Baal manoeuvred through the crowd, each step calculated, each glance discreet. The scent of sweat and perfume clouded the air, but his focus was unyielding. He tracked Marcella through the mass, her silhouette as hauntingly familiar as Adamastor had preserved in his happy memories. She was an enigma in the flesh—a collision of porcelain skin and eyes the colour of fresh-spilt blood, a deadly porcelain doll.

A man accompanied her. His air was no less predatory. Vampires, both of them; he had no doubt. Baal's mind churned with questions. Why was Marcella here? Was she haunted by her past, or was this just some transactional appearance, the poor attempt to retrieve the Hollow? Reckless, he thought.

His steps were soundless against the floor as he neared them. He scrutinized the male companion—equally vampiric yet marked by an unmistakable air of boredom. A face he knew, a boredom he had felt. Restelo? What twisted fate brought them here together?

They were engrossed in an ostentatious display, miming the act of eating like ordinary mortals, shielded only by the soft glow of the twin moons overhead. Baal seized his chance, expelling a gentle cough to puncture the theatre of their mortal mimicry.

"Marcella! Is that you?" The words burst forth in all the drama he could act, "By Atua, you haven't changed!"

Her head snapped towards him, eyes widening as if straining against the boundaries of her disbelief. Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought he saw fake recognition flicker in the depths of her crimson gaze. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. And how could she? They had never met.

"Who are you?" Her voice dripped with suspicion, tinged with the icy chill of someone who'd learned never to trust easily.

The loaded question hung between them, and a gauntlet was thrown, a story yet to be written in the most fantastic theatrical manner. After all, Baal is not a liar, but he knows how to kindle a show.

"Ah, it's me, Baal!" he declared, his voice swelling with theatrical grandeur as if channelling the spirit of Mme Bougie herself. Lucero would be proud!

Marcella recoiled, a palpable air of offence curdling around her. "I don't know you, and honestly, I can't recall ever knowing anyone with a name as utterly ridiculous as that."

He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing into mischievous slits. "Really? You've forgotten? I'm almost hurt!"

It was then that the man beside her—Restelo, he presumed—shifted his attention from his companion to Baal. "Who is this, Marcella?"

"Master, I swear to you, I've never laid eyes on this demon before," Marcella responded, each word edged with a barely concealed note of trepidation.

Restelo appraised Baal anew, his eyes betraying a flash of acknowledgement. "A demon, you say? No horns, no tail, yet... You must be Baal. I've heard tales of you, Mr. Berith, Master and Keeper of the Memory Tower."

A smile split Baal's lips as he took a step closer. "Oh, really? I've made a name for myself, have I? Twenty-six years old, and I'm already climbing the ladder of success and fame."

Restelo’s mouth twisted into a smirk, a subtle break in his otherwise stoic demeanour. "I heard you were dead, to be exact. Word travels fast in the Nethersphere. Inaccurate but fast."

Baal grinned wider, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Ah, well, you know what they say—never believe everything you hear, especially when it's whispered from the bowels of damnation, fire and etc etc."

The tension between them was a living entity, a palpable force that left the air dense, almost suffocating. Baal's gaze clung to Marcella like a stubborn stain, his feelings a heady cocktail of contempt and schadenfreude. She was Adamastor's master, yet she stood here ignored by her spawn. It was delicious in its irony, a cosmic balancing act. They had a name for it back on Earth—karma.

Breaking the taut silence, Baal rasped, "Why are you here, Marcella? After all this time? Are you missing someone?"

Marcella hesitated, her crimson eyes flicking momentarily toward Restelo before settling back on Baal. "I heard the Morningstar might be making a return. Never guessed it'd involve the son of a duke."

At the mention of 'duke,' Baal's hands clenched involuntarily, his knuckles bleaching white. The word was a hot poker to his pride. He could eviscerate her, right here, right now, bring up her abandonment of Adamastor and reveal it for the treachery it was. But what would that achieve?

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"Fine," he spat, letting his clenched fists fall to his sides, relinquishing the tension that had kept them balled. "Let's say you're here out of mere curiosity." His eyes darted to Restelo, still coolly unflappable. "And what about you? What's a jaded vampire like you doing at the would-be renaissance of the Morningstar?"

Restelo's smirk deepened as if he relished the confrontational undercurrents. "Even boredom needs an occasional jolt, Mr. Berith. The Morningstar's revival, true or not, promises to be... entertaining."

"Entertaining," Baal echoed, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "Yes, let's go with that. After all, who doesn't love a good show?"

Marcella's red eyes squinted further, clearly irritated. "Now please go, you're interrupting our soirée."

"Interrupting?" Baal's voice elevated with faux astonishment, eyes gleaming like stars gone rogue. "But my dear, vampires have always been aficionados of a good drama. What's a minor disruption among fellow immortals?"

Restelo chuckled softly, an unexpected sound that seemed to break the brittle atmosphere. "Marcella, the man has a point. I'm ravaged by curiosity."

"Master, don't listen to him," Marcella shot back, her words tinged with frustration.

Restelo shifted his gaze to Baal, a challenge lurking behind his smirk. "Demons are known not to lie. But if you're so keen on drama, prove it. Do something unmistakably Baalian. entertain us!"

Baal scanned the area, locking onto a particular figure—white-haired, red-eyed, and undeniably captivating. "You see that young man over there? A handsome gentleman and a bit of the vampire side. Red eyes, like you both. White hair that glows under the twin moons. Marcella, why don't you call him over?"

"I... I have no idea who that is," she replied, her voice quivering as if caught in a lie.

"His name is Adamastor," Baal purred, his eyes never leaving Marcella's. "Why don't you call him over and see how he responds?"

Restelo felt the shift in the air, a subtle tightening like a bowstring pulled taut. "Well? What are you waiting for?" he prodded, "Call him!"

Visibly irked, Marcella raised her hand and beckoned the young man. "Adamastor?"

Turning at the sound of his name, Adamastor navigated through the crowd, stepping around Baal as though he were a mere piece of scenery.

"May I assist you?" he asked Marcella.

"Adamastor?" she faltered.

"Yes. Unfortunately, we've run out of blood, so there's nothing to offer you and your friend at the moment. Is there any other way we could accommodate you?" After no reply, with a polite nod and a courteous smile, Adamastor returned to his duties, moving towards another guest who seemed in need of his services.

Restelo studied the scene, his gaze inscrutable. "He didn't see you, demon."

"No, but neither did he recognize his master, did he, Marcella?" Baal wore his smirk like a weapon, a honed blade sharp enough to cut through the lingering tension.

Marcella's face betrayed her confusion, a web of conflicting emotions. "What are you implying? How could he..."

"Your spawn made a deal, Marcella. Every memory with your name he gave it away, puff," Baal explained, revelling in the moment. "He doesn't recognize you anymore. He won't remember or even think of you. Seems like whatever drama you two were concocting here has come to a premature curtain call."

Restelo leaned in, his red eyes locking onto Baal's, a furnace meeting an abyss. "So, demon, you've had your fun. What's the new deal?"

Baal felt a thrill course through him at Restelo's direct challenge. This was the game—this clash of wills, this electric dance of words and gazes.

"The deal, Restelo, is as it has always been. The Morningstar rises, and with him, a new era begins. Whether you are part of the dawning spectacle or remain an audience to it—that's up to you. One, you die; the other, I forget you even exist."

Restelo's eyes narrowed a minute shift that conveyed volumes. "And where do you fit into this 'new era,' Baal?"

"Ah, my dear Restelo," Baal smirked, "I'm right behind the director."

Baal grinned, a chilling expression that felt both playful and deadly serious. "I have a parting gift," he announced, rummaging through his pockets.

Marcella's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but before she could react, Baal swiftly closed the distance between them and clasped her hand. A sharp, burning sensation erupted from the point of contact, a cold, acidic pain that raced up her arm. She clenched her teeth, stifling a scream.

Pulling his hand away, Baal revealed the small Allatori bullet now embedded in her palm. Her skin hissed and smouldered around it as if resisting an invasive parasite.

Restelo's eyes widened, incandescent with rage and disbelief. "You dare use Allatori? A demon against vampires? You break all codes! And how didn't it hurt you?"

Baal locked eyes with Restelo, his voice low and charged with a promise of violence yet to come. "Go home, both of you. Prepare yourselves. Assemble your thralls, gather an army—do whatever it takes. Because we will come for you. My Warlock and I will hunt you down in Onxyburg. Your days are now numbered."

Turning to Marcella, his eyes ablaze with disdain, he added, "Your spawn, Adamastor, will die, but he will part as a free man, leaving no trace you ever existed. But you, Marcella, will die a far more memorable death. You'll gasp your last breath with his name searing through your lungs and soul."

As he walked away, Baal tossed a final warning over his shoulder. "Your countdown starts now. So I suggest you go before I decide to speed things up. My wife always tells me I'm too impatient, and she isn't wrong."

And with that, Baal disappeared into the crowd, leaving Marcella and Restelo to grapple with the gravity of his words, the searing pain in Marcella's palm a physical embodiment of the inescapable future he had just laid out before them. But Rastelo couldn't swipe away what he witnessed, a demon touching Allatori, completely immune. How was that possible? Who was Baal Berith?