Achvangzel sat on his throne. When he’d crafted it, it had been a symbol. It was blood-red, formed of twisted branches that reflected the solidity of his rule. The spikes sticking out of it in any direction but where he was meant to sit were to remind his enemies that attacking him was both futile and an act of self-harm. He had been proud of this throne, when he was young. When he’d only just barely seized power.

Now, however, his position was actually assured. He was one of the oldest entities left in Hell, and that bought him quite a bit of respect, and a smidgen of fear. He had long since quashed any and all significant dissidence in the ranks. Certainly, his generals might grumble and whine behind his back, but none dared question him to his face. Which begged the question, ‘Why the living hell do I still need this chair?’. It was hard. Wood. Without a cushion. Covered in palm-length thorns. The paint he’d used left it with a sticky residue whenever it got hot. It may be symbolic of his power to the rest of Hell, but to him it was symbolic of never being able to sit down for more than a couple hours.

But he was on duty. Shouldn’t let his mind wander like that. His steward was droning on and on about something. He couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. Formality may have been a comfort to the people around him, but to him it was torture. He tried to listen in anyway.

“Ever since the disappearance of General Lothran, the upper district has been chaos…” Damnation, why did his tone hop around like that? It was almost painful. “...despite our best efforts, we have obviously failed to discover the source of the rift that he traversed. It stands to reason that the source must be of a significant magnitude, possibly even a defector in the church ranks, but…” “MY LORD!” Thank the Artificer, an interruption. “My Lord! There’s news! We intercepted a prophecy!”

Achvangzel felt his blood rising. A prophecy? He sat forward in his seat. “Well? Get on with it. Wait, actually.” He waved a hand and the room went dark, save for a mild glow surrounding the news-bearer. “Okay, now go.”

“I...I… Alright. Here’s how it reads.

‘From Forge’s Ashes,

Twin Bells Ring.

A Hero’s Birth

To Men, Hell Brings.

Where Divinity Falls,

The Demonic Rise.

Shadow is Made

To Turn the Tides.

The Final Clash

Of Brothers Bloodless

Marks the End

Of Angel’s Mess.’

“… It seems that’s it.” The courier was red as brimstone. He had clearly not expected to put on a show at his destination. Achvangzel considered feeling sorry for the poor man, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that having experienced the prophecy in a mundane setting would have taken the entertainment value out of it. It would have been just as boring as everyday administrative tasks. He couldn’t have handled the emotional consequences of that.

“Thank you, soldier. You’re dismissed. Actually, do you have a copy of it on hand? If so, leave it here, we’ll need to deliberate on this. And somebody find my son.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Lucien dropped his mug, shattering it on the floor. The cat had just talked. The cat… had just talked. Everyone in the room froze. Angelica, Lucien, and Sinxiath looked between each other, trying to decide what was meant to happen now, who was supposed to speak next.

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Finally, Angelica broke. “You absolute idiot. How many times have I told you not to talk around strangers?! Tell me, right now. How. Many. Times?!” Sinxi looked up at Lucien and sheepishly gave a halfhearted “Meow?” “HOW MANY TIMES, SINXI?!” “Fine, fine. Damnation, you’re loud.” He stood and stretched his body. “How do you do, kid. I’m Sinxiath. I’m a friendly demon who happens to live in the area. Pleasure to meet you.” Lucien was still silent. His eyes were flicking back and forth between Angelica and the demon cat a the foot of his cot. “For your information, Angelica, he’s not exactly innocent either. He can’t come in here smelling like demonic aura and expect me to treat him like some frightened farmer.” “He what?” She whipped around again. Big fan of sudden movements, this one. Set Lucien on edge. “You what?!”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Lucien was lost. He was so confused. Had he done something wrong? Why would the demon be mad at him? Why hadn’t it tried to kill him yet? Weren’t demons supposed to be violent, monstrous killers that could barely understand language? How was Angelica still alive? Did she live with this demon? Did it control her? Did she control it ? “Oh, bleeding gums, tell me another joke. The only way you smell that strongly of demonic aura is if you practice our magic. What, you just… tripped and fell and woke up able to shadow walk or something?” Shadow walk? “Uh, actually…”

The cat looked at him incredulously. “Well, you see… um… my Dad… is a Shadowwalker?” The cat looked at him even more incredulously. He looked like he wanted to swat Lucien. Angelica was getting sick of being ignored. “Well then I guess we should be glad that your father never came to check on you, huh?” Lucien looked a little defeated. “Yeah, I’m not shocked. He’s… not around a lot.” Angelica looked a little chagrined, but held her tongue. Eventually, she said, “Well, now you know. What are we going to do about this?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Angelica looked disgusted. “Kill you? After I just went to all that effort to save your life? Do you know how expensive all that medicine was? You think I’m going to let you go and die after all that? That salve on your side alone is enough to buy a good set of kitchen knives. I’m billing your ‘Duchess’ something fierce for your stay here, I can’t imagine she’d be thrilled to pay up if I sent you back in a box.” “But… but what about… him?” He pointed at Sinxiath. “Boy, I ought to bite that finger clean off your hand.” The cat said. Angelica waved the statement aside. “Sinxiath doesn’t typically have the habit of murdering my patients, no.” “But he’s a demon.” “And you’re a dickhead. So?”

Lucien chose to stop talking. Angelica clearly trusted this demon, and believed Lucien to be in the wrong here. Better to understand her stance and avoid upsetting her, at least until she was done making sure he survived his wounds. He didn’t know if she would be quite so patient with him if he kept… he didn’t know if ‘insulting’ was the right word, but he’d use it anyway. ‘Insulting’ her friend. It may have been a shift in his worldview, but as his dad would have said, “evidence precludes opinion in all matters.” A shadowwalker cannot afford the luxury of unbending, inflexible opinions. That’s why they scout, after all. To get the lay of the land. And clearly, the land here was unfavorable to anti-demon discourse.

He dropped the matter. “So, I guess I just go back to the manor, tell no one, and we leave each other in peace?” “I suppose so. Truce?” “Truce.”