The torches burned in their iron sconces, their flames casting restless shadows across the cavernous chamber. The air smelled of burning tallow and aged wood, mingling with the lingering musk of old leather and damp stone. The room was sparse, yet its presence loomed—animal-hide couches circled a broad wooden table, their rough textures a testament to both luxury and brutality. At the table's center stood a weathered copper candelabrum, wax dribbling from its arms like pale, congealed blood.
Beside the couches, roughly woven sacks lay in a careless heap, their seams stretched by the weight of the merchants' offerings. Goods, precious and rare, meant to buy their safety.
Erebus was uninterested.
He barely spared the merchants a glance, his gaze drawn instead to the heavy wooden doors behind them.
The room fell silent.
The shadows deepened.
"S-Sir? … My lord?"
The voice belonged to a man past his prime, his scalp gleaming under the dim light. He hesitated, his breath uneven, like prey caught in the predator's gaze.
Erebus turned his head at last, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken menace.
"We will revisit this deal once you return with something worthy of my attention. If you fail…" His lips curled slightly, though there was no humor in it. "Then you become my prey."
The merchants stiffened, exchanging glances filled with barely concealed dread.
"The head butler will escort you to your quarters," Erebus continued, already dismissing them.
"Th-Thank you, my lord, for your generosity—"
His gaze snapped to the speaker, silencing him with a single look.
"Do not mistake this for kindness," he murmured. "You have a fortnight. Not a day more."
"But my lord," one of them dared, voice trembling. "The journey alone takes—"
"Not my concern." Erebus stood, the movement effortless yet final. "Or the deal is off."
The weight of his words pressed down like iron shackles.
Blake, the head butler, stepped forward with the quiet authority of a man who had long since abandoned fear. Age had streaked his once-dark hair with silver, but the sharpness in his gaze remained. His thin mustache twitched as he regarded the trembling merchants.
"Follow me," he instructed, his voice steady.
A demon servant hoisted their sacks with ease, and together they departed.
Erebus lingered.
He stepped into the corridor beyond the chamber, his sharp eyes sweeping the length of the dimly lit hall. The sconces burned steadily, their flames untroubled, yet something in the air coiled around him like unseen fingers.
Something was here.
His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his axe.
"Is something amiss, my lord?" Blake's voice was soft but probing.
Erebus did not respond. He simply strode away, his cloak sweeping the stone floor behind him.
Blake exhaled through his nose.
"He's caught the scent of a spy?"
He had served the Stygian Fortress longer than Erebus had worn his title, and in that time, he had learned one truth—his master's instincts were rarely wrong.
---
Elsewhere, behind closed doors, Luciana sat trembling.
Jafar, had helped her escape, wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow.
"That was too close, my lady," he murmured.
She swallowed hard. "Had you not been with me… I fear I would not be standing here now."
Jafar offered a respectful bow. "A mere servant does not deserve your gratitude."
She said nothing, her hands still shaking.
Wordlessly, Jafar poured a dark liquid into a small wooden cup. The steam curled into the air like ghostly tendrils. He extended it toward her.
"Drink. It will settle your nerves."
She hesitated, her eyes flickering between the cup and the man who held it. The liquid inside was impossibly black, its surface swirling like ink in the candlelight. It smelled strong—earthy, almost burnt.
She brought it to her lips and took a cautious sip.
Bitter.
She recoiled slightly.
Jafar chuckled. "Wait for the aftertaste."
She paused, rolling the flavor over her tongue. A subtle sweetness lingered, warm and rich—caramel, dark and slow-melting.
Her brow furrowed. "What is this?"
"Coffee," Jafar answered, his voice tinged with quiet amusement.
"Coffee?" she repeated, as though the name alone was foreign.
"A favored drink in Wahrheit. And in the human realm."
She frowned. "Humans drink something this bitter?"
Jafar smirked. "Humans are strange creatures. Weaker than us in almost every way… yet they have a curious habit of thriving despite it."
"Born of light and darkness."
The ancient scriptures whispered in her mind, a forgotten passage from a ruined temple long swallowed by time.
Jafar straightened. "If you'll excuse me, my lady."
She watched as he departed, the heavy doors closing behind him with a muted thud.
Outside, the crescent moon hung pale and spectral in the cold night sky, its light filtering through the stained glass in broken hues of blue and silver.
She clasped her hands together.
"May my fate be kind."
Sleep soon claimed her.
---
Erebus entered the chamber moments later.
She lay curled beneath thick furs, her breath slow, her body drawn tight against the cold. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers faint and struggling.
He moved soundlessly, feeding fresh wood to the flames until they roared back to life.
The temperature rose.
The shadows receded.
He stepped toward the window, securing the stained-glass doors that had been left slightly ajar. The wind had crept in like an unwelcome specter, leaving the room bitterly cold.
She shivered in her sleep.
He turned, watching her for a long moment.
His fingers ghosted over her cheek. Her skin was soft, untouched by battle, unmarked by the cruelty of his world.
She stirred.
His hand withdrew in an instant.
"How does she sleep so soundly in a demon's bed?"
He lay down beside her, his thoughts tangled.
"Will I grow used to her?"
Sleep eluded him.
---
Morning came in slow gradients of silver and blue.
Luciana stirred, warmth encircling her waist.
A slow dread unfurled in her stomach.
She opened her eyes.
Erebus lay beside her, his face too close, his presence too consuming. His grip around her waist was firm, inescapable.
She sucked in a breath.
Too close…
Carefully, she tried to shift away.
The arm around her tightened.
Her pulse quickened.
Her palm pressed tentatively against his chest, a feeble attempt at pushing him away. He did not stir.
She exhaled shakily. What do I do?
Her gaze flickered to his face.
In sleep, the ever-present tension in his features had eased. His scars were more visible in the soft morning light—a thin one at the corner of his lips, another, deeper, trailing across his jaw. Signs of battles fought and survived.
Her fingers brushed his hair from his face, revealing a fresh scar near his temple.
The moment stretched.
Then—
"Where are you touching?"
His hand closed around hers, his grip unyielding.
She froze.
"A-ah! I didn't mean to wake you!" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"C-could you please let me go now?" She squirmed again trying to slip out of his grip.
A slow smirk curved his lips, half amusement, half warning.
"And if I don't let go?"
A shiver ran down her spine—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.