
     And preparations for today’s meeting were still underway.
     
     ***
     
     It was not long before it was time to leave.
     Only a few steps from the carriage, Rym handed Octavia the pram where Stolas rested, hidden beneath a discreet veil. The little prince, clinging to his stuffed rabbit as though it were a shield, was dressed in his finest attire: a small red shawl with gold buttons and braided laces over a perfectly pressed white camisole. His feathers shone like dew at dawn—soft to the touch, cool as living silk.
     He glowed in tandem with the contraption that carried him: a purple pram of ostentatious design. Constructed from burnished metal, it was composed of curved poles that intertwined at impossible angles. Its creamy white fabric roof contrasted with fine black detailing—funereal and beautiful in equal measure. The large wheels turned smoothly, allowing for easy ascent into the carriage.
     The vehicle itself resembled a moving sculpture more than a means of transport. Its dense steel frame was adorned with highlights of white, yellow, and red gold. The rest gleamed a deep black, like the abyss itself, dotted with flickering laminates that evoked stars suspended in the void.
     With a simple gesture—the lazy dance of the king’s finger—faint smoke, purplish with cerulean hues, rose as the horses began to pull with spectral precision.
     The ride was brief, yet graceful. And at last, the destination appeared in the distance.
     A heady mansion stood in sight. Not particularly grand, yet its exquisite architecture spoke volumes. The exterior breathed Renaissance, while the interior let the Gothic shine through in all its splendour. Colours of white and deep black marble mingled with brushstrokes of crimson that accentuated arches, columns, and stained-glass windows.
     Paimon’s beak squeaked at the sight. His fist clenched, tense, as if he wished to crush the very air.
     The carriage doors opened of their own accord with a metallic rustle. From within descended Paimon, Octavia, and little Stolas—who laughed jovially as his pram floated gently out, carried by subtle magic.
     Barely audible, like a distant echo, came the whispering chorus of the outside staff communicating with those within. Prominent among them were two hellhounds stationed at the main entrance—anthropomorphic, wolf-like creatures, each gripping a spear with the confidence of warriors who were their weapons. One announced the guests’ arrival, while the other stepped aside to allow the manor’s butler through.
     The butler—a short imp—hurried out with quick steps, his small, curled horns making him resemble a mountain goat beside the towering wolves. Despite his stature, his voice—low and gentle—seemed to float beneath his presence, soft yet commanding.
     As he passed the gargoyles flanking the entrance, his form seemed even more diminutive. The statues, with membranous wings and bodies of imp-like decay, looked frozen in time—moments from collapse, yet eternally vigilant. They guarded the perimeter gardens, separated from the world beyond by a modest fence of dwarf shrubs—just enough to keep vulgarity at bay.
     The entire estate moved to the rhythm of an invisible larghissimo: music composed of running water, songs from birds that weren’t there, a bonfire burning in a non-existent hearth. Footsteps on dry grass. Leaves breaking in phantom wind.
     Sounds with no origin.
     A perfect illusion.
     A symphony meant to invoke inspiration... or meditation.
     “Welcome, Your Majesty! Welcome! An honour to have you here” intoned a gentle woman’s voice, stepping out to meet them.
     She was closely followed by a man, whose voice rang out with measured courtesy:
     “Your Majesty. I am grateful you accepted our invitation to this humble refreshment.”
     “Crocell. You know why I am here,” Paimon replied, blunt and direct. His voice, quick and curt, allowed no space for pleasantries.
     Then, without looking back, he gave the woman a brief nod.
     “Theia.”
     A single word. But in the king’s mouth, it was greeting, recognition, and judgment in one.
     Crocell appeared as a hybrid between raven and harpy eagle. His humanoid form was cloaked in ashen grey plumage, accented with dull white feathers that crowned his head. Unlike Paimon and Octavia, Crocell had wings—but only one. A single black wing, like his eyes, which dissolved into his feathers like the void.
     Theia, by contrast, was his mirror.
     An almost celestial white cloaked her figure, rendering her nearly ethereal. Her dove-like body moved within a long, Greco-Roman gown—fit for the age of Socrates or Diogenes. Yet beneath that serene façade lurked a latent darkness.
     Not visible. But palpable.
     “Your Majesty,” Theia said gently, her voice trailing a macabre echo. “Oh... and I see the young prince is with us.”
     Without hesitation, she approached the pram, leaning in with a warmth that elicited soft babbles from Stolas.
     “Second cycle... and he still refuses to speak,” Octavia commented lightly, her tone and posture flowing with measured grace.
     Little Stolas, delighted by the attention, giggled and squealed. Octavia, smiling faintly, scratched under his beak, making his head turn like clock hands before he let out a high-pitched chirp of joy.
     “He knows better than to speak if he has nothing good to say,” Paimon said, his gaze falling judiciously on his son.
     “Well... let’s not waste time, Your Majesty,” Crocell added nervously, grasping for civility. “You must be hungry.”
     The young prince raised both hands eagerly.
     “And it seems someone agrees with me,” Crocell chuckled.
     The group moved toward the backyard, their conversation resuming:
     “So... what are your reports from the First Circle?”
     “The flow of souls has stabilised, Your Majesty,” Crocell answered, relieved. “Just as His Majesty Lucifer predicted…”
     “For the sake of those idiots, it better stay that way.”
     “Your Majesty, when will Adam be brought to pay for his inaction? It’s not the-”
     Crocell stopped. Paimon’s gaze had pierced him like an invisible blade.
     The tension broke only when they crossed into the garden, as though the space itself demanded it.
     The garden was vast and unnaturally beautiful: flora of impossible colours, leaves that pulsed as if breathing. White cast-steel tables and chairs waited in ordered rows. The illusionary sounds returned—rushing water, invisible birds, absent winds.
     A banquet worthy of Avernus itself awaited them: fruits in radiant hues, steaming bread, abyss-black coffee, water clear as myth. As earthly as they seemed, these delicacies did not belong to the world of the living.
     “Expect nothing from the one who condemned his own kind,” Paimon muttered, mockery hidden in velvet.
     He lifted a glossy apple with his claw. A tiny worm emerged from its skin and began burrowing. Before it reached the core, a second, larger worm erupted from inside, devouring the first and consuming the apple until only the memory of its shape remained.
     “Everything grows as you let it.”
     The second worm leapt toward a plate of fruit—but before it could touch it, a fatuous fire engulfed it, reducing it to ash in an instant.
     “And if it grows too big... it won’t be long before it gets out of control. Adam is a fool, yes—but if we start relying on others, we’ll be next. And His Majesty Lucifer’s work will have been in vain.”
     “I know, Your Highness,” Crocell whispered, defeated.
     “Prove it.”
     The silence that followed settled like a tombstone. Not even the clink of cutlery stirred it.
     At the end of breakfast, Octavia let Stolas play freely in the garden. The boy scampered among the plants, babbling and squealing as if in dialogue with the world itself.
     Meanwhile, Octavia and Theia drifted away, ready for a separate conversation—well beyond the reach of their husbands.
     Then, certain they were alone, Paimon broke the stillness:
     “In any case, Crocell... Did you do as I ordered?”
     “I did, Your Highness. But...”
     “This is no time for your insecurities. I may have to change plans. I need it ready.”
     Crocell swallowed.
     “It is...”
     “Perfect.”
     
     ***
     
     Away from the husbands, the two wives were sharing their own chatter.
     “So, what’s the point of having concubines then?” Theia let out a soft, almost musical laugh. “Though I’m not surprised either... coming from Tella. Leviathan will be dying to hear this.”
     They both looked towards the men, who were talking in the distance. Theia’s gaze exuded the opposite of surprise: it seemed more like the consequence of a cause she already knew, or the cause of an effect she had seen repeated.
     Octavia’s, on the other hand, was harder to read. It was a mixture of sadness and anger, or nostalgia and resignation. Her eyes did not linger on any fixed point, as if looking directly was more painful than not seeing.
     “I appreciate the humour... but I don’t know if this is the time.”
     “And you don’t plan to expose him?” Theia asked, her tone hardening subtly. “He’s not a man who learns on his own.”
     “Nothing would make me happier.” Octavia sighed. “I caught him in the act! And he didn’t even flinch... But...”
     Stolas’ laughter interrupted the sentence like a heavenly echo, filtering through the windows like a perfume of childhood. He played among the plants, speaking to them in a language of babble and joy, catching insects as if they were edible fireflies. His innocence was a beacon. A spark of divinity.
     Octavia looked at him, and her eyes glowed with a love so pure it seemed out of place in this world.
     “Lucifer protect you, Octavia,” Theia murmured, not as a wish, but as a desperate prayer.
     
     ***
     
     As early afternoon descended, Crocell offered to let them stay for luncheon.
     Paimon declined without excuse.
     His face conveyed firmness—almost conviction—but his body, stiff as a statue, belied it. A tension clung to his shoulders, as though the slightest gesture might betray him.
     Octavia, for her part, walked beside him. Her posture was stoic, almost ceremonial, yet her steps faltered each time little Stolas turned to look at her. Her smile was faint, no more than a whisper across her features. Uncertainty surrounded her like a low fog, murmuring echoes of futures she knew too well... and wished she did not recognise. The silent war between accepting the inevitable and postponing the obvious.
     “I’m counting on you, Crocell,” said Paimon, resting a clawed hand on the man’s shoulder with a pressure that outweighed a thousand commands.
     “Yes, Your Majesty. So be it.”
     With that, the two returned to the palace.
     
     ***
     
     The food was good.
     The dining room, silent.
     In another chamber, far from the judgement of the family throne, a wet nurse fed the young prince in peace.
     The afternoon passed with an almost unbelievable stillness. Paimon withdrew to his study, surrounded by papers, artefacts, and thoughts he shared with no one.
     Octavia, meanwhile, remained with Stolas. In a voice soft as moonlight, she taught him to read, guiding his tiny hands through ancient letters and forgotten symbols. She whispered to him stories of bygone ages—tales of humanity, strange fables, histories half-remembered by time.
     Stolas listened, enraptured. His gaze never wavered, his wonder unbroken—the kind of sacred attention only children can give.
     And when Octavia spoke, her words were not merely sound. They became visions—living images that shimmered in the air, constellations of thought and memory drawn against the velvet dark.
     A duckling, left behind by its kin, floated gently through a river of stars...
     A girl danced endlessly, until her feet were severed to make her stop—yet the shoes kept dancing, alone.
     Octavia read. She sang. She held him as the stories carried them both. And when at last Stolas drifted into slumber, she allowed herself to rest… though never fully.
     Her mind lingered elsewhere. She had not yet decided what to do.
     And she knew—when the moment came—there would be no return.
     If a choice must be made, it would be for her son.
     Only then, perhaps, could she begin to think of herself.
     On this plane, there is always time.
     But lies have short legs.
     And the truth—sooner or later—always finds its way home.

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