The elevator had taken its time reaching Mona this morning, so she had spent an agonizing minute mashing the button while the Master’s door guards looked on. She’d left Greg passed out in an armchair, snoring, a book on chronomancy on the verge of falling from his hands.
If they’d been on better terms, she would have tried to wake him and lead him to bed, for the sake of his neck, if nothing else, which had been resting at an odd angle. She also would have told him that if he tried to escape by air, he would be intercepted by the Winged Legion and blasted from the sky.
But instead, she shook her head, got dressed, then took her leave. Good luck to him, for he had decided to learn one of the most challenging branches of magic.
Though Mona had studied the same book Greg was now reading in her youth, she had never been able to cast anything more complicated than a curse of slowness or a boon of speed. She had never been able to fly, only to make herself lighter than usual. Using magic to glide down the slopes of Mount Dragonspine with the wind in her hair had been fun—one of the best times she could remember from her school years. But a gentle glide was the most she had ever managed. And now she was so rusty she doubted she could even do that.
Perhaps her mother’s body shaming had left Mona with a mental block that made it difficult to imagine herself weighing less than nothing. She decided, for now, not to think about that too deeply.
Of course, the Winged Legion had an alternative method for learning to fly, which was less reliant on knowledge or skill, but the idea of it made her shudder. Those who tried it their way and failed tended to go insane or brain dead.
The vessel Greg’s Will was inhabiting had been one such case. It was considered taboo to speak of the Dark Lord’s body, or who exactly it had been before the summoning ritual. But she’d seen the documents and knew it was from a failed Winged Legion recruit. Mona and the other senior priestesses had been the ones to prepare the vessel, anointing it with oil before sealing it inside the sarcophagus. The body had been shorter and leaner before the Master’s soul had been summoned, and less symmetric. A god-like Will tended to reshape its vessel in all sorts of ways. But the raw material had already been there.
She had never told Greg of this and never would. He was already struggling, and she didn’t know how he would react to learn he was inhabiting a body that had once belonged to someone else.
Once inside the elevator, she hit the button for the Priestess’ Dormitories. If this was how Greg would be, she had nothing else to say to him. If he planned to fuck over all of demonkind to save his neck, then so be it. She had perhaps been too encouraging of his desire, in the beginning, to escape. In truth, she had been considering it herself.
But after seeing her mother yesterday, she supposed she had been reminded that if Dreadthorn fell, many would die. Even if most of them, like Delilah Fell, were just the worst.
Her mother had acted nice enough yesterday, but Mona knew from experience that sooner or later the woman wouldn’t be able to help herself. She was being nice now that Mona was the High Priestess, but Mona could not forget when her mother pried a spellbook from Mona’s hands, then beat her with it until rivulets of blood ran down her back. Her mother had tried to stop her by any means necessary, at every step of the way. Only now that she’d failed was she contrite.
Pyromancy had been forbidden, considered too dangerous for a lowly Fell to learn. But the only thing Delilah had convinced her of was this—the first thing Mona needed to be afraid of was her. Pyromancy, on the other hand, had promised escape. Fire was freedom and power.
All these years later, and her mother now expected Mona to indulge the fantasy that she’d been kind and reasonable all along. It’d hurt when the Dark Lord had asked to know about Delilah. The truth was that Mona was over her. Even if the Master had been sympathetic, even if he had listened to Mona spill all the sad details of her life, the simple truth was that Mona hadn’t wanted to see her mother at all. Her childhood was over now, and she was free of that criminal woman. The less Mona needed to be reminded of her, the better.
Worst of all, she hadn’t gotten any of the Master’s affection last night or this morning. Not even the faintest touch. She was beginning to feel like a starving animal.
Having tasted him twice, it was worse to be denied his divine nectar. Taking the Master’s seed inside her hadn’t just healed her shoulder. She had felt light and quick, in both mind and body, ever since the night she received that first offering. This was expected, though the records were unclear on what exactly the effects of Godseed were, especially on a long-term basis. Most companions of Greg-Theryx never lived long enough to find out.
She badly needed more. Part of her wondered if her vigor had already begun to wane, if it would soon go the same way as her faith.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Was it too late to take her mother’s advice? To become a smith or a whore like an honest, hardworking demon rather than lead the church of a god whose plan was to hide in the woods?
“I’m so fucking done,” she muttered under her breath.
The elevator doors finally clanged open, revealing a dark, austere hallway. Mona headed left, towards her room, but immediately regretted it.
“Cursed morning, High Priestess,” Phaedra said, nimbly sidestepping to avoid a collision.
“Cursed morning to you,” Mona replied without missing a step.
“If you have a moment, High Priestess, I hope to speak with you.”
Mona stopped, and tried not to audibly sigh as she turned. The fact Phaedra had used her actual title set off alarm bells in Mona’s mind. “I’m quite busy, Phaedra. I think we both are. Don’t you have more poison to brew?”
Phaedra raised her eyebrows and adjusted the thin frames of her glasses. Then her lips broke into a devious smile. “I do, Lady Desdemona. That’s what I wanted to ask you. Why did the Master venture into the city yesterday?”
“He wanted to see the status of our weapon production,” Mona said, already starting to see where this was leading and beginning to feel cornered.
“Ah,” Phaedra said. “I had only hoped that if the Master possessed such concerns, he would have discussed them with myself or General Ignak first.” His first name, Phaedra? Not General Shatterbone anymore, is he? You wench.
If Mona didn’t know that Phaedra preferred women, she would have suspected a tryst. It was forbidden for a priestess to cavort with an officer, unless said priestess was on duty in the Hall of Pleasures. But careful, quiet liaisons weren’t unheard of. And Phaedra’s preference may have been just that—a preference easily bent at the first sign of opportunity.
“He merely wanted an update from Guildmaster Ravennest, Phaedra, so there was no need to concern you. The Master has no issues with your lab’s output. No doubt he wished to avoid distracting you from your important work.”
Phaedra smirked coldly, and her lips pressed together. “Ah, of course. Next time, please consider that I would like to be included in such outings when they have a bearing on my alchemy.”
“There was no bearing on your alchemy,” Mona said coldly. “But I shall relay your message to our Lord.”
“Thank you, High Priestess. That is all I ask.”
Mona nodded, and the hall was silent for a moment. Mona hoped Phaedra was finished. She needed to freshen up and prepare for her morning sermon. “Well, I’d better—”
“Speaking of our Lord,” Phaedra cut in, “he has softened, somewhat, in the past centuries. Has he not?”
“It is hard to say,” Mona said, her voice thin. “None of us knew his past incarnations besides Asmodeus. We only had the scriptures.”
“It’s just hard to imagine, isn’t it? That our Master is the same one who…” Phaedra paused, and stepped into Mona’s personal space, whispering, “Who burned every member of the Gavani family in Lycanta? Who impaled Lycate The Third with a metal spike? Who—”
“I know history as well as you do, Phaedra,” Mona snarled. “You should not speak of such things.”
“I just thought you might have some thoughts since you are privileged to know him more deeply than we do. That’s all.” Phaedra’s eyes looked almost innocent, but Mona knew better than to trust her. She had learned that lesson the hard way, and Phaedra had never stopped holding it over her—their dirty secret, the fact that for a brief time, they had been lovers while at the Academy.
Mona pursed her lips, wondering what she could do to get under Phaedra’s skin. She was tired of having the green-skinned witch babble on. “The truth is…” Mona let her voice trail off, then leaned towards Phaedra as if divulging a secret. “Of course he has softened. Our god is in love with me.”
“Blasphemer,” Phaedra whispered, her voice tinged with both rage and envy, and she retreated from Mona as if recoiling from a flame. “If I told Greg-Theryx what you said, if he only knew—”
“If he knew what?” Mona laughed. “Tell him, you brazen harlot. See what the Dark Lord says back. He will see through you, Phaedra. He will know you are only aiming for a chance at his cock.”
Phaedra looked strangely satisfied, as if she had been waiting for this eventuality, and seemed to relish their battle now that it was so open. “I wonder what the Dark Lord would say if I told him of your past indiscretions, Mona. I wonder what he would think if he knew you were not a virgin before him.”
Mona tried to suppress her anger. “I wasn’t a virgin because I fucked you,” she whispered. At the end of the hall, she spotted a junior priestess named Yeni approaching, carrying a silver tray of wine glasses. It seemed the preparations for morning services had already begun, and Mona was still unprepared to speak. She just hoped the other priestess hadn’t overheard Phaedra’s words.
“But I wasn’t the only one, was I?”
Mona glared, imagining how it would feel to douse Phaedra in flames. But then Mona glanced to the other priestess, looking for a reaction from her to any of this. Thankfully, Yeni seemed perfectly calm, with a distant, unfocused expression. That didn’t mean much, however. Any succubus worth her salt knew what to pretend not to hear.
Technically, only a virgin could be named High Priestess, and the Dark Lord was to deflower her upon their first night together. So said temple law and a thousand years of tradition. The idea that the High Priestess may have had a fling during her training was scandalous. But, of course, there was no proof. And so it all came down to who believed it and who didn’t.
Mona had another advantage in this case because she strongly suspected their Master would not care about her chastity either way. At the moment, he seemed more intent on teaching himself to fly.
“Tell him whatever you like, Phaedra,” Mona said, then turned in the direction of her chambers. “I cannot stop you.”
There was no reply from Phaedra, only the silence of her scheming mind, followed by retreating footsteps. Mona wondered if she had called Phaedra’s bluff, but somehow she doubted it. She would need to watch her back, as if she hadn’t been already.
It would only be a matter of time before Priestess Midnight made her move.