Chapter Text
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Chapter 16: House of Wolves
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It took thirteen hours for the weeping to stop.
No threats or cajoling would silence them. The little beast clutched their mangled hand to their chest. It no longer bled. Haarlep had long since cauterized (but not healed) the wound, but the poor thing remained inconsolable.
Haarlep tapped a claw against their temple, frowning. After all the screaming and the wailing, they found the silence borderline disconcerting. Pleasant, certainly—they’d considered cutting the wretch’s vocal cords to buy themself a moment’s peace, but…disconcerting. The incubus cocked their head to the side, a vaguely avian gesture at odds with their typically feline nature, kneeling to get a look at their guest. Its breathing was shallow.
Haarlep toed its ribs. “Come now, don’t tell me you’ve died. So early? You disappoint me, sweet thing.”
It made a miserable noise. Not the ringing endorsement they'd been hoping for, but needs-must. Haarlep rocked back on their heels, clapping their hands together. "There. Good, pet. Still here with us…most considerate."
The incubus stood, stretching languidly before crossing to the desk. The more common trappings—quills, paper, tomes—had been pushed aside to make room for Haarlep's more exotic accouterments. Each was lovingly maintained and treated with the same reverence and care only a cleric of Loviatar or a true disciple of Graz'zt would understand. Once upon a time, they might have claimed a touch of both, but now…well, Haarlep supposed they were naught but a hobbyist. They trailed the backs of their fingers over the cat o’ nine tails, humming, and moved along.
Haarlep dipped a rag in the bowl, water murky with blood and dust. They wrung it out until only a few precious drops of moisture remained and then returned to their guest. The incubus held it between the two of them like an olive branch.
"Oh, I do hate to see pretty things suffer. You must understand that—it hurts me terribly." Haarlep touched the rag to the curve of their knee. Their 'guest,' a pretty little creature, all huge eyes and grasping hands—well, hand—stared at them in desperation.
"So do not make me hurt you," Haarlep cooed. "Just speak." They brought the rag to the prisoner's lips. Desperation burned in the poor dear's eyes. "Your master's name… I'd hear it again."
The Hells had few truths and fewer loyalties…and spies were frequently in short supply of both. Their treat had offered its master's name hours into their first session. It didn't mean it was true. Days—no, a week, had passed since that starry-eyed interlude. Would they sing the same song, mangled and delirious? Haarlep doubted.
Their sweetling sneered—rather less impressive sans fangs. It seemed to weigh its options, glancing between the incubus and the balcony—perhaps a two meters, barely a trifle for any healthy denizen of the Hells.
Oh, the incubus wanted them to run so badly. It'd been ages since they had a proper chase.
It chose to spit instead.
Haarlep brushed the saliva from their cheek with one long finger. It’d managed no more than a few scattered droplets, wasting the scant amount of moisture left in its system. The incubus wagged the same finger at it. "That was very naughty."
Haarlep seized its jaw. Blood welled sluggishly to the surface as the incubus' claws sank deep, forcing its mouth open. The poor thing tried to bite down, resist, anything, but its strength had long since flagged. All it could do was thrash weakly in the incubus' hold, whimpering as Haarlep stuffed the rag down its throat. The task accomplished, the incubus shoved it away. It made some awful gurgling noise, cheeks hollowing as it tried to free itself from the makeshift gag. It'd help the creature none at all; Haarlep was nothing if not efficient. The incubus watched for another handful of moments before turning away.
Hurting the wretch had not pleased them—if anything, its defiance had actively soured an already piss-poor morning. The incubus massaged their temple, lips pressed in a thin and tight line.
Here it was: the world was coming apart around their very head, and Raphael was still absent.
It wasn't enough to contend with split loyalties, no, no. The little brat's damnable—apologies, venerable—Lord Father had chosen today for one of his tantrums. Mephistar's icy streets ran red with the blood of every rival Duke and Duchess' diplomatic envoys, spies, and wards. Over the span of six hours, the Cold Lord had put out the eyes of every foreign power. He'd had the foresight not to openly antagonize the higher Lords, discreetly disposing of their agents’ bodies—Raphael had been paid no such deference.
Mephistopheles had 'returned' Raphael's servants to the House, each charred beyond recognition and stinking of hellfire.
Few things truly infuriated the incubus—they were not made for such severity, you see, and life was more pleasant when played as a joke. The sight of the corpses, agents they’d selected, the Archdevil’s arrogance and flagrant disregard for rules of engagement, left Haarlep seething.
Every Duke or Duchess tacitly accepted their rivals' placements in their courts—there were no laws to protect those unhappy spies beyond general etiquette. It made practical sense so long as the other Lords also held to the status quo. Mephistopheles had violated it, had acted out for no other reason than because he could.
Haarlep clenched their fists—here, the worst sting: there could be no recompense.
They were powerless.
Behind them, the wretch’s thrashing grew more frenzied, howling around the rag. Haarlep rounded on them, muscles tensing. They’d kill it, hang the ramifications, if it bought them a moment of silence. Korrilla robbed them of this treat—the dwarf cleared her throat, lingering near the doorway. She tipped her head towards the creature, tone mild.
“They’ll suffocate.”
“Oh, hush. It still has its nose, doesn’t it?” Haarlep frowned, brow furrowing. “Doesn’t it? I don’t recall removing that.”
“From what I can tell. But while you’re in here playing with your food…”
“Working.”
“...working,” Korrilla corrected, both smile and tone suggesting she believed otherwise. The dwarf had a pinched expression which rubbed them wrong on the best of days, too knowing, full of her damned secrets. It was a confidence born from too many centuries of unquestioned preferential treatment. “Of course, my apologies. While you’re working…your kin continue their little tantrum in the Citadel.”
Ah, yes. The other imminent disaster.
Before Raphael had gone flouncing off to the Prime Material, he’d foisted a series of demands upon the incubus: cause no interplanar incidents during his absence, field any and all diplomatic envoys, and resolve the ‘squabble with the succubi, you damned creature.’ Haarlep had managed the first tasks with enviable restraint. The last had slipped their mind.
They pursed their lips. “You might have dealt it.”
“I might have,” she agreed. “But it isn’t my job. Not even close.”
“Indulge me then—what is your job, sweet Korrilla?”
Her eyes glittered. “Whatever Raphael—and not you, poor thing—requires.”
“You talk like they used to,” Haarlep said, sighing and tipping their head towards their guest. They’d gone still. “Pretty non-answers—weightless and worthless.”
“And all you’ll get from me. Even this,” she gestured between them, “was a courtesy.” Korrilla stepped closer. At this distance, in the House’s naturally flattering light, it’d have been simple to miss the signs of distress. The predator saw—once artfully smeared kohl bled into steadily deepening bags, tightening muscles. Stress radiated off the little beast. Korrilla worried for the Master. She shifted under the weight of Haarlep’s stare—a momentary hesitation before she rallied, holding her head high. “Best get to work before Raphael returns home. Would hate for him to find you idle.”
Haarlep scoffed. When had they last been idle? Not since they’d first brought the little mouse home. The incubus had fucked and fed and slept for time immemorial—a comfortable existence! Such halcyon days. Now, they had responsibilities. The word tasted like bile.
The problem, they supposed, circling their guest like a hungry predator, was the duality of their nature. Lust and similar stimuli were the domain of the succubi and incubi. Mortals had the frustrating habit of boiling both down to sexual gratification, and Haarlep had been content with that reduction. They’d forgotten the sweetness of mental stimulation, fitting pretty marionettes to Raphael’s interplanar schemes, planning, plotting, searching…
…it had a sensuousness Haarlep found gratifying. The incubus shivered in the overheated air, throwing a cursory glance toward their guest. They should clean up and return the little rat to the dungeon. They should do so many things.
Haarlep bent and patted the poor thing’s cheek. Not even a true asset…an unfortunate agent of one of Raphael’s more ambitious underlings—a convenient proxy for what Haarlep longed to inflict upon Mephistopheles’ agents.
Mephistopheles had put out Raphael and, by extension, Haarlep’s eyes. It made the game more challenging, yes, but not unwinnable.
And Haarlep did enjoy winning.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chaos reigned in Mephistar’s streets.
On the Prime Material, in any mortal city, such upheaval might have proved common-place—its beauty and vibrancy were mated to chaos and change. To the Hells and its devils? Untenable. Unbearable. An anathema.
The Hells stood as a testament to order, an unflinching dedication to law.
And her Lord Father spit in the face of his fellow Dukes.
The smell of burnt flesh greeted her long before her Sire's chamberlain did.
Antilia held a perfumed rag to her nose, breathing deeply. The end result was jarring: peppermint, sharp, cold, bleeding into sulfur, brimstone, and the sickly sweetness of charred meat. The duality suited Mephistar and its ruler: ice ravaged by fire.
Gods above and below, the palace was in a state.
The first signs of carnage manifested in the foyer, and lines of hellfire scored deep into the walls. Any stone unfortunate enough to have crossed her sire's warpath was scarred beyond all recognition.She walked a little further, progressing towards the throne room. The corpses began to pile up. The High Cantor kept her gaze fixed ever forward. She did need to look upon them.
Even with the Hells' penchant for barbarism, it was impossible to grow accustomed to the ravages of hellfire. Mortal flesh was consumed in its entirety, but devils? Oh, it consumed devils with the same vicious surety. No armor, no immunity to natural fire, offered protection.
Look ahead—she could not stray.
Barbas remained at her heels. Her father's chamberlain wrung his hands together, sweat beading on his brow. A trickle of blood made its way down his cheek; paused at the curve of his jawline where it grew fat before dripping to join the rest of the gore. Antilia regarded him more closely: the robes he often wore, always so fastidiously neat, were slick with ash, melted ice, and blood. All the gold filigree had melted and adhered to the skin beneath. Ah, but most of the damage remained localized, spread across his back.
Dear Barbas ran.
Her gaze flicked to the twisted ruin of the great hall's door. Infernal iron, warped almost beyond recognition, bowing out from the center when the hellfire struck. Someone had closed the doors, locking Mephistopheles' ill-fated retinue inside.
Did you run before or after Father started his killing? Did you toss them to the beast and bar the door?
"How long has it been?" Antilia demanded, hands linking at the small of her back.
"A matter of hours, High Cantor. Not long at all."
"And you left him unattended?" she sneered. "Your Duke may be injured, Barbas."
"And his court certainly lies dead." The chamberlain dropped in a half bow. "But I remain. I intend to remain a very long time, High Cantor."
Yes, he'd remained through so many purges.
Her Sire could claim little in the way of loyalty from his courtiers; his fickle temperament saw to that, a fact made especially galling after her tenure in Baalzebul's court. The Lord of Flies' dogged pursuit of perfectionism was its own failing, but his focus and his rare beauty made him challenging to loathe. Mephistopheles was as wild as the hellfire he sought to utilize—and had the same propensity towards burning enemies and allies alike.
In such moments, faced with the aftermath of his rages, she wondered if her brother made the correct choice. Mephistar shall be your burial ground, sister, Raphael might have said, smiling his knowing little half-smile. She'd spent so many years desperate to claw it from his face. And what a tomb you've chosen: icy and ruinous. You might have had the sun.
"Get out of my sight, Chamberlain." She stared past the twisted ruin of the door towards the smoldering wreckage of the throne room.
"All things for the honor of Mephistopheles, High Cantor."
All things for his honor.
Antilia picked her way through the carnage. The steam permeating the room made it difficult to see; layers of ice were worn away near the far wall, revealing the mountainside beneath. Alongside the charred flesh and ash was a sweeter fragrance. Iron, she thought. It married to the stench of sulfur and brimstone, so strong it might have made a mortal gag.
She lifted the hem of her robe to keep it from dragging across one of the unlucky courtiers. Most were too badly charred to recognize. The Gelugon had not been so lucky. While half of its mandible had been melted past the point of recognition, the primary damage was localized to its torso. She nudged the great devil with the toe of her boot, unsurprised when it remained deathly still. This one had been loyal, eager to prove itself against the more powerful pit fiends…and cripplingly afraid of disappointing its master.
Her father's voice in her head, a figment of her imagination which felt all too real: replaceable, my dear. As with all things, these lives were replaceable.
And my life, Father?
He'd smile. In Antilia's head, the Archdevil always smiled but rarely answered.
"Antilia?"
Her Sire’s voice was whispering and soft, strikingly similar to the gusts of wind preceding Cania’s great ice storms. The great devil whispered the incantation to a spell and the steam cleared. The sight of him made her heart catch in her throat, a miserable groan caught on the tip of her tongue.
Oh, Father.
His right arm was a ruin of shredded flesh, since cauterized to stop the bleeding. The fingers of that hand hung limp and useless, rather resembling dead snakes. He’d raked deep abrasions across his bare chest. Mephistopheles stared at her, eyes the color of hellfire, expression foggy with pain. He extended his good hand.
“Come.” He smiled, almost gentle, and the fondness mingled with his pain felt like a noose being draped over her head and fitted to her neck.
“My Duke…Father, what have you done?”
“Only what is my right,” he murmured. The devil pressed two fingers to his temple, sighing. He lifted his eyes, a distant fondness playing havoc with his expression—too knowing. It said he saw her, yes, he saw her and her discomforts too well. “Have I frightened you, child? Is the High Cantor cowed by the death of these servants? Do not be.”
They’re replaceable, hung in the air between them, unspoken. Antilia approached, kneeling before his throne. Pooled blood sullied her white robes. Mephistopheles cocked his head to the side. His gaze flicked from her to the throne room, cataloging the damage. For a brief moment, he appeared concerned. He blinked, and it was gone. A glacial cool washed over him. The devil leaned back on his throne, flicking a stray piece of ash from his garb.
“I’d hear your report.”
“Father, your wounds…” She started. His lips pressed to a firm line. The cambion dropped her eyes. It was as near to consideration as Mephistopheles might come. Antilia linked her hands in front of her. “Raphael will be absent from the House and Avernus for a short period. The Duke and his consort have fled to the Prime Material.”
Mephistopheles’ brow furrowed. He leaned forward. “To what end?”
“Haarlep was not told. And it is the least of our concerns! Father, you cannot expect this carnage to go unanswered. Sire, it is beyond your servant to question you but…this.” Antilia gestured around them. “Not just your courtiers—the other Dukes’ placements. Our people…”
“...will be put to the stake.” With some difficulty, Hells’ Archwizard managed to stand. The damage was worse than she’d initially imagined: the wounds on his torso continued to weep, dark ichor tracking down his ribs. “They will whisper and spin their gossips—call me mad, wild. They are too craven for true retaliation.”
“But why? Why antagonize them? Why court disaster to start?”
He motioned for her to follow. “Come. Come, and I will show you what these lives have bought.” Antilia fell into step behind him: three steps back on his right, precisely as she’d been trained—well within reach, but never too close.
A pretty tool, aren’t you? Ever at his service—and as disposable as the rest of them.
She pushed Raphael’s voice from her thoughts.
~~~~~~~~~~
A millennium removed from their tenure in the Abyss, Haarlep was still struck by the stark differences between the planes. The Bronze Citadel's markets thrummed with life, yes, but it was such an orderly thing. No raw chaos—it did not shift and writhe, transforming at a moment's notice.
Chaos brought Haarlep comfort. It served the devils naught at all.
That same predilection left the incubus in a rarely uncomfortable bind. They would never—no, could never, be what the House required. And the Duchess…had never suited the role. A shepherd, a mother—she might play both roles to her cults, but never to the House. No, she was too bloody-minded for it, too much like her Dread Father. Manipulation and logistics were wholly disparate beasts. The latter was beyond her ken.
The incubus paused, lips pursed, observing the flow of life around them—every stall neatly ordered. A pit fiend cracked its whip, ushering a row of manacled slaves down the side street and towards the mines. The wretches knew how to step, the rhythm beaten in their skulls until it was as familiar as breathing. It was brutality in the name of efficiency and structure, but not for its own sake.
And that orderliness was reflected in every aspect of the Hells. While few Demon Princes thought to employ a steward or chamberlain, every Archduke, every Duke, might spend centuries searching for the perfect fit for their House. It was a necessity. But Raphael’s neuroticisms, his obsessive need for control, kept him from filling the position—he was determined to field even the minutia of his House and Realm.
Untenable. Illogical. Something would fall by the wayside, a rival would pounce, and—
—no, none of that. No, it was the way of the Hells to linger and contemplate, and the way of the Abyss to act. Haarlep intended to act.
They crossed the pavilion, climbing the marble steps to the Den of Diabolic Delights. Even a year prior, a cadre of their Abyssal kin would have been waiting on the steps, petitioning passersby. Now, it was as silent as the grave—no cries of rapture, no songs, only the steady flow of the fountains in the courtyard.
Their frustrations mounting, Haarlep stalked deeper into the Den. Here, at least, one could catch the occasional breathy cry as his sisters took their pleasure. They could only pray the little idiots were with clients rather than each other—somehow, they doubted.
And again, it was the short-sighted chaos of the Abyss, at odds with the structure of the Hells. They’d fought so hard for a place at the table, to carve out a niche when they might employ their not-inconsiderable talents. Their brothers and sisters seemed intent on pissing it away. Haarlep strode into the Master’s office—and found he was not alone.
Haarlep grabbed their ‘guest’ by the wrist, hauling the spinagon off him. They tossed the devil towards the door. “Aren’t we exotic? A shame to waste, but waste we must. Out with you, pretty beast.”
“You think to order me, whore? He took my gold. I’ll have my fill…”
Haarlep pulled themself up to the full extent of their not inconsiderable height. “Please, do defy me. My current toys are too badly mangled to fight these days. But you…oh, sweetling, you’re still fresh.”
The spinagon glanced between them, seemed to realize precisely who they were addressing, and nodded. Its lips pulled back from the rows of fangs, expression caught between a smile and a sneer as it dipped into a clumsy half-bow and took its leave. Not, they noted, without pausing to fix the other incubus with a murderous glare.
The demon, Istus—that was his name—sighed, making no effort to cover himself. Instead, he stood, dabbing at the questionable liquid on his belly and thighs, mouth pinching. “Now you’ve done it. That one will never let me hear the end of this. I’ll have half his battalion battering down our door before the evening is done…and most likely demanding reparations.”
“Certainly you are up to the task. Make it up to them—be…creative.”
The demon barked out a laugh. “My specialty.” Istus plucked a silk robe from the back of the chair. “But…we’ve more interesting business to attend…the Archduke’s favorite toy is too good to play with their siblings. It’s been decades since you last visited, sweet thing. Why come now?”
“Business, I fear. Always business and never pleasure these days—the Den is underperforming.”
“Is it?” The incubus’ eyes glittered, gold one moment, then shimmering and shifting to green, then to purple—searching for the color to elicit the best reaction in his guest. A child’s tactic, clumsy. “The doors are open; our pens are full. We receive the Duke’s clientele with the same aplomb as ever.” He clucked his tongue. “What more would your boy-king ask of his servants?”
“Everything.” Haarlep snickered. “Greed is the hallmark of kings and devils alike, precious—he’d ask your everything. And you have not provided.” They drummed their fingers against their cheek. “Tell us why.”
Istus stiffened, eyes narrowing. The color changed to inky black. “We’ve done all we…”
Haarlep sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. Oh, there was nothing for it—it was one of those days. Rather than let the demon finish their excuses, Haarle raked their claws across the incubus’ face. Istus yelped in pain, bringing his arms up to shield himself from any additional blows.
The elder incubus flicked their hand, scattering droplets of blood across the marble. “I’m in no mood for games, sweet boy. Answer, or I’ll take those lovely eyes of yours.”
Action was the way of the Abyss—action and violence. Istus understood this; he pressed his fingers to his face, the wound pulling shut. His expression darkened, growing haughty. “We were approached by an outsider. They said we might secure more for ourselves until their…” Istus made a noncommittal gesture with his hand, “guidance. More gold, more souls…we quite liked the sound of it.”
“Raphael will find new whores, fool. You are in no way special.”
“Perhaps. But our kin are just as likely to accept their offer.” Istus rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “It is too sweet. Perhaps in your enlightened state, brother, you have forgotten the pangs of hunger or wanting.”
“And what did you promise them in exchange for these sweetnesses?”
Istus glared, jaw squaring, “To do precisely as we have done: slow our services, make life…difficult. Until you or your boy-king came searching.” He turned away from Haarlep, crossing to the far side of the room. The incubus withdrew a small box from the desk, its surface ebon dark, adorned with gold filigree. He pressed his thumb to the lock, and the chest opened. Istus withdrew a scroll and held it out to Haarlep. “Here. It’s addressed to the Archduke, but you’ll do just as well.”
The voice in the back of their head again, snarling about the differences between their kind. A devil would never have treated its orders so flippantly; it would obey to the letter of the law. Haarlep snatched the scroll from them. They opened it deftly with one claw, eyes widening at its contents.
The note was blank aside from two words, writing in hand both flowing and elegant: find me.
Raphael would have read them with barely contained rage—a nameless, faceless welp thought to challenge the Lord of the First? Haarlep’s own reaction was more genial; they threw their head back and laughed. Audacious creature! They did not know who wrote the note; they didn’t particularly care—it seemed a little thing in the face of the immediate rush of respect.
Haarlep tucked the letter securely within his shirt’s breast pocket, nestled away for later consideration. For now, there was a lesson to be learned. They cocked their head to the side, speaking slowly, a languid drawl. “You treated with a foreign power when you are a guest in the Archdevil’s home.”
“We can’t all have your loyalty, housepet.”
Haarlep smiled. It was a jarring expression: their borrowed face was so young and beautiful, but the smile was awful. It spoke to a thousand horrors inflicted by a loving hand; it spoke to atrocities gleefully committed for the barest of irritations. “Such a bold admission! So deliciously short-sighted! Raphael will delight in your spirit when he hears of your…flagging dedication.”
His expression fell, voice softening. “Cry forgiveness, brother. It is the way of the Abyss: opportunism.”
A simplistic reading. Simplistic and stupid as the demon standing before them: no, the Abyss was evolution, adaptation; it was survival.
“You beg for mercy, brother. And so I ask: is there a word in Abyssal for mercy? Salvation? Grace or deliverance?”
The fool dropped his eyes. “You know there is not.”
On this one thing, upon this core trait, Hells and the Abyss agreed.
There could be no mercy.
~~~~~~~~~~
We shall address the letter and its contents shortly. For now, follow this twisting path deep beneath Mephistar and into the heart of the mountain. The lab would show on no maps and register to no scrying spell. In all the Planes and the Hells, it was known only to the two souls: Mephistopheles himself and the late Lady Baalphegor.
And now, Lady Antilia. The cambion hugged her arms around her. Even the preternatural sharpness of her vision struggled to cut the darkness. It seemed to carry a weight, licking into her mouth and lungs. She thought it was old and stagnant, and somewhere across its many centuries of loneliness, it had learned to hate the living and their intrusions.
Antilia wondered why it should feel like fingers down her spine or twisting in her hair. She looked upwards and could not make out the cave's ceiling, though they could be no more than a few hundred feet beneath the citadel—no wall, no light. Her voice seemed small by comparison, a child's whisper, and she wondered why, how the cavern could be so vast.
And it occurred to her that perhaps the cavern predated the Hells and their Dukes. That it had existed before Asmodeus was cast from the Heavens; it would persist afterward. At eternity's end, it would prevail. The thought brought no comfort.
"What is this place?" The High Cantor stepped nearer to her Sire. Unnatural heat radiated off of him; the steady twitch of his tail and flap of his wings made a comforting ambient noise in the stillness.
Mephistopheles chuckled. "Patience, my dear."
They pressed deeper into the depths of Cania, walking until she'd lost track of time, distance, and direction. It was darkness ahead and behind…like being caught in the throat of some tremendous and inescapable beast. Finally, after what felt like hours, a pinprick of light, growing steadily larger. Mephistopheles took her arm, touch achingly gentle as he led her across the uneven terrain.
How unlike her Sire.
He wants something, Sister—even you must notice.
"In the wake of current circumstances, with our enemy's eyes fixated upon Mephistar, you may consider yourself relieved of your duties in Baalzebul's court."
"Another Duke requires my attention?"
He stopped, regarding her with narrowed eyes. "Is it your place to question me, child?"
Antilia held her gaze, stranding tall—she was a princess of the hells, not a simpering little girl. The note of defiance in her posture contrasted with the simplicity of her declaration: "Never."
He smiled, features too sharp and jagged as the cave walls around them. "Good." The Archdevil touched her cheek. "My loyal Antilia." He led her forward, nearer to the light, pale and icy, flickering like fire but with none of its warmth. "Loyalty is precisely what I require. And you, my child, are the only soul," he hesitated on that word as if intending to say something else. "I trust."
Servant, dear father—servant is the word you were looking for. She did not respond or ask for clarification. Silence felt safer.
The darkness gave way to light much as the cave gave way to a chamber of rock and ice. Shelves lined the room's far end; at its center were half a dozen tables, each set with alchemical apparatus. The ingredients, gathered across thousands of years, must have rivaled the cost of a kingdom. She noted beholder eyes, stones charged with energy from the elemental planes, celestial feathers, black diamonds…
…and blood—vials of blood painstakingly collected from dozens of species. A lifeless body remained on the centermost table, its limbs twisted, skin appearing like a latticework of metal. Antilia's mouth went dry. "It looks like him—Raphael."
"Does it? How curious." The Archdevil pursed his lips, moving to drum his fingers on the surgical table. "A failed experiment, nothing more. And not the reason we are here." Mephistopheles snapped his fingers. The corpse vanished with a puff of smoke. He plucked up the strings of their earlier conversation, following the same steps: make a demand, wait for her response, press for more—taking until there was nothing left. "I require your eyes, daughter—and your voice."
"Both are yours."
"Your silence—I would have that too."
Antilia frowned. "Anything, Father. Anything you require…it is yours, always."
Whether or not she meant the words was secondary; he cared only that she had offered. Mephistopheles chuckled. "Follow me then—just a little further into the dark. In exchange for your loyalty, I offer clarity."
They moved past the lab, through a hallway, its ceiling too low to accommodate the devil's height. Mephistopheles motioned for her to go ahead, ducking low. At the end of the passage, a door, its surface adorned with glyphs in a dialect the cambion did not recognize.
And beyond the door, a Gatehouse, more expansive than any she'd ever seen—dozens of portals to the Prime Material, the plane of Fire, the other Hells. Here, Sigil. There…
…she hesitated, mouth pressing to a firm line. There, a new door, only recently hewn and enchanted. Rubble remained strewn about the floor, and the stink of ley energy poisoned the air. A stench emanated from the Gate—spiritual or physical, she could not say. The devil knew it was different, wrong, tinged with just enough chaos to rankle.
The Gate opened to Gehenna.
"Why?"
Mephistopheles shrugged. "Do you expect our allies to walk to the Cania, child? We are nothing if not exemplary hosts."
"And yet," a woman said, striding from around the back of the portal. "We are kept waiting, again, again—always. So many words, so little action."
She was pale like death, white-blonde hair trailing behind her in a thick braid. Her milky skin seemed to endlessly shift. So much white, its monotony was broken only by the riotous red.
"Apologies, my dear." The Cold Lord held out his hand. The changeling did not take it. "There was business to conclude—a hint of carnage to perfume the air for your arrival."
"Oh, it wags its tongue. It flatters."
The muscles in the Archdevil's jaw tightened. "An introduction: Antilia, the Lady Orin." He smiled, showcasing teeth sharp enough to break the skin. "Chosen of Bhaal."
Orin did not bow. She did not seem to notice Antilia at all—her gaze raked over the devil, cataloging, searching. "Your bastard laid waste my Dread Father's temple—and he has stolen something of ours, Devil." Her eyes narrowed, only seeming to recall herself at the last moment. "But I am to stay my blade—the flesh cost is not yours to pay." Orin turned on her heel, motioning to the portal. “Bhaal waits. He sings to me—come."
"He sings," Mephistopheles repeated, chuckling. "A curious new addition to the Dread Lord's pedigree. Are times so desperate?"
The girl's face curled in fury. "No more words. No more speaking."
Mephistopheles' hand settled at the small of Antilia's back, gentle as he walked them to the Gate. He turned to her, eyes glittering hellfire, and his expression seemed to say trust. Trust, as they plunged themselves into the depths of Gehenna.