#baalphegor dnd

In the few places where the hellfire could not be encased or otherwise brought under control, the ice had finally melted… but there had been no collapses, no new chasms opening up. A layer is always an extension of its archduke, and something in Cania had changed indeed. 

In the scattered regions of Cania where the ice was gone and glaciers streamed down mountains, forming rivers and lakes, something else had emerged - soil where there had once been nothing but more ice, eaten away by hellfire. Dark soil, not unlike what one may find in the Material Plane… if not for the fact travellers passing through could see tongues of white-hot hellfire flickering through it.

And there were indeed quite a few more travellers than before crossing Cania to reach the citadel of Israfel. The vast majority of said visitors were cambions, as well as a decent number of alu-fiends. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. 

Half-fiends were generally considered useful pawns at most by their sires or mothers, cannon fodder at worst. What no one had seen them as for a very long time was a true threat to anyone powerful… and then of course along came Raphael to change all that. Suddenly, every Duke of the Hells with halfbreed offspring was very concerned indeed. 

Yes, the child of Mephistopheles was one in a million, but fear he may not turn out to be all that unique took hold rather quickly. The reactions were… quite the mixed bag. Some had decided to try and make allies out of powerful cambions, offering them better positions and prestige. But alongside interest for their potential was growing suspicion and fear they may turn out to be a threat. And threats should be eliminated, was the logical conclusion of many. 

Dispater, to no one’s surprise, had been particularly brutal. The Iron City was in an even more tyrannical lockdown than any could recall - a feat in itself, that - and there was talk that thousands of cambions who called the Second their home had been taken to Mentiri or simply disappeared overnight, never to be seen again. Dispater’s own blood, or so it was whispered, had not been spared. As a result, many half-fiends from across the Hells had come to the wise conclusion that a change of scenery was warranted. 

Those willing to fight headed to Avernus, where they knew Lord Bel would welcome any and all ready to serve in the Blood War; but most had headed down, deeper into the Hells and all the way to Cania. They came to Israfel asking for an audience, and pledged their fealty to Lord Raphael - the only one of their kind to have become the ruler of a layer. 

If Bel’s rise was the grand inspirational tale for all true baatezu seeking to climb through ranks to the very top, it seemed that Raphael had become the inspirational tale for half-fiends seeking to be more than what they were born. Among those who pledged their fealty were other children of Mephistopheles who, like him, had left Cania long ago and sought fortune elsewhere in Baator- or outside it entirely. They found their half-brother more welcoming than their sire had been, although he never did lower his guard.

And for good reason. Of course not all pledges of loyalty were sincere; a half-fiend is a fiend still. Just as many baatezu dreamed of one day killing Bel and taking his place, it seemed that more than a handful of promising cambions now held the very same dream regarding Raphael. A few plots were hatched, and snuffed out before anything came to fruition. 

A couple went as far as enacting an assassination attempt, usually quite poorly thought-out. None of those who conspired against Raphael, some half-siblings among them, succeeded at so much as scratching him. Some died fighting, others fell on their knees and begged for mercy - but every single one met a gruesome end by his hand, their remains paraded before the court before being thrown down the glacier, encased in ice, as eternal warning.

Raphael had won the throne by spilling his sire’s blood, and would spill oceans more to keep it; he intended to make that much resoundingly clear, and he did.

But those were exceptions; most had enough sense to know they had no chance against him, and did pledge themselves with respect, fear, and something not far from admiration. Some found a place at court; many were sent to the Material Plane to visit all temples of the Cult of Mephistopheles as his messengers, and tell its members to either bow to Raphael or make themselves scarce.

Many did make themselves scarce… although the former leader of the Cult must have got wind of something before he was supposed to, and took something with him before he disappeared. A powerful relic that could not be found anywhere in the temples scattered across Toril - a piece of Mephistopheles’ own flesh. 

Haarlep had heard Adonides speak of it to Raphael, sounding really rather cross about it. But surely, Haarlep had thought, that was not important. A piece of dead flesh is a piece of dead flesh; nothing more. 

With the old cult disbanded and the remaining members accepting Raphael as their new patron, the cambions who chose to act as his messengers in the Material Plane soon began to lead it - and some were, indeed, surprisingly zealous. High ranking members were granted some measure of control over hellfire, or over the Plume if so they chose - never much, nor both - but all things considered, Raphael had to do little to grow his newly established cult.

Word spread and more half-fiends flocked to join it - and then mortals as well, many of them tieflings who found value in their hellish heritage and knew that cambions were the link between them and their infernal ancestor.

The Cult of the Archcambion, some took to calling it. Until not too long ago, Raphael would have been outraged; now, he took pride in it. 

Honestly, Haarlep thought he should be proud of many of his accomplishments. Including the fact they had been at work under his desk for a good fifteen minutes, and he hadn’t come undone yet. “Ah, look at you . Still perky despite my best efforts.” A slight exaggeration perhaps - that was nowhere near their best - but they were in the mood to spoil their little brat with a bit of flattery. “You’ve come a long while, lordling.”

“... I am uncertain whether you’re speaking to me or my genitalia.”

Haarlep sighed, leaning their head on Raphael’s thigh and looking up. He was quite a sight from that angle, so finely dressed from the waist up and still trying to focus on the paperwork on his desk, on the letter he was penning. Who’d have thought that so little ruling would truly get done from atop a throne, and so much sitting at a desk? “Genitalia - who calls it that?”

“It is a perfectly proper definition--”

“Clearly I am not doing a good enough job if you still have half a mind to be proper.” A sigh, and they ran their tongue from base to tip, relishing in the shudder that got out of Raphael. “Will you tire of me if I can no longer satisfy you?” they asked with a sigh and a pout. Raphael gave a low chuckle, deep in his throat.

“Doubtful,” he replied, and let out a hiss at Haarlep’s next swipe of the tongue. He signed whatever he’d been writing - the scrape of pen on parchment a good deal more hurried than usual - before he groaned and leaned back against the seat, letting them work their magic.

***

“Well well well, look who’s here! The greatest mother hen in all of Faerûn!”

Sitting in the shade of a tree, his youngest charge in his arms - only weeks old, demolishing the bottle of milk with a healthy appetite - Halsin chuckled and looked up. “Perhaps I should add poultry to my wild shapes. I suspect the children would be amused.”

“Ah, don’t listen to Astarion.” Durge walked up to him, smiling. “He’s only cranky because Wyll is getting married to someone other than him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said it yourself, that Wyll is the prince-type you would have once dreamed of marrying.”

“Once, yes. When I was perhaps thirteen. I’ve since learned better about not getting trapped into devious contracts and honestly, so should Wyll… but as it’s with Karlach, perhaps the choice is not so unwise.”

“Strong, fast, and righteous, you said. Salivating already, I think were your exact words..."

“Are you trying to make me object to the ceremony, love? You know I might. For the sake of some good old fashioned drama, you understand.”

Durge laughed, and sat on a nearby log. They were dressed to travel, and they had traveled fast indeed; Halsin knew they had set out from Amn, and had not expected to see them until a couple of days later at least. And they seemed to have enjoyed the journey, too; both seemed in high spirits. Durge looked over at him, grinning. “You look good.”

Halsin glanced down to see that their presence had not distracted Ophelia from what obviously mattered most - her milk. He smiled. “Ah, thank you. I do feel good,” he said, and it was true. He’d never felt so at peace in his life; Reithwin rebuilt and thriving, and the children thriving with it. He’d feared they’d resent him for being gone so long, but they did not, and were ecstatic to have new tales to listen to. “And keeping busy, as you see.”

Durge looked down, and smiled faintly, but did not lean in for a better look. They did tend to keep away from children and infants, Halsin had noted, sometimes excusing themself by saying their chronic headache was made somewhat worse by shrill voices. He knew, deep down, the reason why - lost memories or not, they could guess that it hadn’t been adults alone to fall under the blade of the Chosen of Bhaal. 

Had they met then, Halsin knew, he’d have tried to end them or died trying… but that was not who he’d met. The being who’d saved him from the goblins was no Chosen of Bhaal; it was someone who’d just stumbled out of Bhaal’s grasp, willing to risk their life time and time again to save refugees who were nothing to them, and to lift a course that choked the life out of an entire land. 

The monster had died for good in Bhaal’s temple. Even if Durge still would not risk so much reaching for a young child, there was no doubt in Halsin’s mind that they would never harm one. So he spoke none of his thoughts, and just answered the unspoken question. 

“She is the child of Gale’s traveling companion from six months past. She was born almost two turns of the moon ago. Her mother had… a difficult situation to deal with, and did not plan on keeping her. She gave a generous donation that helped us buy supplies for the town before she left, but truth be told she did not have to. I was more than happy to take her in.”

“You always had a tender heart for strays,” Astarion sighed, but his tone was light. He sat on the log next to Durge and, for all the earlier banter, seemed pretty content to let them rest an arm across his shoulders. “Will you be able to put her down to travel with us to Baldur’s Gate, or do you plan on taking her with us? Just to warn you, I don’t change--”

Halsin laughed. “No, no. She will remain here with the other children, where she’s well taken care of.” Although of course, he’d miss them all while away. “Lady Isobel and Dame Aylin will travel with us.”

Durge nodded. “Good. The more, the merrier. I believe Gale is already at the Gate; he mentioned he had something to discuss with Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries in his last message. La’ezel and Shadowheart will arrive on the day, all going well.” There was always an element of uncertainty in the midst of war, of course; they could not stay away from the Astral Plane too long, and there was always the chance they’d have to go back at a moment’s notice in case of developments. “Shadowheart said she’d convince Lae’zel to land the dragons outside the city, though. Just to avoid causing a panic.”

Astarion sighed. “Always spoiling the fun,” he lamented, and Halsin chuckled.

“It would put a damper on celebrations. Ah, did they send word of Xan?”

“He's still in the care of the mages of Xamvadi'm-- whatever that is. But Lae'zel trusts them, and Shadowheart says he’s well."

“That is good to hear. It was inconceivable to me that the Githyanki would destroy the egg only because the hatchling took a few days more than expected to emerge.”

“Once the war is won, that will never happen again.”

Astarion groaned. “Oh, gods. Tell me we're not about to get mixed in the politics of another Plane,” he muttered, and Durge laughed. 

“Not unless Lae’zel calls for aid. But she seems to have everything well in hand. Besides, she has Shadowheart to help.”

“Oh, of course. Let's pretend her amazing aim is the reason why she's there.”

There was a sudden sound, that of a markedly displeased baby, and Halsin looked down to see that Ophelia had emptied the bottle and looked rather annoyed at the notion. He chuckled and stood, resting her against his shoulder while gently patting her back. “Well, we ought to head back. Your room is not ready, as you were not expected to arrive early - I hope you won't mind sharing mine.”

Durge scoffed out a laugh. “If I ever tell you I mind, feel free to strike down the doppelganger impersonating me.”

“Ah, but what if it’s Haarlep?” 

“Do you think for a second Haarlep would say no to sharing a room with you?”

Halsin would have laughed heartily, had he not been all too aware of the fact it would startle the infant he was carrying. He settled for a chuckle. “Fair enough. They’ll be at the wedding, I suppose? Raphael as well?”

Durge grinned. “Oh,” they said, “With all the trouble he went through for the perfect wedding gift, I don’t think Raphael would miss it for the world.”

***

It didn’t take long for Raphael to lose composure once they really got to work under his desk, but Haarlep couldn’t honestly fault him: with their talents, resisting was near impossible.

They hummed around him as his fingers tangled in their hair, and leaned forward to take all of him down their throat. Time to bring out the heavy guns, to so speak, and their reward came in the form of Raphael coming undone with a whine, back arching and hips buckling. 

He fell back limply against his seat and remained there, panting, while Haarlep emerged from beneath the desk and stretched. They grinned, quite pleased with themself, before reaching over to cup his cheek and turn his face to them. 

“Look at you,” they crooned. “My archduke. I think I deserve a little prize too, don’t I?”

Their harness disappeared in a crackle of flame and they stepped closer to his seat, their hands gripping his horns. But Raphael did not need to be guided: with a groan, he leaned forward and took Haarlep in his mouth in turn. The incubus let out another content sigh. 

“Good boy,” they hummed, getting a muffled moan out of him. Holding idly onto his horns as they let him do the rest of the work, Haarelep glanced down at the desk. 

The ink was still drying on the order he’d penned for Adonides, a list of names and locations to distribute to his cultists in the Material Plane - more cambion spawn of Mephistopheles who were yet too young to have been claimed by the Hells while their sire lived. 

Children, not only by fiendish standards but by mortal ones as well; the youngest was not yet a year old, Haarlep noted. Raphael had given orders to keep an eye on each one of them and report, and only intervene to take them in in case of danger. The words DO NOT CULL were written in capital letters and underlined several times for good measure, in case someone overly zealous took it as an order to do away with potential future threats. 

Right by was a stack of decrees drafted by Justiciar Tunchet which he had yet to revise and, should they pass revision, sign. At the corner of his desk, poking out from beneath a ledger, was a card unlike everything else - written in Common rather than Infernal. 

A wedding invitation he’d received three months past, the ceremony to take place in Baldur’s gate. Or rather, one of two invitations they’d received three months past. Haarlep had always intended to go, of course, but had expected they’d do so as Raphael’s plus one, so to speak. Receiving an invitation themself had been a little surprising… and frankly, not at all unpleasant. They still had a tenday to think of a present, but they were rather set on a pair of matching harnesses, to spice up their nights. Or days, whenever they decided to go at it.

It probably wouldn’t rival the gift Raphael planned to give them, but they were no archduke - only a humble consort to one. An still unofficial consort, to be pedantic; thrilling as it had been to enjoy one another without anything binding them, it was beginning to grate. They treasured their ring, but they were devils still and nothing in the Hells mattered more than a proper--

Raphael’s teeth scraped lightly over their cock, teasing, getting a groan out of Haarlep and interrupting their thoughts. How nice to see that he could learn how to pleasure them, if he bothered to - and what a fast learner he could be! Haarlep looked down to meet Raphael’s gaze, to watch their cock disappear between those pliant lips, in that lovely warm mouth and open throat.

Their grip on his horns tightened. “You want it, don’t you, my little brat?”

A whine, the smallest jerk of his head to signify a nod, and Haarlep hummed. They could hold back their orgasm as long as they wanted, but Raphael looked so adorable like that, lips stretched around them and eyes beginning to tear up - how could they resist? So they smiled, and used the leverage on his horns to pull him closer still, sink in all the way before they gave him exactly what he wanted. Didn’t they always, in the end?

“Good,” Haarlep cooed once they were done. They held Raphael still for a few more moments before they sighed contentedly and let go of Raphael’s horns, to let him pull back and catch his breath. The archduke of Cania licked his lips and reached for them, but Haarlep evaded his grasp and sat on his desk instead, bracing a foot against his chest to pin him back against his seat.

He looked at them, blinking and still dazed while Haarlep cleared their throat. They had thought of that moment a few times, planned a little speech. Yet in the end they only spoke their demand.

“If I am yours and you are mine,” they declared, “I want a contract.”

Raphael blinked. “A contract-- of what sort, precisely?”

“One to make this… ” They gestured at themself, and at Raphael, with the hand bearing the ring. “Entirely official. You have been calling me your Consort before subjects and dignitaries alike, but are you willing to put it in writ--”

They didn’t get to finish the sentence: Raphael snapped his fingers and a contract burned into being before their eyes, the Infernal script on it glowing red as embers. Haarlep saw the words on it, Raphael’s signature already at the bottom. They looked at him to see he was smirking, clearly very pleased with himself for surprising them. 

When had he prepared it, when had he signed it? How long had he been waiting for them to ask? Haarlep stared a few moments, utterly speechless, before their brain caught up with their tongue and they grinned back.

“... You really can never let me finish first, can you?”

Raphael’s smug expression melted in a rather satisfying mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and annoyance. “Well, if you’d rather not--” he began, and tried to reach for the contract, only for Haarlep’s foot to push him back into the seat.

“Down, sweetling,” they sing-sang, and took the contract to give it a good read. They went over every detail, rather enjoying the way Raphael squirmed into the seat every time they hummed or commented on what they were reading. 

“Uh-hu, I see... oooooh, I see. How very naughty. And what's that? Ah, of course. How many times a month? Well. Now that can be arranged…” Haarlep grinned, reading on and finally pausing on one of the last clauses. “Instantly lose my voice for upwards to a tenday if I try to reveal anything about our past or future sexual encounters to your mother-- isn’t that a little much? I have hardly let slip a detail or two this past half year. Well, no more than four…”

Raphael raised an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “Yes,” he replied. “I’d say it is warranted.”

“Oh, come now. I didn’t do it on purpose. It slipped whilst in innocent conversation.”

“There is nothing innocent about any of your conversations.”

“Ah, true enough. But you do so love me for it.” Haarlep blew him a kiss before looking back at the contract naming them, officially, Consort of the Lord of the Eighth. “... It seems a rather well-thought out contract. Of course, I have a few clauses of my own to suggest. May I?”

“By all means.”

There wasn’t much they wanted to add, truth be told; the contract was almost entirely satisfying, and only needed a few tweaks. The most important of which seemed to give Raphael pause as he read through the revised contract, with Haarlep still sitting on his desk, still naked. He hadn’t bothered to lace up his trousers again either… and what a pretty sight that was, really.

“This-- request of yours…” Raphael cleared his throat. “Every day seems… excessive. Once a tenday, perhaps--”

“Every other day.”

“Twice a tenday,” Raphael countered, and Haarlep hummed.

“Very well. Twice a tenday at a minimum, but I may request more,” they added, and grinned. “Come now, you had me say it for a long time before I even actually meant it.”

Raphael cleared his throat again, but he obviously had no argument to counter that. In the end, he only added an extra clause to specify he would only do as much without witnesses present; Haarlep found it a fair enough caveat. They took back the contract, looked at the revisions again, and grinned. “Oh, lovely. Pass me the quill, sweetling…”

Haarlep’s signature joined Raphael’s at the bottom of the contract, and the letters glowed brightly again before the contract disappeared in a burst of flame, to be stamped by Justiciar Tuncheth and filed away. Haarlep laughed, delighted, and leaned forward to grasp his doublet. They pulled him off his seat, kissing him deeply. He groaned into the kiss, and they smiled. 

“Twice a tenday, consort, ” they crooned. “And no witnesses whatsoever right now. Say it.”

Raphael groaned again, part annoyance but mostly arousal, before he did speak it in a whisper against their lips.

“I love you,” he said, the first time of many.

***

There is no time, in the Fugue Plane.

Yet somehow time is the one thing that there is, amidst the gray and the mist, the vague shapes and outlines of other wanderers. Everything is suspended in a single instant, no matter how far the march of time has gone in other Planes. 

How long the soul has been there, it does not know. It knows why it is there - death came for me - and it knows there was a chance to move forward, once. It knows it did not take it, and has been wandering since. Perhaps it could still take it, but will not.

I cannot, because there was someone and then she was no more, and she will not be on the other side either. They will not be there.

Sometimes, in the gray, there is a glimpse of the distant outline of the Crystal Spire, high above the City of Judgment. It seems to call to every soul. Time and time again, this one resists the call. 

It does not recall the name it held, in a mortal life that may have ended a long time or barely hours ago. It does not recall who she is, who they are, why would they not be on the other side. But it knows it to be true. It knows that there was a thought of following once, of going where it knew them to be-- it did know at some point, didn’t it? -- but never did. For some reason. There is a reason, there was a reason-- you’d forget everything about your mortal life, old man -- why it could not go after them.

Neither forward nor back, suspended in time, in the swirling gray of the Fugue Plane. Until on its path which is not path at all, someone blocks the way. Tall. Towering. Not another soul, but a fiend staring back through glowing eyes. A devil, this one. Sometimes they come to offer bargains. The soul knows it because… it…

The Hells. I thought of going to the Hells. But devils are not allowed to lie, not in Kelemvor’s domain, and they told me I’d lose all memory of those I knew in life. So I stayed. And I lost them anyway, because the mist is all that there is, outside and in my mind. Who are they?

“Mph. I didn’t think I’d find you. Dead almost two millennia, and never left this dump?” The devil tilts his head, crowned by massive horns. “Makes no sense to me.”

Two millennia. Something about that seems unreal. Has it really been so long, outside the mist? The soul looks up, too lost for words for a moment. It does not know how long it has been since there was any reason to let words ring out. 

“Do you-- know me?”

“I know of you. Lord Rahirek Starspire, warden of Three Peaks Vale.” The devil holds up something - a sheet of paper and upon it, a portrait. “Pretty sure this is you.”

If asked to speak its name or describe its own face upon meeting, the soul would not have known what to say. It could not recall the name, could not recall the face they wore… but now the name is spoken, a face unveiled.

His name. His face. He recalls both now, and finds he is not surprised. The knowledge was there all along; he only needed something to lift the fog.

“Yes,” Rahirek replies, almost in a whisper. “That is me.”

A grin, all tusks. “Good. I am here to extend you an invite, Lord Starspire, and to give you a gift from the new Lord of the Eighth.”

“Mephistopheles,” a voice rings in the back of his mind, weak, broken. Barely audible through the wailing of a child. There was a hand in his grasp, he recalls, and it was so cold. On a charred mattress was the squirming thing he could not bring himself to look at. A price paid. And yet she’d shielded it with a trembling arm, when he’d reached for his sword in his shock. “Lord of the Eighth. I made-- a deal-- so you’d-- come back.”

Dalah. Her name was Dalah. All that I loved in the world, and I never told her that. I should have told her. She should have known I’d have chosen a hundred deaths over a life without her in it.

“You serve Mephistopheles?”

A snort. “No. The archmage is dead. The new Lord of the Eighth is his son, Raphael.” A grimace, as though the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He said you might know him best as Israfel.”

Israfel. 

The memories flood his mind all at once; it is no slow realization. The fog lifts and everything is still there. “I do. He is-- was-- he was my--”

There is a word on the tip of his tongue, one that he refused to use for too long - until it was too late, until he lost any right to. He does not remember the word; but he recalls writing it, long ago, and staring at the drying ink for a long time.

In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my--

“... Ward," he hears himself say. “He was my ward.”

“Hhm, I see. Well, your ward has gone far, and wants you to have this.”

A box is placed in his hands, made of wood, the star-and-spire sigil on it. His family’s sigil. He recalls the box, and he recalls what he put in it so long ago, to be delivered to a boy much too young to be in the Hells. He stares a moment, something hurting at his very core, and opens the lid with a shaky hand. 

There are two things he recognizes, and one he does not. A lanceboard piece, the black king - a gift and a reminder, for his ward in the Hells - and a letter he penned himself… those he recognizes. But there is another letter, still sealed. Not his, and yet the seal… the seal…

The spire, rising up to piece a star. 

Rahirek stares a moment; he’d forgotten what dizziness even feels like, until just now. He is soul and ether, yet his ears are buzzing and his tongue feels too large. He takes the letter in hand, stares at the seal and then, finally, he breaks it.

He notices the penmanship before he recognizes the words; there is a memory, distant, of a boy of ten writing the same sentences over and over, taking his calligraphy practice very seriously indeed. Rehirek remembers looking over his shoulder, and chuckling. 

“Ah, I could never manage that,” he’d said. “My tutor had to forbid the old master-at-arms from training me unless I’d already filled at least a page for the day.”

Israfel had looked up, just a touch of annoyance on his face for being caught practicing something had not yet utterly perfected. “I’ll fill a hundred,” he’d muttered, “if it spares me the fencing lesson.”

“How come? They were by far my favorite thing.”

“I don’t see the point. I can cast spells. And besides, the master-at-arms doubts I'm ever going to be fit to hold a sword.”

“And my tutor doubted I’d ever be fit to hold a pen. My chicken scrawl would prove him right.”

Your mother used to say it looked as though a spider had crawled across the page after nearly drowning in ink. She insisted on writing my letters for me, lest a greeting be mistaken for a declaration of war, he’d almost said, but he hadn’t. 

He thought of her all the time, but rarely spoke such thoughts. He knew it would hurt, like barbs in his throat. So he kept quiet and, again, denied the boy any word of his mother. 

Not that he was aware; the annoyance had turned into a chuckle, and Israfel had resumed his practice. He’s kept practicing for a long time, Rahirek can tell now; the handwriting is impeccable, the lines opulent to say the least. 

He smiles weakly, the memory fading, and finally starts reading.

***

“Father? Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, never mind, I see you’re--”

“I’m not busy.”

Ulder Ravengard, who was indeed quite obviously busy, immediately dropped his quill and stood from his desk. Standing in the doorway, Wyll found himself smiling. His father was many things: a warrior at heart, a disciplined soldier, and dutiful Grand Duke… but frankly, a very poor liar. 

“It is nothing urgent, truly. It can wait.”

“No need.” A hand on his shoulder, a nod towards the armchairs by the roaring fire. “Come sit. I was just about to have some wine.”

There was indeed a bottle of Thayan Red on the small table between the armchairs, although Wyll still suspected the just about had been supposed to be a couple of hours later. But he was never one to turn down a cup of wine, or time with his father, now that he had the chance again. So he nodded and sat with him, watching him pour the wine as he spoke. 

“Are you sure you don’t wish to marry in the High Hall? You saved the Coast. You deserve it.”

Wyll smiled. “It would be an honor, truly. But we’d prefer to celebrate in the Small Sun district,” he said. Truth be told it would probably be more than a little embarrassing, marrying in the high hall beneath a huge statue of himself alongside his companions. And besides, Karlach had loved the idea of celebrating with the people they’d pulled out of the shadows. He did too.

“I understand,” Ulder Ravengard was saying. “It is a lovely district. It was a marvel, how quickly they were able to build that up from the ashes.”

“I was told the Ironhand Gnomes lent… well. A hand.” Wyll thought that was hilarious, honestly, but his father did not seem to get the joke. He seldom did. 

“That they did. Without them and the Gondians, rebuilding Baldur’s Gate would have taken much longer.” He held out a cup, and Wyll took it. “Did the fitting go well?”

“Ah, yes. The outfits are ready, and thank the gods. Anything more than three words out of Mr. Pennygood’s mouth is enough to make me want to take a dagger to my ears.”

His father chuckled, and took a swig from his cup. “Yes, I believe Karlach was heard saying that either this would turn out to be the last fitting, or she’d marry in armor.”

“She also threatened to do that when Pennygood suggested a gown. I thought he’d just keel over and die at the prospect. An assistant had to bring him smelling salts.”

“Heh. To be fair, I understand her sentiment. I married in my armor myself. Duke Abdel Adrian found it amusing, but I was so very proud of serving as Blaze under him. He was an extraordinary man. Many Bhaalspawn are, for good or evil. But you found that out yourself.”

“That I did. I wish I got to know the Duke better. I was still a boy when he died.” Wyll drank some of his own wine and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cup in his hands. “... Speaking of that, there is something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time,” he said.

Ulder Ravengard blinked, a little startled by the serious tone. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Wyll cleared his throat, and looked away. “It is not a subject you speak of gladly.” It always pains you to think of her. You never blamed me for her passing, but even so… “I don't wish to force you--”

“To force me? My son, I forced you out of the city you saved.” His father spoke suddenly, reaching to put a hand on Wyll’s shoulder. He recoiled, and looked up. Even now, guilt was etched in every line of Ulder’s proud features. “I forced you, a boy, out of your home. I tried to force you out of my heart as well. The fact I failed does not make it a less grievous act.”

“You did not know--”

“The fact alone you still call me father is an honor I do not deserve. But I intend to.” A light squeeze on his shoulder. “There is nothing you cannot demand of me. So ask. I’ll answer.”

Wyll swallowed a lump in his throat, nodded, and spoke. “Would you tell me about mother?” he finally asked. He knew her name, and what she’d looked like; he knew how she’d passed, and he knew his father had loved her deeply, but nothing else. 

The question gained him a look of surprise at first, then comprehension, then something close to shame. “... I see. I never told you much about her. I should have, long ago. Yet another failing on my part.”

“You never stopped grieving. I know that. I am sorry if--”

His father cut him off with a gesture of his hand. “No, don’t be. Francesca was your mother. You should know more of her. I did you both wrong, keeping silent all these years.”

Grief had bound his tongue for a long time, but no more. He kept his word, and told him all about her - from the very first meeting, when she’d passed him by on the street and he’d turned, crashing into another Flaming Fist in a dreadful clang of armors, to her very last smile to both of them as he held a newborn Wyll in his arms.

Wyll had never seen his father tear up before, and for a moment guilt twisted in his stomach. But then there was laughter, too - more laughter than tears, and the guilt was gone. 

Ulder Ravengard told him all about the love of his life and Wyll listened, smiling, for a very long time.

***

Lord Starspire, I hope this letter finds you and, if it does, I do hope you’re as well as you can be after so much time in the Fugue Plane. In your last letter, you asked for my forgiveness. It is a bold thing to ask of any devil. I am not a forgiving creature by nature; it is fortunate, then, that there is nothing for me to forgive.  You need not ask forgiveness for calling me by the name my mother gave me - you may keep doing so, if you wish - nor for recounting similarities between us, or for keeping your distance in the first years of my life.  Given the circumstances, you had no reason to seek any sort of rapport with me, no obligation to so much behold me. You were under no obligation to keep me in your household at all, but you did and I never wanted for anything; I was clothed and fed, educated and looked after with more care than most of my kin ever get to experience. Even in the years you could barely stand my sight, I do not recall a single harsh word towards me.  Most in your position would not have deigned to provide as much even to their own bastard children - much less to a fiend’s offspring whose birth cost your wife her life. Most in your position would not have taken that same boy under their wing as you ultimately did.  Your lessons were more valuable than you can imagine; I cannot count the times your advice has kept me alive and thriving in the Hells. I plan to keep on thriving for a long time still; my sire is gone by my hand, and I rule from his throne. My mother, too, is here.  She is content, or so she swears, and I shall strive to keep it so. She is to never know servitude again. She does not yet know I have enlisted Yurgir’s services to find you; I know the chances of you not having moved on in all these centuries are few, and I do not intend to bring her hopes up only to crush them afterwards.   But if you were found and are reading this, know that I am extending my personal invite to join us at Cania’s court. You’d be a guest, your soul left whole, free to come and go as you wish. I would welcome the chance to see you again, and I’m certain that so would your wife.  I do hope to see you soon.  With warmest regards, Archduke Raphael, Lord of the Eighth.

“... Well? Are you coming or not?” The devil before him grumbles as soon as Rahirek looks up from the letter, eyes wide, a million questions stuck in his throat. “I need you to tell me. So I can fulfill my duty and go back to the Hells with or without you to collect my payment. Sooner rather than later. When deals with Raphael run long, they run really damn long.”

“I…” Rahirek pauses, not quite trusting his voice to work, and looks back down at the letter. An answer to his own last letter, after so long. When you visit we will talk about your mother, he’d written, but that visit never happened while he was alive. 

He knows he visited his crypt; he met Nan’s soul, the gods know how long ago, and she told him as much. 

It seems so silly that my heart gave out just as I embraced him, she’d said. I hope I have not given him more grief. He is still a sweet boy.

She tried to convince him to move on, before she did, but he refused, and in the end she had to continue on without him. He remained, aimless and losing hope, in the Fugue Plane. And now suddenly there it is, a second chance. Not to talk about Dalah but to see her, too. 

He’s long forgotten how to dream, but this he remembers dreaming of when he still drew breath, almost every night. But she remained beyond his reach; and after he died, beyond his reach she remained… until now. Rahirek Starspire looks up, and speaks in a whisper.

“Take me to them.”

***

“... So, yeah, it’s gonna be great to see everyone again. And get married, definitely the getting married part! I’m so glad Isobel is gonna do the talking because I bet I’d say something stupid. But, we’ve got a great part planned after, too! Barcus said there’s gonna be fireworks, hope I don’t have to be worried about that. Would kind of suck if the gnomes leveled the whole district the guys from Elturel have just built. Oh, and Danis and Bex opened the best cafe in the city there! I swear to the gods, best almond cakes I’ve ever had in my life. Almond Cakes from Avernus, they call it, but there was nothing like it back there. Kids are at the cafe all the time to steal a bite. And they’re going to take care of the food for the party! Danis and Bex, I mean, not the kids. As long as Bex doesn’t work too hard, with a bun in the oven. Heh, get it? A bun in the oven!”

There was no response but the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. The cemetery had been spared by the destruction that had befallen much of the city a year earlier; the dead, at least, got to rest in peace. 

“... Well. Anyway. I was going to take care of the drinks, but Lakrissa told me to let her handle it, so I’ll just trust her on that. And Dammon’s totally making something great, I heard him hammering away and he wouldn’t let me have a peek in the forge! Yeah, I think it’s gonna be great. Awesome. I can’t wait.” There was a pause, only filled with silence, and Karlach sighed, still sitting cross-legged on the ground. “... Wish you guys could be there, too.”

Before her, the gravestone remained silent. Two carved names. The last physical proof, other than her, that a very happy couple called Pluck and Caerlack Cliffgate had existed, once, in the Outer City. She felt a prickle behind her eyes, and cleared her throat. 

“Anyway! I bet you’d love Wyll. Not just ‘cause he’s the kid of a Grand Duke - yeah, who’d have thought? - but because he’s… amazing. The best man I know. Hells, the best person I know. I am so, so happy with him. And now we have years, decades! And… wherever you are, I hope you don’t mind waiting for me a little longer. If you are somewhere, I’ll find you and I’ll tell you all about the life I’ve lived out, I promise. And it won’t be a boring tale. It’s gonna be epic, really! And happy. Yeah, that most of all. I'm gonna be happy. I’ll make sure of that. I mean, how often does one get a second crack at it?”

Karlach put the flowers down before she stood. “Well. Time to get going. Still some shit to do before the big day. I’ll be back to see you after, I promise. It’s gonna be soon.” A sniffle, and she smiled. “Taters,” she whispered, and the breeze on her face felt almost like a caress.

***

“... Mother.”

“Ah, there you are. I was just wondering if you’d been taken hostage into another meeting.” 

Dalah chuckled, and put her book down. Reading was something she’d loved in life, but books were not something she had access to during her servitude - let alone in a language she could understand.

Almost as soon as she’d told Israfel as much, he’d excused himself briefly and returned with something in his hand - a book she’d had since she was a young girl, two millennia earlier. Precisely as she recalled it, as though frozen in time while by all logic it should have long since crumbled into dust. 

Rhymes from the Land of the Purple Dragon.

She’d taken it with her when she’d left that land, to marry a man she’d only heard of. Some were short plays, some more or less obscure poetry, and some were nursery rhymes. When Israfel had returned it to her, Dalah had smiled faintly. 

“My brother used to read these to me. Dramatic readings. He always made at least five different voices,” she’d said, amazed that she could still remember so much of her life, after so long. She’d flipped through the pages until she found it, the one she recalled best - the one she had murmured to her son as her life ebbed away. But he could not possibly remember that. Of course the book was how he had known of the rhyme.

The mouse smiled brightly; It outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, And that, Love, was that.

There was a drawing, too, on the blank part of the page - a cat and a mouse, as she recalled. The mouse was drawn crudely, as a child would… and indeed, she had been a child. Her brother had drawn a much better cat, although the back end was somewhat wonky and it looked more like it was looking at its own claws rather than about to strike.

But what caught her eye was something else that had not been there when she’d last seen the book: another drawing just above the cat and mouse, larger, as though watching over both. Drawn by the hand of a boy, she suspected, but surprisingly detailed - the head of a fox. 

She’d looked up, chuckling. “Did you add this?”

Israfel had cleared his throat, perhaps a little embarrassed. “Ah, I supposed I did. I was-- drawn to the rhyme.”

It was the only lullaby I ever gave you, Dalah had thought, but something ached in her throat and the words did not leave her. Instead, she’d looked back down at the drawings, and smiled. “I think,” she’d said, “that I have an idea for your next doublet.”

And he was wearing it now, sure enough, a subtle motif of cat-and-mouse in the golden embroidery up his arms, the outline of a fox in red thread along the front fastenings and the lower hem. Dalah had seldom been prouder of any work out of her hands… but now, it was not the doublet she focused on.

Something about Israfel’s expression seemed off. He seemed… not scared, nor worried, but tense. It was enough for Dalah’s chuckle to die down, and she stood. “Israfel? Is something the matter?”

“No. Nothing is wrong. There has been… a development.” He walked across the room, and reached to take her hands. He had never done such a thing before; she’d always reached for him first. But this time he held her hands, and looked her in the eye. “Half a year past, I sent someone to the Fugue Plane. To see if there was any chance to find Lord Starspire’s soul.”

Dalah did not need to breathe, but felt breathless nonetheless for a moment. She stared up at Israfel, part of her struggling to comprehend those words. Rahirek, in the Fugue Plane - within reach of her son? No, it couldn’t be. It had been… it had been…”

“It’s been so long.” She heard her own whisper as though from a mile away. “Surely, he…?”

“He never left the Fugue Plane.”

“And he’s been wandering all this time?” Her voice almost cracked; if not for the incredulity at the notion, she might have broken down entirely. “He’s still there?”

“No. Not anymore,” Israfel replied, and squeezed her hands before he spoke again, his voice quiet and yet filling the room, filling the world. “He is here.”

***

Rahirek did not know how long it had been since he’d last seen snow, and he found he could not look away. 

It was falling slowly outside the window of the room he’d been taken to. The room itself was warm, lavish; on the ground was a pool of steaming water, and the sheets on the bed were made of finer material than any he’d known in his life.

The devil who’d taken him had grunted when Rahirek had asked where they were. “The Starspire,” he’d replied.

“What…?”

Another grunt. “Raphael’s palace. That’s what he called it. Now wait here, and do not leave. I’m not responsible for whatever happens if you leave and get mistaken for an eternal debtor.”

He had left, then, ostensibly to tell the Lord of Eighth of his arrival. Lord of the Eighth, Israfel. He still could barely wrap his mind around the thought. He was a boy of thirteen when he’d last seen him. He knew he must have grown, of course, but in his mind he had remained that boy. Would he even recognize him if he saw him now? Did he still use that human form of his, did he still look like his mother in it?

Dalah. After the gods know how long, is it still her? Am I still what she remembers?

She’d been young when they’d met, only days ahead of the wedding; a woman grown, yes, but still a good deal younger than him, and sheltered. He had not asked a great deal about her - the marriage would be a matter of political convenience, a duty as his first one had been - but he recalled he did not much like how her father had described her more like a prize horse than a person. He’d even said something about good birthing hips; Rahirek had seen no point in telling him he was rather certain he was barren.

Her hips or even her face were of no consequence. He was a practical man, inclined to leave tales of love to bards; even so, he’d pitied her when he’d seen how young, and how tense, she looked upon meeting him.

He did not cut a reassuring figure, with his broad frame and the deep scar across his right eye - so he’d made an effort to soften his voice, and had remained well and truly on his side of the marital bed on that first night… and in all the nights that followed. 

She had been relieved, that first night… and then confused, until finally she had looked him in the eye and asked, before he could extinguish the oil lamp for yet another night. “Do I displease you, my lord?”

He paused, and looked back. “No, you do not. But I suspect you do not precisely harbor desire for me. Am I wrong?”

“I--” A moment of silence and she’d looked away without answering, as if afraid to anger him. 

She hadn’t. Instead he’d chuckled, and put off the oil lamp before leaning down, saying nothing more. He did not touch her any night that followed, either - but from that moment on her fear around him was gone, and the discomfort had begun to fade as well.

She’d begun to talk to him in the evenings and during the day, of the book she was reading or a song she’d heard, of the contents of a letter from an old friend back home - of little daily happenings in the fort he’d missed while out and about. Little by little, with the hesitation of someone who has been told time and time again that nothing out of her mouth is of much interest at all. That too had faded, because Rahirek had loved listening to her.

He could not pinpoint a moment he’d realized he’d fallen for his wife; it had simply happened over time. He did, however, remember the moment he’d realized she had fallen for him - when he’d felt her body press against him in the dark, nearly a year after the wedding. 

“I’m cold,” Dalah had whispered, and he’d nodded before saying that he’d fetch her another blanket. He’d returned to the bed with the blanket, only to find she had buried her face in the pillow, groaning, and the coin had dropped. 

It had made for a funny story to tell, but at the moment he’d felt rather stupid. And later, too, once she was gone. Had he told her he loved her? Had he told her enough times? Had he made her happy, where had it all gone wrong? 

There was so much he’d wanted to ask as she lay dying, so much he’d wanted to say, and no time for him to say anything. Now, he could not think of anything he could say. What could he say to someone who’d suffered the fate she did, for him?

“You should have never. My life wasn’t worth this,” he recalled choking out, grasping those cold hands, and he recalled the weak smile. 

“Yes. It is.” A squeeze of his hand, barely perceptible. Her voice taking a desperate note, trying to force out words even as the light went out in her eyes. He had to lean in to hear her words over Israfel’s wailing. “I love you, the gods know, I love you. I… I…”

The sound of the door slamming open snapped him from memory, and Rahirek turned with a start; his right hand went instinctively where he used to carry his sword long ago… and then stilled.

He had grown older since her death, and surely he looked grayer than she recalled him. But standing in the doorway, a hand on her mouth, Dalah looked everything as he recalled her: he dark hair and warm brown eyes, the slight build, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Later he’d learn that her nose had been broken, early in her servitude, and was left to heal on its own, leaving it somewhat crooked; right there and then, he didn’t even notice.

It was her , standing before him . And she was crying, tears streaming down her face as she stepped forward, slowly. 

“Rahirek,” she choked out, and her voice was the same too. “I’m so sorry--”

He did not think; his mind was blank of everything but the overwhelming need to hold her and so he did, crossing the distance between them in three strides and pulling her into an embrace - tight. 

Some part of him feared she’d vanish like smoke, or that some other devil would come snatch her away; no such thing happened. She was solid, warm, pressing her face against his chest and clutching his shoulders.

“You’re here,” she sniffled. “You’re really here. ”

“Dalah,” he managed, and it was the only word he could push out before words failed him.

What have they done to you, how have you been?, he wanted to ask, but words failed them both, and they just held on crying for what felt like a very long time indeed. 

Dalah pulled back first, reaching to stroke his face, brushing off tears. Her own face was wet. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t bear the thought of a world without you in it.”

“It was pretty damn empty without you, too.” He swallowed, cupped her cheek. “I kept thinking of accepting some devil’s offer to come to the Hells, to find you. But they told me I’d forget everything if I did. I’d have forgotten you. I couldn’t do that.”

“You shouldn’t for a moment have considered coming to the Hells for my sake.”

Rahirek tried to laugh; the sound that came from his mouth sounded more like a sob. He leaned in to press their foreheads together. “Oh, look who’s talking,” he managed, and Dalah sniffled. 

“Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Another sniffle, and she pressed her hand against the back of his, still cupping her face. “Israfel told me you raised him. He told me you were kind.”

“Israfel-- is he truly Lord of the Eighth? Is he here?”

Dalah smiled, pulled away for the first time to turn to the door. “... I know you’re still there,” she called. Her voice still shook, but did not break. “He wants to see you.”

There was a moment of silence and then, finally, steps. A shadow fell on the doorway; the outline of two pairs of horns, wings, a tall frame… and then, finally, the Lord of the Eighth stepped into view.

When he’d last seen him Israfel stood at his shoulder in his fiendish form. He recalled the pair of secondary horns had just begun to grow out; even so, his horns were still such that he could have passed himself off as a tiefling, if he hid his wings under a cloak. 

The creature towering over him was unmistakably a devil, head crowned by massive curved horns. But the skin was the same shade of red he recalled and the eyes, those eyes of molten gold--

The Lord of the Eighth met his gaze and, after a moment of stillness, and bowed his head. His expression betrayed no emotion. “Lord Starspire,” he spoke, with the voice of a man grown. At his neck, something glinted - a locket. His locket. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to--”

Rahirek moved without a word, without a thought. Two strides closed the distance, and then he was pulling him into an embrace; it was his head now that barely reached Israfel’s shoulder, but it did not matter. He closed his eyes, thought of the million things he’d wanted to tell him when he’d been taken. Yet in the end, only two words found their way out. The only ones that mattered.

“My boy,” he choked out. “My boy.”

He felt the sharp intake of breath - surprise, perhaps - before the slow exhale that followed. Israfel didn’t move, not at first. Then Dalah was there, too, arms wrapping around them both - and at last, slowly, Israfel returned their embrace. 

It was only the three of them in the room; no one else to see, no one else to hear, as the Lord of the Eighth allowed himself to shed tears at last, in the arms of two mortal souls who could not bring themselves to let him go.

***

[Back to Chapter 41]

[On to the Epilogue]

He was in no state to greet guests, naked and bloody, covered in gashes and bites and bruises, still shivering from the last orgasm-- the Archduchess -- Haarlep had wrung out of him. That, and he had no voice left; when a rather hesitant archivist called from outside to let him know one of his warlocks had arrived with a prisoner and wished to speak with him, all he could push past his throat was a groan. 

Haarlep chuckled, and shed the Archduchess’ likeness before calling out on his behalf. “The master is a little occupied at the moment. Do tell them to settle in the hall, he’ll be with them… well. Not in a minute. But he’ll be there.”

Raphael had groaned again when Haarlep slid into the pool, and turned to face him. He was chained to the columns by the edge of the water, and they leaned in before tilting up his chin. They took in the sight of his sweat-slicked brow, the blood where he’d bitten into his own lip, and ran a hand through disheveled hair before they leaned in, licking the salt of his tears with a forked tongue. 

“My, what a mess you are. Positively pathetic. You never look more alluring than when you’re like this, you know.” They ran their tongue across his bleeding lip, and reached over behind him to grasp the base of the plug they’d pushed inside him right at the start - “can’t have you be naugthy and fuck yourself with your own tail, can we, pet?” - to pull it out with a yank. 

Raphael jerked and let out a hoarse cry, unable to quite tell, among the many aches and pains, that had exactly made him scream. Haarlep dropped the plug, and took a hold of Raphael’s hair to tilt his head back, forcing him to face them. Raphael looked at them through a veil of tears, and saw they were grinning. He was grinning. Himself, unchained, powerful.

“Maybe I should make myself look significantly older, and go in your stead to hear what he wants. See what it’s all about while you writhe here. Maybe I’ll fuck your warlock with your body. Would you like that? Oh, of course you would. You just won’t admit it, because you’re a brat .” There was a slap, for good measure, making Raphael’s head whip to the side. 

Then Haarlep snapped their fingers, the chains burned away, and Raphael crumpled forward into their waiting arms. They held him easily: he was in his human form. He’d wanted to feel small, and Haarlep loved how easily that skin bruised. “But you’re my little brat, aren’t you?”

Raphael could only manage a whine as they pulled him against their chest, and into the water; healing began almost immediately, the gashes the flail left on his back beginning to close, the bite marks starting to fade away. The whine turned into a sigh of relief, and Raphael tilted back his head to look up at his own face, young and powerful and in control. 

“Archduke,” he whispered, reaching up to run his fingers across a cheekbone.

Haarlep’s smile widened. “Your archduke,” they said. “And you are mine.”

I am no one’s. I am the master here, Raphael thought, as always when Haarlep made that remark, but the words never left him; he hadn’t bothered to utter them in more time than he cared to recall. Not because it was untrue - it wasn’t - but because in those moments, still raw and sensitive, he feared he’d speak it aloud and not believe it himself. 

Instead he grumbled something about insolence, breathed in deep, and let the water do its healing, let Haarlep wash his newly healed back, his chest. “That useless archivist didn’t even say which warlock it was. I certainly hope it’s important.” 

“I’m sure it can wait,” Haarlep sing-sang, and their hand slid down Raphael’s stomach, down his thigh. He hummed in agreement and opened his eyes to meet their gaze. 

“Lie to me,” he whispered, and savored the response almost as much as he did the touch, and the long, languorous kiss that followed.

***

Duchess Baalphegor was standing above the frozen corpse of an abishai when they reached the courtyard. 

There was little left of the Shattered Castle around that courtyard, truth be told, hence the… not terribly imaginative name. Broken-down spires of what had been a mighty citadel, once; crumbling columns all around that may have once held up vaulted ceilings, now long gone.

Perched atop an iceberg, the Shattered Castle had been shattered long before Raphael ever drew his first breath; the truth of how that had come to be was lost to time and ice, although there were tales it had once been the stronghold of a duke who’d dared defy Mephistopheles, and had been promptly crushed in turn.

To the daring adventurers who may reach those ruins - and in Raphael’s books, daring adventurer was simply a polite euphemism for utter imbeciles - it would appear that the only thing intact was the statue of a massive abishai with crystal-white wings. But of course it was no statue; rather, it was a guardian assigned to patrol those ruins by Mephisto himself. 

Raphael did not know to what end, and clearly asking the abishai itself was no longer an option, as it lay broken at Baalphegor’s feet. She must have heard them coming, with the snow and ice crunching under their boots, but did not turn until Adonides stopped some distance away and sank on one knee. 

Raphael did the same, not truly looking to anger anybody else in that layer of Baator; the others were quick to follow suit, and bow their heads. With the exception of Astarion and Durge, their breath turned to ice each time they exhaled. 

“Lady Baalphegor,” Adonides spoke. “I have brought Raphael, and the daring adventurers who have accompanied him thus far.”

Daring adventurers. Of course he had to choose those words. An apt description if there ever was one; anyone with half a functioning brain would have deserted him long ago. 

At the center of the courtyard, Duchess Baalphegor was the only spot of color in a world of white, clad in red and black silks. Her red hair fell down her shoulders in soft curls that the wind did not seem to touch; snowflakes, too, seemed to slide off without truly touching her. When she turned to face them, she did so with the same effortless grace he recalled. Regal, despite her small stature, despite the fact she was Mephistopheles’ consort no longer.

“Please, stand, all of you. I didn’t have you come all this way to kneel on ice - it would be terrible form of me,” she said. Her voice was low and soft, but perfectly audible. Her gaze shifted to Raphael’s left, and she smiled. “Hello, Haarlep. I must commend you on a job well done. Against such overwhelming odds, I was unsure it was reasonable of me to expect you’d be able to bring your master here alive. And yet, here you both stand.”

Haarlep smiled-- no, grinned back. Since when did they have such familiarity with the consort-- former consort of Mephistopheles? As Raphael looked at them, startled, they shrugged. “I had help along the way. A lot of it, to be honest.”

“Ah, yes. The intrepid adventurers.” A hint of an amused smile, and she bowed her head. “I heard much of you, and I was looking forward to meeting you. Almost as much as I looked forward to seeing you again.” She stepped forward, closer, and suddenly it was as though they were beneath a dome; the snow and ice falling from the sky no longer touched them. It did not stop the bitter cold, unpleasant even though they all had some form of protection from it. “You have come a long way, Raphael. Although I fear there is still some way for you to go yet. The way to Mephistar is treacherous. Surely Adonides has informed you of the ambush.”

“I did, Lady Baalphegor,” Adonides spoke, bowing his head. “It seems that Mephistopheles took more steps than we were aware. He sent Lady Antilia to lead Raphael into the ambush.”

Duchess Baalphegor was not easily surprised; when it did happen, she rarely let it show. And to the untrained eye, she did not seem taken aback… but Raphael’s eye was trained as it could be. The slightest flaring of her nostrils, the tiniest widening of her eyes, and he could tell that the news came as a surprise to her. “And she failed, I reckon?”

“She did,” Raphael spoke. He said nothing else; he did not need to.

“... I take it to mean that she will not return to Mephistar, with or without you.”

“No.”

A pause, and she walked up to him, close enough to reach up and cup his face.  Even in his human form he was taller than her. Her hand was warm as it had been on their very first meeting, when she’d tilted up his chin and complimented his horns.

“Let me look at you, little one,” she’d said. “A handsome young devil if I’ve ever seen one. You look quite a lot like your father.”

Now, looking at a face that he knew he shared with his mortal mother, her voice was far more somber. “You took no joy in it.” A statement, not a question. “It is a sad loss. But she was always devoted to Mephisto. Her fate was sealed the moment she was given the mission.”

Raphael met her gaze, and did not pull away. Something about the warmth of that hand made him want to lean his cheek into it, close his eyes, and break again. He did none of those things. “Did you know that she was his daughter?”

A shake of her head. “Did she tell you as much herself?” she asked, and sighed at his nod. “I did not know. I suspected, but there was never any certainty. Mephisto treasured her more than any child he sired before or since, yet never acknowledged her as his. A living contradiction, always. It’s his greatness and his ruin. A shame that it had to be hers as well.”

It didn’t have to be, Raphael almost said, but he held his tongue. “She played the double spy on Baalzebul, and he entrusted her to guide me to Cania. That is how she was able to intercept me when we went to the Lord of the Seventh seeking passage. Did you not know?”

Baalphegor sighed, and pulled her hand away from his cheek, but she did not step back nor did she avoid his gaze. “As much as it vexes me to admit it, no. I did not know she had such a role at the court of the Seventh.” A smile. “I suppose it’s a credit to her. If you’re a known spy, you’re not doing a very good job at it; she clearly was excellent. Perhaps this was always the role Maphistopheles planned for her. It would explain how come she was never acknowledged even if raised at court - easier to become a false spy with no cumbersome connections to her name, I’d imagine.”

I am nothing if not loyal. 

Raphael grimaced at the memory, and forced himself to change subject before the lump forming in his throat became painful. “Why have you done all this?” he asked. “Surely it’s not out of concern for me. You’re going to get something out of having me whole again, and in your debt.”

A chuckle, if faint. “One may argue you already are in my debt. You proved your mettle at Bel’s service, and earned your post as Steward of Avernus - I will not dispute that, not intend to diminish your merits. But you must have known I was the reason why he took you under his wing rather than having you at the front lines from the very beginning.”

He’d known that, of course. He still recalled how she’d allowed him to travel to the Bronze Citadel from Mephistar rather than facing the grueling march across all layers with the troops; he recalled the letter she had told him to hand to Bel, and how he’d known from the start at least part of it was about him.

“Lady Baalphegor says you’re a good learner,” the archduke of Avernus had said. “So for now watch, and learn.”

Everything that had come after, he’d earned. But that one chance, the one that had started it all, he owed to her. Yes, he’d been in her debt all along; and now that debt would be repaid… all that Raphael did not know was how.  “I recall,” he spoke, very slowly. “And I recall that you took a keen interest in me from the beginning. What I could never understand was why.  Mephistopheles sired countless children, and most perished. I never knew you to intercede.”

Duchess Baalphegor exhaled, and looked up at the snow and ice whirling above them, as though she could see something in it that no one else could. “... Your father is older than most beings, save immortal, can imagine,” she said. “Not as old as Ao, of course, or of Shar and her silvery sister - not even close - but very old regardless. And he has sired children in the thousands, be it through means of seduction, trickery, or coercion. Many were powerful. All were ambitious. It brought most of them to their grave.”

“All your siblings were and are the same, all those yet to be born will be the same,” Mephistopheles had told him, a very long time ago. “And all of you will meet your end for it, one way or another.”

"Did you ever grieve a single one of them?”

Raphael pressed his lips together. “I have been told as much,” was all he said. 

Beelphegor nodded. “And none of it is untrue. Mephisto’s blood is powerful. You have much in common with your siblings, but one thing.” She held up her hand, and a small white flame danced on her palm. “Not a single one of them could control hellfire without that ability being personally bestowed upon them by Mephistopheles himself. And then there was you. An halfbreed child of thirteen born of a mere human, with no training or true knowledge of Baator, channeling the profane essence of the Hells out of sheer instinct. I need you to understand this, Raphael - no such thing had ever happened before because it should not be possible .”

For a few moments, Raphael could only stare at her. His mouth felt dry. “I never told anyone that. None but--”

“And Lady Antilia told none in turn, as far as I am aware. I heard what happened from your own lips, child. You spoke loudly enough to be heard through the door as I stepped before it, seeking you.”

It was amusing, in a way. Antilia had been so concerned word may get out, and that he may become a subject of who knew what experiments at the hands of the Dean of the School of Hellfire - or even Mephisto himself? - that she’d sworn him to silence… right after word was already out. It could have spelled his end, that. And yet…

“Of course, that convinced me that you should be observed carefully,” Baalphegor continued. “You never used hellfire in the years to follow, and I’d heard you express some doubt that it had indeed been hellfire which you summoned in a moment of grave danger. I was almost convinced it may be a fluke, or that perhaps you’d mistaken simple fire for something more… until of course, your father tried to make an example out of you. Surely you recall?”

Of course. It was impossible to forget: his sire standing before him with hellfire dancing on his palm, grasp unyielding around his throat.

Let it be your last lesson.

“... My first ascension.”

“Yes. He did not know of your natural affinity with hellfire, and he was quite surprised when it did not kill you. In turn, can you imagine my surprise when I found out that somehow, you had ascended? ” A laugh, startlingly sincere. “Oh, no, I don’t think you can quite picture my face when I heard that. Or his - you left a deep scratch across the bridge of his nose, you know? He was really quite cross about it.” Another laugh, before her expression turned serious again. Mostly serious, at least. A half-smile was never too far from her lips. “Ascension is something no half-fiend had ever mastered before, to my knowledge. And again, you did so purely out of instinct. You were shaping up to be quite the gifted young devil.”

“... And so you ensured I had a better chance to survive the Blood War than Mephisto was willing to give me.”

“That I did. You were something extraordinary, even if your lord father so stubbornly refused to see it. I followed your rise at Bel’s court with great interest - and all that came after, of course. Most recently, how close you came to the Crown of Karsus… and how you fell.”

Raphael scoffed. “A riveting tale to follow, certainly,” he said. “But it still does not answer my question - why did you decide that tale was not to end in Mephistopheles’ maw?”

“Why, we need both halves of you alive, of course, if you’re to ever be whole again.”

“This keenness to see me alive and whole surely does not stem out of your kind heart.”

A gentle smile. “Obviously not. Neither my dearest friend nor my bitterest enemy would accuse me of having a kind heart - although I have been known to be generous, when I don’t have reason not to be. Your mother and other mortal souls who bore my consort children can attest to that.”

Raphael almost scowled at those words - but only almost. He knew better than to show too plainly his feelings on the matter… particularly as he, himself, did not know what to name those feelings. His mortal mother had been nothing to him for long, if not a shadow hanging over him, making him the reason for so much grief. 

He’d glimpsed her only briefly when she’d given him the ring, but he did not know who he was looking at. His fiend half, it seemed, was by now familiar with her… but he, as he was now, knew nothing of her. What was she to him, and what would he be to her? What would she do, what would she say once they met?

Will she see her own face, or only what Mephistopheles did to her? What I did to her, ripping her apart on my way out?

“What did you promise that woman in exchange for help?” was all he could ask in the end.

“A chance to spite Mephisto. As good a reason as any, and she was quite eager to do that.”

A simple question, a simple answer. He could have left it at that; it would have been wise to, perhaps. And yet… “Surely she was not the only one among your attendants who’d have loved a chance to spite him.”

“No,” she agreed, “but spiting Mephisto carries a risk, always. She is your mother. I suspected she would wish to aid her son, had spite not been a powerful enough motivator.”

Is she? And am I? We share a face and nothing else, for all I know. 

Lord Starspire’s letter claimed otherwise, but perhaps it had been only the wishful thinking of an old widower. Raphael frowned. “I was in Mephistar for years. She could have approached me, if my fate was ever any concern of hers.”

Baalphegor tilted her head, as though considering his words. “She may have, yes. But she did not. Was it so unwise? You were so desperate to erase everything of your mortal heritage, and she was living-- well, enduring proof of it. You may have erased her, too.”

He might have; it was what he’d done to old Nan, after all. Raphael knew better than to argue against that point, and he said nothing as his sire’s former consort continued.

“Make no mistake, she always denied holding any love for you when questioned, and I saw no deception in her words; whether because it was true or because she believed it to be true, I do not know. She recoiled from you, certainly, and who can blame her? A devil spawn put into her womb to tear her open from inside - it seems a most unpleasant business. Perhaps you did repulse her. Yet when word spread you’d almost been killed with hellfire, so long ago, she asked to accompany me when I visited you.”

“She…?”

“She stood behind me for the entire encounter, but you never once looked her way. I suspect the fact Mephistopheles tried to destroy you as he’d destroyed her opened her eyes to the fact you were both at his mercy, always. She still feared you, of course - but with how close she has grown to your other half as of late, I’d say that fear is well and truly in the past.”

A few paces behind him, Adonides cleared his throat. “That is indeed very lucky for us. I was not expecting her help to be instrumental again, yet plans change.”

Raphael turned. “She’s a powerless mortal soul. How would she figure in your grand plan?”

That caused Adonides to frown, but he did not let annoyance show in his voice. “I can take you to Mephistar, undetected, deep below into Nargus and to the vaults. I can ensure you are hidden from sight and able to slip in the vaults, once Mephistopheles is away from the citadel and Chamberlain Barbas is made to chase a false lead to find the incubus. But the ascended fiend is a volatile creature, and it’s not guaranteed to meekly merge with you. However, she can calm it. Reason with it, even. She has to be present.”

Raphael suppressed the urge to hurl a spell at him - no reason in particular, he simply could never stand Adonides any more than Adonides could stand him - and looked at Baalphegor. “You have yet to tell me why you’re helping me. What do you expect of me in return?”

“If you cannot tell, it is not something I am at liberty to disclose. Nor you, Haarlep,” she added, glancing over at them. “Suffice to say, we have a task for you that you can only hope to accomplish as your own true self.”

We, she said.Raphael narrowed his eyes. “Why me, out of everyone?”

“That is for someone else to tell you, once you’re again worthy to be in his presence.” 

“My command over hellfire does figure in this, surely, or you would not have brought it up.”

“And surely, this is not the full extent of your intuition.”

Very well. If she wanted him to speak plain, speak plain he should. “... The Lord Below is behind all this,” he said. A statement, not a question. So much of what happened in Avernus pointed to the involvement of someone well above just Bel, well above only Baalphegor.

Baalphegor tilted her head. There was a quick twist of her lips, and no denial. “You are lucky he found that little plan of yours concerning the Crown of Karsus amusing as well as doomed. Had he not, you’d have been reduced to ashes before Mephisto could touch you.”

Raphael had enough sense to ignore the jab and not say aloud that his plan had been anything but little and that if he’d had the Crown-- if he could take Avernus first, turn other archdevils to his side once they witnessed his power, and then march on Nessus…

“And what does the big guy himself want from him?” Karlach asked, in the unmistakable tone of someone who’d take up an axe on the big guy in question if she did not like the answer. Only to be promptly reduced to nothing, but Raphael could if anything appreciate the gesture.

Or at least he would have, if not for the grip of something in his throat, foreboding as a storm building up at sea with no land in sight. A test, they had called it, to see if he lived to prove himself capable of the task ahead of him… and the test had been taking down the Archdevil of Avernus herself. Ending the reign of Zariel, a mere test. What task could be greater, more perilous, more insurmountable than taking down the Lord of the First?

“The obsession with hellfire has become a madness in your father.”

“What I fail to see is how aiding Raphael’s escape fits into that. Surely there are other ways to undermine the Lord of the Eighth.”

It was never just about undermining him, was it? Oh no. Admodeus would not put so many chess pieces in motion for so little. Zariel developed a weakness, and she had to go. Mephistopheles has finally crossed a line that Admodeus can no longer ignore, and… and…

Somehow, part of him had suspected as much for some time, but he hadn’t dared consciously think of it. It was too much to imagine, let alone to speak. So he did not speak it - no, no, surely he was wrong - but something had to show on his face, for Baalphegor smiled. 

“I suspect that Raphael will need no explanation, after all,” she said, replying to Karlach without looking at her. Raphael met her gaze, realization sinking in, and he laughed. 

His laughter echoed across the Shattered Castle for what felt like a very long time.

***

The first thing about Enver Flymm that caught Raphael’s eye was the vacant gaze beneath a mop of unruly black hair, the slack face, the drool dripping down from the corner of his mouth. 

“Stop doing that!” Caedric, one of his warlocks and frankly a mediocre one at that, was screaming in the boy’s face to no reaction at all. However, when he lifted a hand to strike, there was something - a flinch the child could not suppress, even as he remained still, not lifting his hands to shield his face nor acknowledging Caedric in any other, more obvious way. “No one will fall for it, you hear me, you little bast--!”

“And a good afternoon to you, Caedric. May I ask you to explain what made you decide to drop by uninvited? Concisely, if possible. I have little time to waste.”

Caedric winced and turned, falling over himself to bow and apologize for the intrusion. Raphael - now in his fiendish form, dressed and fully healed after making them wait for the best part of an hour - barely listened to him. His gaze remained fixed on the boy. 

Acting the idiot, clearly, and better than he’d expect from most mortals - let alone a child no older than perhaps eight or nine. But not quite good enough to fool a devil; the minute movement of his eyes as he looked at him, and the tightening fists resting on his knees as he sat at the table, surrounded by wandering souls and the skeletal remains of what had been a mason and architect intent on sweeping floors… all of it gave the ruse away. 

“I bought him for good coin in Baldur’s Gate,” Caedric was saying. “His parents had debts, and they were willing to sell him off. He’s clever, and builds contraptions that--”

“Does not look terribly clever to me,” Raphael cut him off, as though he did not know any better. It would be clear to half an idiot that the vacant stare was a ruse to try and seem worthless, someone to just throw back in the Material plane with scarcely a thought. 

Caedric was, unfortunately, slightly less than half an entire idiot and rushed to explain that the boy was pretending as though Raphael hadn’t worked it out for himself at first glance. “He is pretending, master, that is all. It proves that he is clever. A little scalding of his fingers and--”

“Why have you brought a child here?” Raphael cut him off, turning to face the man. He’d accepted to put him under contract and grant him powers to for no reason other than Korrilla, who’d decided to bet him three soul coins on the fact he wouldn’t last more than a year on the job before regretting it and trying to find a way out of it. If he proved her right in the eleventh month of his servitude, Raphael would be distinctly annoyed.

Caedric swallowed. “So that he may serve you, master. As a pageboy and then more, if he’s clever enough. He can be of use, I am sure. I made sure his parents signed this…”

The contract was indeed for the sale of a human boy called Enver Flymm, born at the beginning of the Year of the Mithral Hammer to Dravo and Sally Flymm. The buyer was listed as the warlock’s master, rather than Cardric himself. The boy was now his, body and soul. He raised an eyebrow. “Were they aware they were selling their son to a devil’s servant?”

“Yes, master. They were in desperate need of coin. Only asked where they needed to sign.”

Raphael chuckled. “What admirable practicality. Most mortals forego any logic when it comes to their offspring,” he said, and nodded. “Very well. You are dismissed.”

As expected, he did not disappear. “I was wondering, master,” he said, lowering his head, “if in exchange for this gift a… revision of my contract may be arranged.”

Ah yes, he obviously offered up another’s soul because he wanted out - and before the year was over. To Raphael’s annoyance, it appeared that Korrilla had won that bet. Still, the irritation was tempered by curiosity about this new servant, as well as the recreational time he’d enjoyed earlier. So he nodded, waving a hand in dismissal. “Yes, that can be arranged. I’ll call upon you when I have time,” he said, making a mental note of thinking of a mission that he could not possibly survive. He would make that his last requirement before he ended their contract, and enjoy watching him fail before collecting the soul he was owed. “Now begone.”

Another bow and he was gone, leaving behind only the boy, and the wandering souls all around. Raphael smiled and crouched before the child, who clearly struggled to keep up the act, the vacant stare. When he met his gaze, he trembled. 

“I suspect you didn’t receive much of a welcome to my House of Hope, Enver. A dreadful first impression, was it not? But you should not worry. There is much worth learning here, if you’re useful enough to keep alive.” No response; only that distant stare. Still trying to pass himself off as broken, useless, not worth keeping. He sighed. “The first lesson, child, is  that you cannot lie to me .” His mind closed like a snare on the boy, causing him to stiffen and gasp, eyes widening. The falsely vacant stare, which had wavered before, turned to pure terror. 

He struggled to keep Raphael out of his mind, and it was a valiant struggle - but no more effective than a cockroach trying to stave off the boot coming down to crush it. 

There were images, feelings, disjointed thoughts. The streets of Baldur’s Gate, a cobbler’s shop, toys made out of scraps from his father’s work to entertain himself. The blow that knocked out one of his baby teeth when he took good leather instead of scraps; the toys growing more complex, mechanical. His latest creation crushed under his mother’s broom, her voice repeating that she should have ended him in the womb, that dreadful child - foolish, hateful, needy, wicked - she’d borne but never loved.

Menacing men and women coming into the shop, speaking to his parents with hushed voices - and then louder the next time they came, and louder yet the next, until they shouted. The offer came from his mother’s lips.  “You can have the boy! He’s clever and crafty, he can be useful--” “Do we look like bloody Zhentarim to you? It’s the coin you owe us or your blood!”

And then the warlock, who’d been passing by and heard the screams, or so he said. Offering coin enough to settle their debts, in exchange for their son, and a contract signed in a heartbeat. They hadn’t even looked at him for a last glance when the warlock took him away. He’d wanted to scream how much he hated them, how he would return and show them--

“Oh my. Not the most outstanding family, I must say.” Raphael released his grip on Enver’s mind, causing him to fall back against the back of the chair with another gasp. The ruse now over, he just looked at him with wide eyes. A scared boy, but one with promise; Raphael had seen enough, and he’d always had a knack for spotting potential. There was ambition, too, a certain ruthlessness that could make him useful indeed once he was old enough. 

Until then, he supposed a page boy would fit right in at the House of Hope. He’d task Nubaldin with bringing him up to speed, and he’d see in time how he may serve him further. Should he disappoint, he’d make a fine meal for hellhounds. “But you ought to be thankful. This is most certainly a step up from a cobbler’s shop in the slums. Do you know what a page boy is?”

The boy nodded, and Raphael smiled as a burst of flames grazed the child, causing him to cry out. He was not hurt - only a bit of his hair was scorched off in what Raphael frankly saw as an improvement. Still, the message was clear: he could burn him if he wished to, and angering him was easy as well as unwise. “I expect answers to be given with words, boy.”

“Yes-- yes! I know what it is!” he spoke, his voice high and terrified, uselessly shielding his face with his arms. Raphael chuckled, and stood again.

“Ah, he speaks at last.” He spread his arms and wings, looking down at the boy as he trembled into the chair. “Welcome to the House of Hope, Enver Flymm. I am Raphael.”

The boy stared, and even through the terror his mouth twisted. “Just Enver,” he spat. 

“Not keen to carry the name of those who sold you off to the Hells? Understandable, I suppose. Very well, Enver. Go on, fill your plate. Eat and drink, before I call someone to show you the ropes. And then make sure you learn fast, boy. For your own good, you understand.”

The look that gained him was so full of loathing for someone so young - so much potential indeed! - that Raphael couldn’t help but laugh.

***

Raphael laughed and laughed and laughed.

Later on his companions would admit he had sounded ‘more than a little hysterical’, but at the moment they seemed at various stages of confusion and dawning comprehension, and none of them spoke. Not that Raphael would have noticed if they’d begun to scream as one: all he could hear was his own laughter, his own blood rushing in his ears. 

He laughed and laughed and laughed with no mirth whatsoever. He laughed because it was the only thing he could do other than scream. His every limb felt very heavy, the cold emptiness where half of his soul was not ached, and his head was empty of all thought but of his father. 

When he’d first seen on his throne as the Cold Lord, when he’d been the Lord of Hellfire with a hand around his throat; of the glimpse of something he’d seen beneath the façade - ancient and terrible, the flash of too many needle-like fangs like those of a fish of the deep - and of the much closer look at that aspect of his he’d had later, crushed in his grip, held above a gigantic maw.

The Lord of the Eighth. The Lord of No Mercy. Duke of Brimstone, Archduke of Cania, Archmage of the Hells. Older than Baator itself, second to none but Asmodeus. 

“Surely, this is a jest.” Raphael’s voice came out a choking noise through laughter that had turned into something else, something uglier. He tried to imagine it - Cania, the Hells, the world without Mephistopheles - and he could see nothing; only the blinding whiteness of the snow and ice whirling all around them.

Baalphegor’s voice was quiet, yet as merciless as the cold. “Amusing as it may have been to follow your misadventures, none of what transpired was done in jest.”

This is to be my punishment, is it not? For the Crown, for daring to think I could rule the Hells in his stead.

“You’re asking the impossible,” Raphael whispered. It could not be done. Mephistopheles couldn’t die. Even in his grandest dreams he was beaten, perhaps bleeding, and alive to see him triumph, kneeling before him. Seething and humiliated, in some dreams even marveling at his son’s power-- begging forgiveness for dismissing him, for all the disdain, for never seeing him as he was -- but alive. Never, not once, had Raphael imagined him dead - by his hand or any other.

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps entirely aware, Lady Baalphegor - Mephistopheles’ long-time consort, now calling for his death - shook her head. “Not me. The Lord Below. You can be certain I take no joy in knowing his demise draws near. Nor does Asmodeus, but he knows it is what must be done. And he does not ask, Raphael.”

Something cold beneath his knees - the ice, the snow. If there was any heat pulsing beneath the surface, he did not feel it. He looked up at Baalphegor, dread in every fiber of his being. “There are quicker ways to kill me than setting me against Mephistopheles,” he choked. “I stand no chance.”

“I believe the Archfiend would beg to differ, were he in the habit of begging.”

“You’re sending me to die.”

“He’s sending you to fight. You’d have to either way, child of Mephisto. If you flee, your father will not rest until you’re dead. Especially now that Antilia’s blood is on your hands.”

Raphael almost felt it now, the blood going from hot to cold, turning sticky, never coming off his hands. He swallowed. “He sent her against me.” His voice was raspy, barely audible. “I had no choice.”

“Do you think that will matter to him? He will not blame himself for long - he never could, even when he knew the mistake was entirely his own. Believe me, I would know.” A distant smile. “His fury may turn inwards, for a time. It is a terrible thing, torn robes and broken flesh, lines across skin and blood boiling as it hits the ice, one burst of uncontrolled magic after the other. But then it will turn outwards, to you. And again you’ll have no choice but to fight or die. All you can control is whether you’ll take the fight to him, or wait for Mephisto to hunt you down.”

“Lord Bel--”

“The Lord of the First would try to shield you, yes. He likes you well enough. He may even succeed for a time. But the Serpentine Order is everywhere; one slip is all it takes. Mephisto would have you, Raphael. Perhaps not within a year or ten, but he’d have you and the more he has to wait for his revenge, the more you’ll feel his wrath before you’re allowed to die.”

That was true; Raphael knew it even as his mind struggled, like a beast in a trap, to find any response, any other solution. He found neither. He had to force his next words out through a knot in his throat. “Why me?”

A shake of her head. “The Lord Below will tell you, if he’s so inclined, once you’re whole again. He is not unreasonable, child. You won’t be thrown against your father right away. You’ll need help even once whole again, and help you shall get. Past the help your companions may give you, if they’re so inclined.”

Somehow, Raphael had almost forgotten there were others there aside for himself and Baalphegor. He turned, still reeling, kneeling on the frozen ground. They stood only a few paces away, staring in silence, a grave expression on their faces. 

Well. On most of them. “I mean-- am I the only one who sort of assumed kicking Pisstopheles’ ass was gonna be on the menu from the start if we didn’t ditch him at the Citadel?” Karlach spoke, and grinned when she met Raphael’s gaze. “We took down an archdevil already, what’s another? We came all this way, and I have a big fuck-off axe.”

It took Raphael a few seconds to realize that the unpleasant braying nose he heard had come from his own throat, and that it was the closest approximation to laughter he could manage. “I highly doubt,” he managed in the end, “that your - as you charmingly put it - big fuck-off axe is going to cut it. Quite literally as well as figuratively.”

“Bullshit. Archdevils bleed like everyone else if you hit them hard enough.”

“Oh, that they do,” Astarion spoke, and tilted his head as though considering something. “I rather hoped we could avoid making too much of a mess, to be honest, but ah well. Where Durge goes, I go, and I’m ready to bet that their mind is set. What would an archdevil’s blood taste like, I wonder?”

“A single drop might very well kill you, I fear.”

“Must you always be such a spoilsport, Wyll?”

With the crunch of ice beneath boots, Durge walked up to Raphael, sank to a knee before him. Even like this, they towered over him. “Surely you cannot be such a fool to have thought, for a moment, that I’d let you face him alone.”

The knot in Raphael’s throat tightened. His scoff did not sound like a scoff at all. “I suppose I should have learned by now not to underestimate your madness. You’ll perish, too.”

“You used to be confident enough in your odds against him.”

“When an all-powerful Crown capable of imbuing me with godly powers was part of the equation. I don’t suppose Mystra would allow us to borrow it if we ask politely enough.”

“... Probably not.”

He almost laughed again at the absurdity of the situation. Almost. “We stand no chance.”

“I heard that before. Not least from you,” they said, and held out a hand. “Get up. We’ll make you whole again, first thing. Then-- we’ll work something out,” they added, clearly having read Astarion Ancunín’s non-existent guide to set up non-existent plans. “We usually do.”

And for all his dread, worst of all was the dismay at the task before him and the gut-wrenching realization that he had never wanted his sire dead. He’d only wanted to see him kneel, and call him-- archduke son of mine tell me you love me -- lord. He opened his mouth but he found that, for once, he did not know what to say. 

So he kept quiet, took Durge’s hand, and let them help him up to his feet again. He did not protest as Baalphegor and Adonides explained that they’d be taken to Mephistar soon, and that until then they may rest in a hidden chamber underneath the Shattered Castle.

 Indeed, for a long time he barely spoke. What difference would it make? The die was cast, and his fate was sealed.

There was truly nothing left to say.

***

Devoid of wandering souls, servants, children, and even the oaf he’d picked to work there as an archivist - he had a name, he supposed, but he could never be bothered to remember it - the Archive was blissfully silent, save for the scratch of Raphael’s quill on paper. 

The work was done for the day, a rather important contract concluded before he’d even returned to the House of Hope and headed to the boudoir for a proper celebration. Caedric’s decision to bring him the boy had rather sidetracked his plans for the late afternoon - see if Hope’s skin had grown back at last, and see if she was keen to be flayed again rather than accepting his most generous offer to serve him - so in the end, he didn’t get much else done. 

The boy had been sent to Nubaldin for what would probably turn out to be a steep learning curve - but wasn’t everything steep in the Hells, lessons and prices alike? - and Korrilla had somehow learned of the new arrival and the circumstances. She had come to find him, and not too subtly let him know he was welcome to pay up on their bet concerning Caedric at his earliest convenience. Raphael had sighed, handing her the soul coins.

“Needless to say, I shall have Caedric’s soul regardless.”

“Of course you will. Got to say, I’d expected him to throw someone else under the carriage to try and get released from contract. Wasn’t counting on that someone being a kid. Doubt anyone will mourn  when you tear the soul from his body. Where’s the poor bastard?”

“Nubaldin will show him what his duties are from now on.”

“Nubaldin? Kid’s going to be a walking bruise by the time the lessons are done.”

“Is your bleeding heart offering to take the unfortunate child under your wing?” 

A scoff. “Gods, no. And I think I’ll leave now before you get any more ideas like that.”

Raphael bit back a comment on how her sister may have been up for the task if she wasn’t a little tied up at the moment. She did leave, and for a time everything was silent while he kept writing. Business transactions, events of note, his observations on both.

He was so focused on the task at hand he did not hear the steps until Haarlep was right behind him, putting their hands on his shoulders. “Are you not coming to bed, master? It’s starting to feel very lonesome in there.”

“Are your soulless dolls not entertaining you enough?” Raphael asked, and bit back a groan when Haarlep’s hands clenched on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his back muscles. 

“Not nearly enough,” they lamented. “I sent them all away. You’re a lot more fun to unravel.”

“I’d say you’ve unraveled me plenty today.”

A sigh. “And I barely got a thanks for it! Nothing at all. Nubaldin got a present-- ”

“Nubaldin got a charge. I doubt he'll enjoy having to teach anything to a child.”

“... A mortal child, is it? A rare thing in the Hells. I am not sure I’ve ever seen one.”

“They look like any human, but smaller and with annoying voices.” A pause. “ More annoying.”

Haarlep made a face. “Ah, then I doubt he’ll have a good time with Nubaldin, dour as he is.”

Raphael scoffed and set down his quill, waiting for the ink to dry. 

“No one is in Avernus to have a good time, Haarlep. The boy will either learn fast or perish. When he fails, he’ll earn himself a beating and carry the marks of punishment for a time. The Hells have worse to offer than a heavy-handed gnome. There are--”

There are worse ways to learn lessons in the Hells, he almost said, but words remained stuck in his throat. Suddenly he was no longer in his House of Hope, no longer in Avernus. He was in Cania on the day he turned four-and-ten, with a cup of Infernal wine in his belly and another half-emptied cup in his hands - about to learn quite the harsh lesson indeed. He sat on something soft and there were hands on his shoulders, like Haarlep’s own were now.

But the esteemed Magistrate Bele’s hands had been smooth and almost cold when they slid under his shirt. There had been that soft voice telling him how clever he was, how resourceful, and yet more he could not catch - but it was praise and he’d ached for it. A hand had guided the cup to his mouth, to have him drink more, and he had. Bele had called him a little prince, and told him he should celebrate properly, what a shame that none but him had marked the occasion. Then the cup was empty, the hand on his shoulder pushed him down--

“Raphael?” Haarlep’s voice cut through it all in the same moment Raphael tasted blood on his tongue. It took him a few moments to realize he was biting down into his fist hard enough to grind his teeth against bones. Steaming blood dripped on his diary, covering the ink.

Raphael muttered a curse, and held his bleeding hand away from the table. A muttered spell, and the skin healed. He scowled, and pushed the memory in the back of his mind, pushed the question in the back of his mind-- did Mephistopheles know? -- to stand, abruptly.

“Very well. I’ll entertain you.” He snapped the diary shut and turned to face Haarlep, holding back the urge to tear off his own skin as he tore skin off Hope not long before. They blinked, taken aback but not overly surprised. It was not the first time they witnessed a reaction they did not quite understand… and which they would not understand. There were few things  Raphael had kept from Haarlep; how he allowed Bele to make a fool of him was one of them. 

A grin. “Oh, I thought you’d never--”

“The Archduchess. Now.”

The grin froze, not in dismay but certainly in surprise. “Twice in a day? Are you certain?”

“I am.” He grasped Haarlep’s chin. “This time, I forbid you to stop until you see my bones. ”

Haarlep stared for a few moments, as though trying to work out what exactly was going on in Raphael’s mind. They found no answer, but in the end they clearly decided they did not care.

“As my little brat desires,” they replied, and leaned in to kiss Raphael - softly at first, and then  deep, stroking his tongue with their own until he was light-headed and trembling, already half hard in his trousers - from their saliva, and from what was to come.

It was then that they allowed themself to change. The Archduchess bit into Raphael’s lower lip with sharp teeth, drawing more blood. Raphael groaned, and the Archduchess grasped a horn, pushing him in the middle of the room, forcing him onto the mosaic of his own ascended form. The symbol of his power, a legacy taken rather than given, now but a stage to bring him low. Raphael shivered, and barely cried out when a kick sent him sprawling.

“Undress,” the Archduchess’ voice orderer, a snap in the air telling him she already had the flail in hand. “Kneel. Face to the floor. Now, pet. Don’t make me ask twice.”

He did make her ask twice, of course, so he could taste the punishment that followed. As hot blood dripped on cold marble and widened to hide the effigy of his ascended form - the mosaic showed it as it should have been, unmarred, still with all its eyes - Raphael screamed and screamed and screamed, his mind finally empty again.

It was a relief.

***

It took three days before they received word that they would be taken to the vaults within hours. Mephistopheles had been called to Nessus by Admodeus alongside others to officially recognize Bel as Lord of the First; Barbas was following a fake lead suggesting Haarlep hid in Phlegethos at Fierna and Belial’s court. The way was as clear as it was ever going to be. 

Raphael had nodded at the news, but he had not said much else. He’d been silent for the best part of the past days, except for brief responses to Durge or Haarlep. At one point Astarion had resorted to throwing a snowball to his head just to see if that would get any reaction out of him, if only some undignified sputtering, to no avail. He’d looked at him, muttered something about how that was the most puerile thing he’d witnessed any of them doing yet - behind him, Karlach was making snow angels - and that had been it. 

As they made their last preparations inside the chamber of ice beneath the Shattered Castle where they had been sheltering - hopefully they would not have to fight, but it never hurt to be ready - he was still silent. Wyll had thought he’d be looking forward to finally taking the other half of his soul back, but obviously the knowledge of what he’d have to do afterwards - kill his sire, the Lord of the Eighth and Archmage of the Hells - was all that consumed him. 

So, when he approached to see that he was sharpening the rapier he’d given him, Wyll decided not to address that . After all, that was not the day they’d face Mephistopheles.

“You know, I never asked what your mother’s name is,” he said instead, sitting next to Raphael and giving him pause. “As we’re going to meet her shortly, I think it would be proper.”

Raphael was quiet for a moment, but he responded without looking at him. “Dalah Starspire.”

“Starspire, like the mountains in Tethyr?”

“Yes. Her husband’s family took its name from the mountain range.” Raphael’s hand went to the locket at his neck. “But she was from Cormyr, just south of the Storm Horns mountains.”

“Ah, like-- that ‘down came the claw’ lullaby? Did you learn it from her?”

Raphael scoffed. “In a sense. I have no memory of her, and I highly doubt she had time for that while dying. But she did have a book of poetry and rhymes from her land. It was given to me when I turned seven.” A pause, a frown. He stared down at the rapier in his hands.  “There was a lot I was not told. Her husband was not inclined to speak of her.”

That was something Wyll could understand: he knew next to nothing of his mother, if not that her name had been Francesca and that his father had loved her something fierce. Ulder Ravengard had grieved her so deeply, he could rarely say much more; the pain in his eyes kept Wyll from asking more. But when he spoke of her death to his son, he lied. 

A fever took her shortly after your birth, he’d said. It had not taken Wyll too long to learn that she’d died in childbirth, and that his father had lied so he would not feel guilty for it. Wyll did tend to take on more burdens than he ought to, but he had enough sense not to feel guilt for something that had been entirely beyond his control. Yet he’d wondered if his father had thought it a fair exchange, his wife gone for the sake of one son. He’d never said anything to that effect, but Wyll still tried to do his best at everything, to be a son he could be proud of. 

The memory ached in his chest, but Wyll chased it away and managed a smile. “Well, isn’t it lucky that you’ll get to hear it from her?” 

“... Perhaps. But taking the other half of my soul remains my priority. Once I am whole again, I may be afforded the dignity to at least put up a fight when Mephistopheles inevitably destroys me.” Raphael’s features twisted a moment in something Wyll could not quite decipher before he pressed his lips together and sheathed the rapier. “Adonides is coming.”

There was the sudden sound of wind in the middle of the room, and that whirlwind of snow and ice that heralded the arrival of the Steward of Cania. Wyll took in a long breath and stood.

“Come on. It’s time to go take your soul back,” he said, and held down a hand.

Raphael said nothing, but he did take it.

*** "Of course I love my father. Without him, whom would I have to strive against?" — Glasya, daughter of Asmodeus. ***

[Back to Chapter 32]

[On to Chapter 34]

Bel bared his fangs in a grin. He was clad in a suit of armor as always, the belt with the severed heads of celestial at his waist; his only concession to special occasions was that he’d deign to put the breastplate on rather than remaining bare-chested. Back when Raphael had served him, he’d seemed amused by his habit of, as he’d put it, overdressing.  

He probably thought him overdressed now, but Raphael found his attire to be proper, even a little understated. He was wearing a fine doublet and a few of Mephistopheles’ golden bands at his horns, even though they seemed to make his head feel so much heavier somehow. He’d put aside the ill-fitting medallions and regalia to wear once again the locket Lord Starspire had sent him so long ago. He’d had it polished, the spire-and-star motif gleaming silver against blue opal. 

His mother had cried when he’d tried to return it to her - the last remaining possession of Lord Rahirek Starspire, her portrait in it - and in the end she’d pushed it back in his hands. 

“No. He gifted it to you. It is yours to keep,” she’d said, and would hear no more of it.

But she had not wept for long. Seeing that sigil again after so many years, at his neck and above his throne, had seemed to be a gift in itself. She’d vowed to embroider it on his new clothing almost as soon as the nervous harvest devil who served as the court’s chief tailor had taken his measurements. Raphael had reminded her that she did not have to - she was under no obligation to serve him - but she’d only smiled. 

It did not come easy, he could tell: no indebted soul had many reasons to smile, and it was as though she had to learn how to use long-atrophied muscles again. But smile she did, and her answer sounded something like a sigh of relief. “I want to. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted to do something. And I don’t think I could bear doing nothing.”

Of course none of the clothing nor the embroidery could be ready on time for the meeting. It did not matter; the sigil was on him regardless, carved into the locket at his neck.

“I did not think I’d travel to Nessus again quite so soon after my own ceremony, I must admit,” Bel was saying, looking around the hall as though seeking any signs of the great battle that had been fought in that palace not two days earlier. “I had high expectations, but you always had a way of surpassing them. A shame, though. There goes my hope to snatch you back as my steward.”

There was no pretense in the chuckle that left Raphael. “I have it on good authority that Mizora is unlikely to disappoint. She is a skilled one, with a knack for contracts. As a matter of fact, one of her contracts is something I would be keen to discuss.”

“Her favorite warlock, hmm?”

“Yes. I do owe him a debt. The battle which ended my sire may have been lost without him.”

“He is an asset, Raphael. You know I am loath to part from assets.”

“We can find an agreement, certainly. In souls, or firepower for the Blood War. Research on hellfire has been halted for the time being, but the results of that research may be a greater asset for Avernian armies than a single warlock, however powerful.”

A hum. “Yes, I  suppose it would - I haven’t forgotten what you alone could do on a battlefield with hellfire. We shall have to discuss it, in due time. As for your House of Hope--”

“I’ll soon make a formal request to make it Canian territory in Avernus, under my ownership and jurisdiction. An embassy of sorts, if you will. 

“A bold request. And in exchange…?”

“I would dismantle the Mirror of Mephistar, and never build another in its place.”

This time, Lord Bel smiled. The presence of the Mirror in Avernus - a pair of eyes for the ruler of Cania, to broker deals with anybody traversing Avernus - had long grated him. He’d often grumbled that he would never have been tricked into allowing it, and that Zariel wouldn’t have either if she'd had half a brain for anything other than swinging her flail at random in the midst of a melee. “Well. That is indeed an interesting offer. We’ll better discuss it soon - but for now, there must be other matters on your min--”

“Lord Raphael. The Lord of the Second has arrived,” Adonides called out. He stood at the entrance of the hall to announce the arrival of other archdevils, so that they could go forth into the Pit once they had all gathered. Bel made a face. 

“Ah, that’s going to be awkward. Dispater is none too pleased by the recent developments.”

To say that the Iron Duke was displeased was an understatement; Raphael could tell as much the instant he stepped inside the hall, his features as hard and cold as the metal he was clad in, that intricate armor of infernal iron and baatorian green steel.

Dispater had been one of the very first archdevils, alongside Mephistopheles and of course Asmodeus. One of the first celestials to be twisted into something else entirely, forged in the Abyss amidst flames of war. It had been a very long time since he had been on a battlefield himself; cautious by nature, he had become notoriously paranoid ever since the Reckoning of the Hells. With him nearly always locked in the safety of his Iron Tower, at the heart of the Iron City of Dis, it was easy to chuckle and dismiss him as a coward.

But those chuckles would always be hushed, the mockery whispered, and for good reason. Dispater was still powerful; tales of his might in battle were still told, from the old days, and the mace he carried was a clear enough message. Raphael doubted he could lift it if he tried with all his might; Dispater carried it with the same ease with which he held Mourning Frost. 

Could I take him, if he chose to end me? Even with Lord Bel by my side, I am not certain.

But that was only idle speculation; the Lord of the Second was not foolish enough to provoke the anger of Asmodeus, least of all now that his one true ally in the Hells was gone. Raphael pushed those thoughts aside, and bowed his head in greeting. “Lord of the Second.”

“Lord of the Eighth.” His voice too was iron, ringing hollow as a distant clang, words spoken through clenched teeth. Cold acknowledgement before his gaze turned to Bel. “Lord of the First. I did expect you to be indeed the first to congratulate the new Lord of Cania.”

“I am not the Lord of Cania yet, truth be told, until the Lord Below names me so,” Raphael replied, even though they both knew it would be pure formality. He spoke calmly, and held Dispater’s cold gaze when it turned on him. 

“... Very well. I shall refrain from referring to you as such, then, until it is declared so.”

Raphael nodded. “Of course. Nevertheless, I welcome you to Cania. Once the other archdukes have arrived, we shall head to the Pit towards Nessus.”

“You shall, yes. But I know the way, and I am to go now. I have been granted a private audience with Lord Asmodeus, ahead of the meeting.” A gesture, and parchment appeared in the Iron Duke’s gauntlet-covered hand. Raphael did not need to read the words to know he spoke true; he could sense the power from the seal from where he stood, the same he’d felt coming off in waves from the avatar of Asmodeus he’d met in Gelineth. 

He nodded. “Very well. Adonides, do ensure the Lord of the Second is escorted in the Pit as befitting his station.”

For a moment, it looked at though Dispater may refuse - but in the end, he knew better. The Iron Duke could be fearsome in battle, but he did pick his battles. He merely nodded, and followed Adonides without a second glance, his back stiff. Even his cape, weighted down by tassels of gemstones and iron along the hem, seemed to belong to a statue.

As Raphael watched his retreating back, Bel hummed. “Wonder what the meeting is about,” he muttered, and Raphael looked away. 

“... I suppose I have an inkling,” he said, quietly, and did not elaborate.

***

“You know, you don’t have to stay inside on my behalf.”

Sitting by the open window, enjoying the breeze and watching a frankly astounding amount of children climb on the back of a cave bear - while a few others yelled for Karlach to throw them higher and yet more begged to see Wyll blast more bottles off the low stone wall - Durge shrugged. 

“I don’t much feel like going out. I’ll leave the childminding to those who are inclined to it.”

“Ah, my little bhaal-babe. You’re a mighty sorcerer, a wonderful lover, and a terrible liar. You know I’m not talking about wading through a sea of brats.”

Durge did not dispute that point. They glanced up, to the blue sky and the blazing sun. They had missed it, true enough, while in the Hells; even in the brief time they had spent in Baldur’s Gate before heading to Cania they had seen little of it. Or in the months prior, really, while traveling with Astarion mostly at night.

“If you want to go out there to warm your scales as lizards do--”

“We have been over this, I am not a lizard--”

“But you like basking in the sun.”

“I like your company just as well. When you’re not likening me to a lizard, that is.”

“Ah, what a flatterer.” Astarion sighed, and leaned his head against Durge’s shoulder. He glanced at the open letter he’d left on a table - one of five they had been handed almost as soon as they’d arrived at the Last Light.

They were delivered only two days ago, Isobel had told them once the greetings were over with. How Withers had known they’d be there soon was beyond Durge, but they had come to expect unexplainable things from him. 

Another reunion, a tenday from then, by the lakeside near Reithwin. Had it truly already been half a year since the last? And what a half year it had been, too - they certainly would not be short on tales to tell when catching up with all the others. 

Yet the one thing that we set our mind to one year ago eludes us. Astarion is forced to hide from the sun still. 

It had been easy to forget about that in the Hells, where no true sun shone. But now, as they watched him look up towards the sky, it was impossible not to see the longing-- huh. How odd. He didn’t look like he was longing now. Rather, he seemed… confused.

“... Is that a flying cat?”

“Huh?”

Durge looked up to see a small figure flying in their direction, all fur and feathers, growing bigger and bigger. They blinked and, finally, they grinned. No, of course it was no flying cat. 

It was a very familiar tressym, heralding the arrival of a very familiar wizard.

***

“Where is he?”

“Nowhere. You know it as well as I do. A devil who perishes in Baator--”

“The body. Where is it?”

“... Do follow me.”

Those had been the last words of an exchange that had started without a greeting, each word colder than the next. Any words after that would be unnecessary, and colder still. Dispater did not wish to speak them, and Asmodeus did not wish to hear them. 

So they went unspoken, as the Lord Below guided the Lord of the Second down and down and further down still, beneath Malsheem, to the Pit of the First Flames.

The mausoleum carved into stone was not entirely finished, but would be soon. Dispater, who rarely held back from giving his opinion on any sort of construction, said nothing of it.  Inside, the main room had been ready for some time. The sarcophagus of black marble, veined with red, was at the center; hellfire burned eternally in two braziers on each side and would keep burning, eternally, for the one who’d first mastered it.

Above it all was a bust of Mephistopheles, white marble veined with gold. Those marble eyes stared ahead, unseeing; so did Dispater’s, or so it seemed at first. He stood as still as a statue himself for a long time before he spoke. 

“Is he truly in there?”

“I sealed the sarcophagus myself. I may open it, if you wish to see.”

He did not, after all, wish to see. It suited Asmodeus just fine. He did not either. 

“Does it decay-- will he decay?”

“No. By my power and will, he is to remain unchanged.”

A snort. The grip tightening around the mace. “Your will, yes. Do you enjoy it, the fruit of your will?”

“I was not--”

“Do not insult him, or me. This was your doing, too. The halfbreed alone would have stood no chance.”

Another silence, longer, as they stood side by side. Within arm’s length, and an abyss away. The Lord of the Second and the Lord of the Ninth, nearly all of the Hells between them and no Mephistopheles in-between anymore.

Down the abyss we went, together, for our brother. Now he is gone regardless, and the abyss remains.

“What had to come to pass came to pass,” was all he said in the end. 

“This plan of yours would have failed, if he had listened to me.”

“But he did not. He was beyond listening to reason, and it was his undoing. There can be no liabilities, Dispater. You know it better than anyone.”

Dispater did not argue that point. “... Do you know what the most solid shape is, to construct anything meant to last?" He spoke in the end, without looking at him. Rather, he looked at Mephisto's likeness. “The triangle. It will not bend because each of the three sides experiences only one force at a time.”

Asmodeus too spoke while looking at Mephistopheles’ bust. “That much is only true as long as all the sides are sound. He was not. He was breaking.”

A hum. "... I do hope you are right. Because if you are not, and I am, this is the beginning of the end.”

For a long time, they said nothing at all. Minutes passed and flames burned, casting shadows on the walls on a grandiose tomb - until Dispater turned away abruptly, and moved to leave without a word. 

Asmodeus did not, as a rule, speak without thinking carefully. That one time, he did. 

“Brother--”

Dispater was swift as he was strong; the mace came down in an arc that only ended when Asmodeus’ ruby rod rose to meet it. The impact did not cause damage to either of them, nor to their weapons, nor to their surroundings - but the impact was felt regardless, in their bones and across all Baator. A ripple that ran through every layer of it, causing each fiend to pause and look around in confusion, forcing even the fierce battles in Avernus to pause for a few stunned moments.

Deep down, at the heart of the Ninth, Asmodeus met Dispater’s gaze. His hand was steady; Dispater’s trembled. Even in the hard lines of his face, in the clenched jaw, he saw the fear that came with knowing two simple truths: that he had gone too far, and that Asmodeus could end him there and then. 

Asmodeus, too, knew two simple truths: that he could indeed end him there and then, and that he was not prepared to build another tomb.

“Yield now,” he said in the end, “and we shall never speak of this again.”

A moment of stillness, a breath, and the Iron Duke did yield. The mace was lowered, and he turned away from Asmodeus. “Do not call me such again,” he ground out, and Asmodeus too turned away. 

“As you wish, Lord of the Second.”

The stillness lingered, and so did the abyss. Above them, in the light of flickering flames, the visage of Mephistopheles looked on in silence.

***

“Wh--”

“Hey, is that…?”

“Gale?”

“Gale!”

“Well, isn’t this an unexpected welcome! I thought I’d only find Halsin, and instead I find--”

“Come here, wizard! Let me squish you!”

“Agh! Ah, Karlach, it’s lovely to-- wait. You’re here? And not burning up? Does that mean…?”

A grin, and Karlach dropped Gale before stepping back, hitting her chest with a clang, and spreading her arms. “Brand new infernal engine! Latest model, works great on any Plane!”

The smile opening up on Gale’s face was wide enough to rival her own. “That’s wonderful, my friend! Simply wonderful! Wyll, how good to see you! Ah, you two you must have quite the tale to tell!”

Karlach barked out a laugh. “Oh, do we! You’ll never guess--”

“We’re getting married,” Wyll blurted, and Gale laughed. 

“Of course you are! I’m beyond delighted for you and, well, for me. It seems I have won a bet, Tara insisted that you’d already be married by the time we met again…”

“And not invite the esteemed Professor Dekarios to the wedding? We could never.” Wyll grinned. “Although the fact you were on sabbatical means you missed--”

“... Is this the place?”

A voice, somewhat hesitant, cut off Wyll’s words. He turned to see Gale was not alone; an elven woman with long golden hair and gray-green eyes stood a few paces away, clad in a long travel cloak. She was resting a hand over her stomach and she was, quite clearly, with child. 

“Oh, my apologies, Zivelia - yes, this is it. You’ll both be quite safe here,” Gale replied, turning to smile at her. Karlach raised both eyebrows.

“... Hey. Gale, do you have something to tell us, or…?”

The question caused the elf to give a soft laugh. “Oh, no. I met Gale and Tara a tenday’s walk from here, and they were so kind as to help me out of a rather unpleasant encounter with gnolls before escorting me the rest of the way. I am seeking a safe place for my child, and I heard the druid Halsin would be willing to help. Gale went quite out of his planned route to get me here when I told him.”

“Please, don’t even mention it! It led to a very happy reunion, as you can see. Where is Halsin, by the way?”

“He just got off his bear skin to take the kids inside for lunch a few minutes ago.” They usually ate at Moonrise Towers, by now mended and officially the town’s orphanage, but apparently there had been an accident in the kitchens - something about a bet and a boy with much promise as a sorcerer but no self-control to match - and they were eating at the inn for the time being. “Honestly, not a moment too soon. Great kids, but I was starting to need a brea--”

“Gale!”

“Ah, my favorite sorcerer!” 

Durge’s embrace wasn’t as tight a squeeze as Karlach’s, but they did lift him off his feet. And kept him off the ground for several moments while Karlach gestured for Zivelia to follow her inside, where Halsin was probably helping feed his young charges. Gale chuckled, patting Durge’s back before they put him down, and he stepped back.

“Well, this is an unexpected but amazing surprise, truly. How lucky, then, that I have amazing news to match.”

Durge’s expression brightened, if possible, even more. “You mean to say…?”

“Hah! You did not have doubts, I hope! Now, if you’re here, I suppose Astarion is also--”

“Well well, look what the tressym dragged in.” Standing under the porch, protected from the sun, Astarion was looking on with his arms crossed over his chest and the fakest bored look on his face that Wyll had ever seen. The corners of his lips were already curling. “We could have used you a while ago, Professor Dekarios. You’re late-- what? What is it? Why are you smiling like that?”

The grin on Gale’s face was so wide, it was probably hurting his cheeks. Wyll blinked, taken aback, and looked over at Durge… who on the other hand had a growing grin splitting their face. So they probably did know what that was about, but they said nothing and let Gale speak again. 

“A wizard is never late, Astarion. I took the time I needed for my quest, and I got here at just the right time, it seems.” He walked up to him, still smiling, and with a somewhat dramatic gesture - gods, as helpful as Gale’s magic would have been, could they truly have endured him and Raphael at the same time? - he pulled something out of his pocket. “At the right time to gift you… this!”

For a few moments Astarion stared, made entirely speechless by the fact Gale of Waterdeep had just appeared and presented him with a ring. “Huh…” he said, eyes shifting slowly from the ring to Gale, and back to the ring and then briefly towards Durge. “It’s… not that I am not flattered, of course but this seems a little sudden--”

Gale’s grin only widened. “Oh, just put it on. Trust me, you’ll love it. It took months of journeying and study to learn all I needed and gather the materials to craft it.”

“Won’t you tell me what it is?”

“And ruin the surprise? Perish the thought!”

Astarion took the ring, if somewhat hesitantly, and glanced over at Durge. He raised an eyebrow, only to get a grin and a nod as a response. With a sigh, he looked at the ring again. It was a simple iron band, adorned with a blood-red ruby. “I must say, I have seen more impressive ones,” he muttered, and slipped it on. He stilled, as though waiting for something to happen; nothing did.  He finally looked up, the question on his lips. He never got to ask it. 

“Now, follow me!”

“What--!”

Later on, sitting by the fire with a bottle of wine, Gale would admit that using a Dimension Door to get Astarion only a few paces away was more a matter of theatrics than of practicality. In the blink of an eye they were off the porch and standing in the middle of the inn’s courtyard, under the full sunlight.

Astarion screamed, covering his head with his arms. “AAAAGH! Gale! Have you gone insane, wizard?? Get me out of here! Get me out of-- the--”

The sun.

Before them, Astarion had fallen silent; he was staring at his own hands and arms, at the skin so pale it almost glowed in the full light of day… but it did not blister, did not burn. There was a long, shaky exhale of breath, and he looked up towards the sun. The rays hit his face and that, too, did not burn. 

“It’s a ring of the Sunwalker,” Gale was explaining, beaming almost as much as the sun itself. “As long as you wear it, the sun cannot hurt you. They’re rare and very difficult to create - no one had for a very long time and some of the instructions were lost, so the mission took a good bit longer than I told Durge it might--”

Astarion turned, eyes wide, to seek out Durge. His jaw was slack and, for a moment, Wyll could have sworn his lower lip trembled. “You knew… ?”

Durge grinned back. “Surprise,” they said, their voice cracking just a little. “I was sure Gale could do it, don’t get me wrong, but I figured that until he did--”

Astarion was in their arms before they got to finish the sentence, basking into the first embrace in the sun he could enjoy in a year, and Wyll had to admit he was getting just a little misty-eyed. He cleared his throat and turned to Gale, who’d stepped back to give them space.

“That’s amazing, Gale. Is this why you were on a sabbatical from your post at Blackstaff Academy?”

Gale nodded without taking his eyes off the scene. Wyll could tell he was tearing up a little himself. “Correct. It was the least I could do for dear friends, and… well, I must admit that as enjoyable as teaching is, I did long for a bit of adventure. I’ll confess that I stayed at inns rather than in a tent whenever I could but ah, do I have some tales to tell! It was quite the adventure, let me tell you - the details of which I’ll keep for later, to share with a drink.” A chuckle, and he turned to look at him. “So, what did I miss?”

***

“Well. If none of you is going to say anything, I will. What was that just now?”

Lady Fierna’s voice rang out in the hall where all-- well, most of them had gathered. Lady Glasya was the only one who had not yet arrived; an avatar of Levistus, half frozen and dripping wet, had stepped in only an instant before the something Fierna spoke of happened.

“It felt like a ripple of sorts,” Mammon declared, stating the obvious as he quite often did.

“It came from below, that much is certain,” Levistus said. “Whether from Nessus or from within the very bowels of Cania, I do not know. But it reverberated far beyond the Eighth.”

Baalzebul hummed, and glanced over at Raphael. “Perhaps this layer is collapsing, after all?” he asked. His tone was slightly too pointed to be entirely a jest, but Raphael was not surprised that had been his first thought. If Cania collapsed onto Nessus, Maladomini would in turn crash down on it - an event that would probably destroy what structures were still standing in the layer.

He shook his head. “I do not think so. It didn’t feel like any sort of collapse, or prelude to one.”

“I felt something like it only once before,” Lord Belial spoke slowly, and Bel snorted. 

“So did I. During the Reckoning. I’m surprised you don’t recall, Lord of the Seventh.”

A scoff. “The Reckoning is not a time I look back upon fondly, for reasons I am certain most of you can imagine,” Baalzebul replied. “I am not the only one, either. But you are correct - I did feel something like this only once, when Geryon and Moloch met on the battlefield.”

Two archdevils clashing, Raphael thought, and Dispater went ahead to Nessus on his own. 

“Oh, come now. It’s obvious that my lord father and uncle Dispater are having a disagreement. What else could cause such a ruckus?”

None of them had seen nor heard Glasya coming, and she seemed rather pleased with herself for that fact as she walked in. She entirely ignored Mammon, smiled at Fierna, shot a glance colder than a glacier in Levistus’ general direction, and finally looked at Raphael.

They had only met her once, very briefly, when he’d been Steward of Avernus; she had just become the ruler of Malbolge, then, a scant year before Zariel’s doomed attack on Avernus and her subsequent rise as the new Lord of the First. Glasya knew precisely who he was, and had been rather amused on that first meeting.

“Ah, little cousin,” she’d laughed from her throne, clad in fine silks and precious gemstones, and had gestured for him to rise. Her eyes were amber, her hair a dark auburn color, spilling down bare shoulders, against copper skin. “You had the right idea, truly. How wonderful is it, to put some layers between oneself and one’s maker?”

Raphael had just bowed then, knowing better than speaking a word against either of their fathers before the notoriously unpredictable princess of the Hells. Now, Steward of Avernus no more and newly minted Lord of Cania, with the chasm of death between himself and his sire, he bowed again. “Lady Glasya,” he greeted her. “Welcome to Cania.”

“It’s always good to be here, Lord Raphael. And please, do accept my congratulations.”

Congratulations will be in order tomorrow, her letter had read. For now do accept my condolences.

He nodded, but had no time to voice his thanks - more for the condolences, perhaps, than for her congratulations - when Belial spoke.

“A fight? Between the Lord Below and the Lord of the Second?” he asked, obviously concerned, only for Glasya to chuckle.

“Oh, no. A spat, as I said. We’d have felt a true fight much more keenly than this. It’s already over, can’t you tell? And we are late, although that is entirely my fault. Shall we head to the Pit, Lord of the Eighth?”

She was right: no such ripple was felt again across the Hells, everything quiet once more. Whatever the so-called spat had been about - and Raphael was rather certain he knew what it had been about - it had been short-lived. Asmodeus was probably not keen to cause yet more upheaval in Baator, at least for now. Raphael nodded.

“Yes. Let us make haste.”

It was not too long a way to Malsheem through the Pit; it was heavily guarded, but no gelugon moved to stop them. And by the time they arrived, everything seemed in orders; Asmodeus sat at the head of a long table, ruby rod in hand, while Dispater sat at the other end. The Lord of the Second remained silent as Asmodeus greeted them and gestured for them to sit. Even after that he made no remarks - not then, nor later.

When the Lord Below spoke, his voice rang in the respectful silence of all gathered.

“As you very well know, I have called you here today to bear witness as I acknowledge the new Archduke of Cania, Lord Raphael.” His eyes fell on him, gleaming like red hot coals. His hands folded over the handle of the ruby rod as he leaned forward. “The fall of Mephistopheles was a loss for all of Baator; even those among you who opposed him cannot deny that much.” A pause, as though to give others a chance to say otherwise. 

None did; even Baalzebul remained silent, and Asmodeus spoke again.

“It is a heavy legacy to carry, Lord Raphael, but carry it you must. You owe this kingdom to give back as much as you took. Many have misgivings about you, if unspoken. I expect you to prove them wrong.”

Be the archdevil I know you can be, Baalphegor had said, and none shall dare mock Mephistopheles for falling under your blows.

Raphael bowed his head, keenly aware of everyone’s gaze on him; from Glasya's amusement to Fierna’s curiosity, from Bel’s barely concealed grin through Baalzebul’s thoughtful look and Dispater’s clear disdain. Belial, Levistus and Mammon remained quiet, too, but their mistrust and doubts were almost a tangible thing in the very air they breathed. 

Prove them wrong, was his first true order, and prove them wrong he would.

“As you command, Lord Asmodeus,” he said.

And that, love, was that.

***

“The Archmage of the Lower Planes!”

“Yes, that was one of his many--”

“And you counterspelled him!”

“... It was not by my power alone, but I cannot tell more than that. I am bound by contract not to reveal the-- finer details of what transpired.” Specifically, who set us on the mission, and aided us. “But yes. Mephistopheles is no more, and Cania has a new ruler. News will start spreading on this Plane before long, I suspect.”

“Raphael, of all devils! Not the worst of them, I suppose, if someone is to rule the Eighth.”

“Certainly not. You’d find him… different from how you recall him.”

Gale chuckled. “I do not doubt that, my friend. Traveling with you has a way of changing people - devils too, it seems. But ah, would that Wyll found me at Waterdeep! I’d have loved to be by your side through it all. Removing Zariel as Lord of Avernus, and facing off with the archwizard of the Hells! Either would be an achievement for the ages, but both? Your tale puts the recollections of my own little quest to shame, truly.”

Durge chuckled. “No, it does not,” they said, turning. Gale followed their gaze to the low stone wall where Astarion was still sitting, face tilted up and eyes shut, basking in the warmth of every ray of sun as it began to lower towards the horizon. 

He had been happy, in that past year - happy enough to compensate for two centuries of misery; he had assured Durge as much time and time again, and they knew it to be true. But he had missed the sun, and seeing the peaceful look on his face now, knowing he would never again need to hide from the sun… well, it was everything. 

“This is your doing. We gave Raphael the throne of Cania, but you gave Astarion the sun. I will never thank you enough for it.”

“Ah, well. If you put it that way…” Gale cleared his throat, and something in his features softened before he glanced over at Astarion once again. “Yes, you are right. Look at him. How could I ever regret it?”

Durge rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Gale.”

“Thank you, my friend. It means everything, coming from you.” A pause, a peaceful silence. “... That said, wouldn’t you happen to know anything about the whereabouts of Mephistopheles’ spellbook?”

“Gale.”

“I’m--” Gale cleared his throat. “I’m jesting, of course.”

“... Are you?”

A sigh. “It might be best to change the subject before I have a chance to think too hard about it.”

Durge chuckled. “Very well. There is something I wanted to ask of you, Professor Dekarios.”

“By all means, ask away.”

“You do know how to cast a sending spell, right?”

“Ah, yes, that I do. I don’t use it often, though. I do find it difficult to stick to the limit of twenty-five words.”

“I’d have never guessed, wizard,” Durge snorted, gaining themself a light shove. 

“Careful, sorcerer. I might decide not to send any message on your behalf, if that’s what you planned to ask.”

“I meant to ask you to teach me how to do it, actually.”

Very much as expected, Gale was unable to resist the prospect of teaching them… well, anything, really. “Ah, I see. Well, I can’t see why not. You proved an apt pupil before, and I do have some teaching experience now. For a sending spell, the first thing you need to keep in mind…”

***

“What in the literal Nine Hells took you so long?”

“Becoming Lord of the Eighth, among other things.”

Somehow, Korrilla Hearthflame did not seem in the mood to congratulate him for the achievement. “I was stranded on the Shelves of Despond for almost a year!”

“I was made aware. And surely you were made aware that I was not exactly in the position to come reclaim your--”

“And then fucking Helsik was there!”

“I am rather surprised neither of you threw the other into the Styx.”

“I couldn’t reach her or I would have - her smirk when they came to get on Mammon’s behalf - and now you’re telling me you swore some kind of oath that I’ve got to stay with my sister?”

“I said you’re to stay at the House of Hope, which Lord Bel agreed to declare a piece of Canian territory in Avernus in exchange for the dismantling of the Mirror of Mephistar. That does make you my envoy to Avernus, for the record. You’re very much welcome.”

Korrilla seemed about as unimpressed with that as with his new title. Her time on the Shelves of Despond must have been dreary indeed, if it made her forget he could just as well make a soul coin out of her, and consume her if the whim took him. It would not, but she didn’t know that now, did she? “You just told me that Hope has taken it over!”

“That she did. But I am rather certain she’ll gladly let you in.”

“You have enough power to subdue her. Kick her out. Banish her to the Material Plane or any other plane where I am not.”

“I do. And I won’t,” Raphael replied, and Korrilla rubbed her face with a groan. They were stepping outside the fortified building that served to hold souls yet to be claimed by their patrons. It was no luxurious retreat, but it was miles better than the Shelves of Despond. 

Korrilla, he knew, had received a better treatment than most as a personal favor from Lord Bel as he waited for him to be whole again and come back to retrieve her. She did not seem particularly grateful. “So what, you’re just dropping me off with her and telling me to deal with it? Because of some promise you made to the same mortals who nearly killed you?”

“Essentially, yes. I am a devil of my word. I’ll summon you, should I need your services.”

“You’re a devil of the written word. I bet they didn’t even get you to put it in a contract.”

“As I am certain you’re aware, that’s entirely irrelevant. I own you, and you shall do as I order.”

She was, at least, wise enough not to argue with that. Still she scoffed, crossing her arms. Defensive, more than angry. Beneath all her protest at the prospect of facing Hope again was something else entirely; Raphael had known for a long time that it was there, of course, never too far beneath the surface but burning hot as flames. Guilt, and no small measure of shame.

“Don’t be too surprised if I wind up ending her.”

“I’d be incredibly surprised if you succeeded. But you’ll do no such thing.” Raphael paused, and took a moment to focus. Hope had indeed taken over the House, but she had no power to banish him from it; he could teleport in it with only a thought, and a snap of the fingers. But only Korrilla would be sent there; he was never to set foot in his old residence again. Hope won’t suffer my presence again, he’d promised Karlach, and he intended to keep that promise.

“A year,” he said in the end, a hand still raised, and Korilla looked up. “My command is that you remain there, when not called upon to serve me, for a year. Afterwards, you may decide whether or not you wish to come to Meph-- Israfel. But no earlier.”

A long pause, a sigh. “... Can’t be much worse than the year I spent on the Shelves,” she muttered in the end, and Raphael chuckled before he snapped his fingers.

And just like that, Hope had her sister again - although there was no telling whether it would turn out the way she... well, hoped.  As large as he’d loomed in their past, their future was out of his hands.

Exactly as it should be.

***

“Wyll?”

“Mmh?” Wyll mumbled against the crook of her neck, pressing a kiss against heated skin. It felt nice, really, to lay back in the dark with his weight on her. He was still inside her, not yet entirely soft, as if he couldn’t get enough of her skin on his. It made Karlach think she could spend the rest of her life like that, and have absolutely no complaints.

“Do you want kids?”

“... Huh?” Wyll lifted his head, clearly startled, to look down at her. They both had darkvision, and could see each other clearly; he looked taken aback, clearly wondering where that had come from. “Was that-- what made you think of that?”

Karlach shrugged, running a hand down his back. It was a really nice back, ending in a really nice ass. “Don’t know. Just the look on your face earlier, I guess,” she said. He liked kids, she’d always known that - they both did - but looking at him with the children earlier, she could tell there was a difference. 

She saw herself as more of a fun aunt, while there was something distinctly fatherly in the way he spoke and played with them. When she’d taken Zivelia to Halsin and the high elf had explained that she could not see herself as a mother and wished to leave her baby in his care, be he willing, Halsin had immediately accepted. He’d seemed elated to take another little life under his wing… and Karlach had realized then that he had the same look on his face that Wyll would get when showing a child how to prepare a lure for fishing or how to bounce a flat rock across water.

“Ah,” Wyll was saying, and cleared his throat. “Well… it is not something at the forefront of my mind, I must admit, but I don’t think I would-- I think I’d like that. Someday. If you’d like any.”

That was a loaded question, really. Karlach bit her lower lip. “... I don’t know. I was little more than a kid when I was taken to the Hells, and then I was on survival mode for a long time. Then I was out of the Hells, and-- I guess I thought of that. You know, settling somewhere quiet, getting married, having kids, growing old. But they were just dreams on borrowed time. I thought I was gonna die, and I was just cramming as much daydreaming in as I could in what time I had. You know?”

A faint smile, a kiss against her temple. “I cannot know how it felt, but I understand.”

She turned to catch his mouth. His lips always felt so soft. “... But now I’m alive. And I’m gonna stay alive for the foreseeable, and out of the Hells. Daydreaming is done and I get to live. Only I don’t know if I really wanted that life, or if it was just desperation speaking. Maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I do, but not yet. I liked the entire adventuring thing, and… I don’t know. I need time to figure that  bit out. You know, having a future in the first place. It seemed impossible until months ago.”

“And you have time. We have time.” A hand cupped her cheek, and she covered it with hers. 

“What if I don’t want any? Maybe I can’t. My body runs damn hot, even with a new engine--”

“It doesn’t matter. Karlach, look at me.” She did, and he smiled. He looked stupid handsome, in the faint glow she emitted with every beat of the engine, every whisper of fire. “I love you. Hasn’t changed, never will. You by my side is all I need and all I truly want. Anything else I can do with or without. What do you want?”

Karlach felt ridiculously close to tearing up, but managed to hold back and grinned instead. “Oh, right now I want to enjoy the reunion before we head off to the Gate. I want to see Fytz and meet her family, and eat the dinner she promised us, and invite her to the wedding. Cause I really want to marry you. And after that, if the Blade still has heroics to do, I’d like to see more of the Sword Coast. More of Faerûn. We can make that our honeymoon to begin with. With a side dish of ass kicking,” she added, and Wyll laughed. 

“I’d love nothing more than that,” he declared, and kissed her again.

***

“... All right. What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. I am hiring you because you have a talent for tracking things down, as well as for destruction. Should you be unable to locate the soul in question within a year, there would be no punishment. I’ll assume he moved on, and you’ll still receive half the payment.”

“As if. There is always a catch with you.”

“As you can plainly see, Yurgir, the contract is clear and clearly written. I even refrained from writing it in rhyme, since that gives you such a headache.”

The orthon snorted. “I hate you,” he informed him, only for Raphael to raise an eyebrow.

“I’d say that is not the wisest thing to say to the Lord of the Eighth. Wouldn’t you?”

“I really hate you,” was the reply, but with not nearly as much venom as he once might have put in it. Perhaps Durge was right: Yurgir could respect a valid opponent, and the fact he’d been able to defeat him while in human form mattered more to him than any title Rapael may hold now.

“Fair enough. May I direct your attention to the line concerning your payment?”

A scoff, a twist of his features. “There is no amount of coin, souls, or soul coins that you may offer--” Yurgir began, only to fall silent quite abruptly when he deigned to look down upon the contract. He stared, blinked, stared some more. His mouth remained agape for several moments before he frowned and looked up. “... No mere mortal soul is this valuable.”

“The value of a soul depends entirely on the amount one is willing to pay for it. And as you can see, I am willing to pay very generously for this one, should it be found anywhere in the Fugue Plane.” Raphael tilted his head towards the contract. “He is not to be harmed under any circumstances. His soul is to remain whole. Harm him, and I shall destroy you.”

A hum. “... I see. So I’m to take him to Cania?”

“If he’s willing. He should not be forced to follow you, either - if you find him and he decides not to come, you’ll still receive full payment. You shall deliver the message and the items I’ll provide, and leave him the choice. That is clear enough, I trust.”

It was, as it turned out, clear enough. Yurgir had signed the contract after going over each and every line more times than it truly was needed, and he’d departed for the Fugue Plane.

As per the agreement with Kelemvor, devils were permitted to offer the souls gathered there a chance to become baatezu rather than moving on to whatever afterlife awaited them; considering that becoming a devil meant more often than not starting from lemure with no memory whatsoever of their mortal life, all divine energy stripped from their souls, one had to be facing a dreary afterlife indeed to accept.

But with no shortage of dreary deities offering as many dreary afterlives, those who accepted were enough to make the Fugue Plane a reliable source of new devils. Of course the souls who moved on to an afterlife would forever be out of the Hells’ reach… and truth be told, Raphael had no true reason not to believe Lord Rahirek Starspire had moved on long ago. 

That was the main reason why he had not told his mother of his plan. He’d sent Yurgir to seek him out on the off chance - the hope - that he might not have, that he might still be wandering the Fugue Plane. Should Yurgir fail to locate him, or should he refuse to follow… well, at least he wouldn’t have to end her hopes after raising them in the first place.

So he said nothing, once back in Cania, when he visited her in the chambers he’d ordered be made hers. There had been a few curious looks, but no questions were asked and orders were obeyed. Raphael suspected they would be more surprised yet when the draft of a new decree was finalized by Tuncheth, who had quite gladly taken on the role of Justiciar of Cania once Adonides had voiced his decision to remain its steward.

The gelugon had given him a curious look, too - surely, enshrining protections for eternal debtors in his court could not be a priority? - but Raphael had a good enough excuse. 

“We are in quite a heavy debt of divine energy, particularly with Mammon and Dispater. The Lord of the Second in particular will be keen to collect, as he is plainly less than thrilled with recent developments. The Lord Below saw reason to reduce the entity of what is owed, keeping in account that the debt was incurred by my sire, but we are by now means in the position to waste souls by destroying them for little to no true reason. It seems a simple matter of common sense to me,” he’d said in the end.

Tuncheth had nodded. “Yes, my lord, you do have a fair point. I’ll ensure the matter is dealt with swiftly.”

He had gone to work, leaving Raphael to muse over the fact he’d soon enough have to make a decision when it came to appointing a new chamberlain. With two devils native to Cania as Steward and Justiciar, he knew that the Chamberlain would have to be a pit fiend; he could not afford to alienate them entirely.

Clear-headed and practical Duke Bifrons was a fitting enough High General; Nexroth, perhaps, could make a decent enough chamberlain. He was far from trustworthy - hardly an exception, truth be told - but giving him a position at court would take the command of several companies of cornugons off his hands, and Adonides and Tuncheth would be more than capable to keep an eye on him. Yes, he was a strong candidate indeed.

Unaware of his thoughts, Dalah was going over all her needles and threads. Somehow she’d gotten her hands on charcoal and paper, and was already working on designs to embroider on his clothing. She hadn’t even looked at the bottle of wine and the food Raphael had delivered to her, by the looks of it. 

He sighed. The fact he’d declared her his personal embroiderer had given him a convenient excuse to make it known she was not to be bothered and answered to him alone, but…

“I’d really rather your rest--”

“I considered it, but I think I forgot how to do that,” she replied. There were centuries upon centuries of servitude behind that comment - the course of Raphael’s entire existence - but she spoke in a light tone, and the smile curling her lips did not seem to cost her an effort. 

Raphael was not certain happiness was something a mortal soul could strive for in the Hells, but she seemed content at least. Still…

“It would be a simple enough matter, providing you a form to inhabit and allow you back in the Material Plane.”

“Why? There is nothing for me there. Anyone I might have known is long gone.”

“Baator is hardly the place for a mortal soul to thrive--”

“Baator is Baator, yes. But you are here,” she cut him off, reaching over to brush her fingers against the back of his hand, and Raphael found he had no response to that.

“I…” he cleared his throat, and looked away. “Should you change your mind, you have but to tell me,” he added. 

“I shall keep that in mind. But I think I can be of help here. I have served for a long time, and I know all other servants here. They all see and hear things just as well as any devil. I was Baalphegor’s eyes and ears among them for a long time; I can be yours too.”

A similar argument to the one Haarlep had used, although of course they’d brought up the fact they could take the likeness of many members of the court. It had made Raphael sigh. 

“I’d rather you don’t take such risks,” he’d muttered, only for Haarlep to chuckle and kiss him.

“But, my little brat,” they had sighed. “After experiencing so much excitement in the past few months, I’d be terribly bored with nothing to do. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny me a little excitement, would you? Just a tiny bit of espionage to keep things interesting?”

He’d caved in then, and he found he could only cave in now. He sighed, and only looked on as his mother scowled down at the threads she was going over. 

“I really do need more golden thread.”

“I shall have it delivered,” he promised, and brought a chalice of wine to his lips just as something echoed in his head, out of nowhere. The voice sounded distant l, but perfectly recognizable. Durge's voice.

‘Turns out I could learn sending spells after all. Astarion can withstand the sun - ring of Sunwalker. All well here. Hope the meeting went smoothly.’

Raphael blinked, then smiled into the wine. 

‘Smoothly enough. No assassination attempts yet - almost disappointing. Tell Karlach I sent Korrilla to the House of Hope. Negotiating with Bel for Wyll’s soul now,’ he responded, and took a sip of wine. He half expected a further reply. He absolutely did not expect what it would say.

‘Almost forgot, Haarlep may use my form for you only. Just let me know so I can give the go-ahead. Tonight would be fine.’

Raphael promptly spat out the wine in a rather spectacular spray of red, which was followed by very undignified coughing. When he looked up he saw his mother staring at him, clearly and thankfully unaware of what had just transpired.

“Israfel? Is everything all right?”

He coughed again, and cleared his throat before he stood. “I-- yes, my apologies. I just… remembered something,” he muttered. He’d told more convincing lies, but she did not seem keen to pry at least. “I-- I shall see you tomorrow, mother.”

A smile, brighter than any smile had a right to be in the bowels of the Hells. “I look forward to it,” she said, and brushed a hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch - he always would, he suspected, lean into the touch without even thinking - and smiled back briefly before he left, half his mind focused on a sending spell and the rest of him thinking of nothing but getting to Haarlep’s chambers.

Give me twenty minutes, he snarled through the spell, and even though he knew the spell was meant to share words only he was almost certain that, for a moment, he could hear Durge laugh.

***

“Well. Don’t you look satisfied.”

Astarion looked very satisfied himself, with Durge’s blood still on his lips and body pressed against their own. He licked at the still bleeding wound on their throat, humming softly just as Durge laughed breathlessly. 

“Oh, yes. This was… an experience.”

“I can tell. The cat who got the cream, indeed. I bet Raphael’s face is a sight right now.”

Another shared chuckle and they settled in silence, resting against one another in a bed that was admittedly a little cramped. Durge leaned their chin on top of his head, looking at the crescent moon over the window, a hand on his back. They felt the marks Cazador had left on him; scars, but nothing more. Nothing that could hurt him anymore.

“I think,” they spoke in the end, “that it will be some time before the wedding. We might have time for some more travelling, after this reunion.”

“Oh? And where would you like to go?”

“Everywhere we have been, of course. So you can see it all again in the light of day.”

Astarion didn’t speak right away, but Durge felt him smile against his shoulder. “You know,” he said. “I think I’d really like that. I heard that Athkatla looks much   better in the sun. Or Crimmor.”

“I don’t think the Shadow Thieves would be happy to see us back there, after you stole from one of their Cloackmasters,” Durge pointed out, tilting up his chin to look him in the eyes.

Astarion grinned.

***

There was much for them to talk about a tenday later, before the veritable feast that Withers had somehow been able to put together for them by the lakeside. Well, for most of them.

“Ah, not much for Minsc and I to tell,” Jaheira had said, picking up a cup of wine before the crackling fire. “To rebuild a city is a terribly dull business, but someone has to do it and it seems that someone had to be us. The pains of being old - becoming stuck with cleaning up while the cubs rush ahead to their next adventures. You really don’t want to hear this old crone to complain about building regulations and councils. So tell us, what have you been up to?”

Gale’s quest to create Astarion’s ring of the Sunwalker may not have been quite as eventful as their journey through the Hells to take down two archdevil and instate a new archduke on the throne of Cania, but it was a riveting tale of its own. Shadowheart, too, had quite a few adventures of her journeys, which had taken her as far north as the Spine of the World - but she seemed far more keen to hear their tales than she was to share her own.

Durge supposed that a lifetime of training to secrecy was not so easily shaken off; she had not yet decided what direction she wished her life to take, but she looked content enough. And it had escaped absolutely none of them how she’d suddenly smiled when a portal had opened into the sky above, and a red dragon had come through it. On its back was Lae’zel, in the flesh rather than a projection, with a new scar upon her cheek, teeth bared in what they’d learned to recognize as a smile, and tales of her own. 

“The alliance with the githzerai proved most fruitful, and yet more flock to our cause. The tides of war turn, and liberation is closer with each breath. The false queen shall know defeat soon enough,” she’d said, causing Shadowheart to raise an eyebrow. 

“It seems that you need no aid, then. A pity. I was half tempted to offer it.”

“Tch. Aid from a powerful warrior is never unwelcome,” Lae’zel had replied, crossing her arms and turning away. “If you’re truly offering it.”

“I suppose I am,” Shadowheart had said, smiling into her cup, and Lae’zel cleared her throat. 

“... Well. Good. I do have a yet riderless dragon,” she’d muttered, still looking absolutely anywhere except in Shadowheart’s direction. She’d cleared her throat again, and turned to Durge. “And you, what is this I hear about the Hells?”

The tale had taken some time, although Durge chose to skip over some rather personal aspects of it. By the time they finished speaking, one could hear a pin drop. 

“Huh. So we’re to start hearing of Archduke Raphael soon enough, I suppose?”

“Depending on how quickly the news filters in from the Hells…”

“Jaheira? Minsc is confused. Are we not going to stomp our boots on the backside of evil?”

“Not this evil, I guess, as long as he proves himself to be the minor one.”

“I must admit, it’s hard to imagine him on any throne.”

“Oh, I can imagine him on a throne all too well. The thought makes me want to slap him off it, though.”

“Heh, I cannot blame you. But he has changed in these months, believe me.”

“Mind you, still makes me want to smack him around every once in a while...”

“Tch. As long as the Hells exist, someone is to rule its layers. It may very well be him. After all, can he be worse than Mephistopheles?”

“... Yes, it is a low bar to step over. Especially if he keeps his word concerning Wyll’s soul.”

“Oh hey! Almost forgot! Wyll and I are getting married, so I guess that’s got to be our next reunion, huh?”

“What!”

“Hah, I knew it!”

“Married-- I am not familiar with your customs. What does that mean again?”

“Congratulations! Boo says your children will be mighty!”

“I say we drink to that!”

They did drink to that, and more. Durge was staggering just a little when they stood and went to the spot where Withers stood, walking past Shadowheart and Halsin as he told her that of course he’d be happy to look after the owlbear while she was away to fight by Lae'zel's side in the Astral Sea.

“Hey,” they called out, and cleared their throat before speaking. “Thanks. For organizing these reunions. I never quite realize how much I miss everyone until we’re together again.”

Withers - Jergal - looked back, his expression unreadable as always. He had not changed at all. “Thank me not. Thy bonds are strong, and ought to remain so. Thy unity must not falter, if thou are to be prepared for any future threat.”

“I don’t suppose you can give us any specifics about these possible future threats, huh?”

“Correct. I cannot. Yet that is not the question thou wish to ask.”

Of course not. Durge cleared their throat, and glanced back at the roaring fire, at their laughing companions, at Astarion’s face. They thought of Raphael back in Cania, with a kingdom to make his own, and looked back at Withers. 

“I have made peace with all I cannot remember. But what I keep wondering is how old I truly am. How much of my life has passed, how much of it is still before me?”

How long do I have, truly?

Withers’ expression did not change, but he spoke nonetheless. “I cannot name the number of years thou are granted to live, but remember - thou were molded from the flesh of a god. Undeserving of the title, yet a god nonetheless. Being forsaken doth not change that. There are many days yet ahead, child of none. Strive to be worthy of them,” he said, and Durge smiled, a weight off their chest. 

“Thank you, Withers.”

“Thank me not, and live,” was the reply, and Durge found they were happy to drink to that, too.

***

[Back to Chapter 40]

[On to Chapter 42]

Not too long ago, it had been the beating heart of the palace; hymns of praise filled it at all times, rising towards the high vaulted ceiling. Now that too was silent. Mephistopheles’ High Cantor had been gone for some time and the ceiling had been damaged, with parts of it collapsed onto the floor. The snow fell there, too, before the high doors leading to the throne room, barely cracked open. 

No sound came from inside, and none dared approach. Bifrons was about to call on his best men to come forth with him when someone slipped inside the hall and did approach the doors, and then turned to face them all. 

Adonides, Steward of Cania, met Bifrons’ gaze with a grave expression on his face. A gesture, and a rolled parchment appeared in his hand. The seal on it glowed, and the stunned silence broke into a murmur when everyone present saw it clearly - the seal of the Ninth. 

“By Asmodeus’ decree, any of you carrying weapons is to lay them down now. No fighting is to occur as we await for the Lord Below’s envoy to arrive, and settle the matter.”

“What matter, Adonides?”

“... Lord Mephistopheles is no more.”

The silence was back, deafening; confusion turned to incredulity, the mere notion of their lord being gone too much for most of those present to grasp. They stared as though not comprehending what they had just heard, the upper crust of the Eighth. Bifrons obviously struggled to wrap his mind around it, too, and scowled. 

“Does the parchment really demand we lay down our weapons?”

Adonides turned. “Justiciar Bele. Would you read it, to confirm?”

Justiciar Bele looked stunned as he stepped forward, his gait uncertain. He took the parchment, broke the seal, and read in silence. He was much too pale to grow paler still, but he did draw in a shaky breath before he nodded, and looked up. 

“... The Lord Below is aware that the Lord of the Eight has fallen. He is keen to avoid chaos, and a dangerous power vacuum. Everyone present is to lay down arms while his official envoy travels to Cania. Anybody breaking the peace will be subjected to punishment of the utmost severity.”

All eyes turned to Bifrons, who for a moment did not move or speak. Then, the pit fiend lifted a hand and brought it down in a silent order. There was the sound of drawn weapons left to clatter on the ice floor, on the small mounds of snow already beginning to form - and it was then that, at last, someone appeared through the doors. 

Decades, centuries, millennia down the line, there would be as many versions of that moment as there had been fiends to witness it. One such tale, and perhaps the most widely circulated, would speak of a gigantic ascended fiend coming through the doors in a blaze of hellfire and triumph, carrying Mephistopheles’ severed head by the hair, flanked by war devils.

But no such thing happened. The one to step out, accompanied by mere mortals, was a cambion whose face they all knew, clad in a battered and bloodied armor. There was no triumph in the way he carried himself or his expression; he was holding no severed head. 

He stopped just outside the doors, saying nothing, and ran his gaze over the gathered crowd - many of whom had witnessed what should have been his end in that very hall. Any murmurs that may have resumed were hushed, dozens of eyes wide and lost , looking back at him in stunned silence and anticipation. Finally, his gaze fell on the Steward of Cania.

“My father’s body needs tending to,” Raphael spoke, his voice rough, and Adonides nodded.

“... Of course. I shall take him to the vaults, and ensure it’s attended,” the Steward replied, and went to follow, only to pause when someone spoke suddenly - Justiciar Bele. 

“We believed Lord Mephistopheles gone once before by the hands of Baron Molikroth, and it was a ruse--”

“There is no ruse,” Raphael cut him off. He turned towards the Justiciar, but he seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. “He is gone.”

“... I suppose it may be as you say, but if we could see the body, certainly--”

“My sire won’t be paraded for you to gawk at, Bele . ” Raphael’s voice remained calm, but there was something underneath it that was enough for Bele to close his mouth as though struck, and step back into the crowd. Like it would grant him any protection, should Raphael lash out - like said crowd wouldn’t part quickly should that happen, leaving him to his fate. 

But there was no lashing out: Raphael only turned to go back inside. Bifrons stepped forward before he could. “Where is Hutijin? His body was not among the fallen. I know he did not flee.”

It caused Raphael to pause, and glance back. “He’s inside. He did his duty to the end.”

Fool. The only one of us who ever had the might and authority to challenge Mephisto for the throne, and he squandered it. What for?

“... Hph. Of course he did,” Bifrons muttered, and took another step forward. “That being the case, I’d take him to the vaults, too.”

The cambion nodded, and Adonides said nothing. They went inside, and Bifrons followed. The mortals remained at the door, to guard it; the dragonborn with blood red eyes looked fearsome enough to make even fiends think twice, should they consider trying to storm in. But no one Asmodeus’ direct orders, and no one followed them inside.

Hutijin’s corpse was only a few paces from the door; loyal to the Lord of the Eighth to the end, as any who knew him would have expected. He had fallen on his back, eyes still open; his mace lay a short distance away from his right hand. Bifrons paused for a moment - long enough to take that mace, place it over the body’s chest, and fold his hands over the handle. 

Then he stood and for the first time he took in the true scale of the devastation - the half collapsed roof and columns, the shattered wall, the craters in the ground even where magic was supposed to reform the ice. Finally his gaze paused on the far end of the throne room, where indeed Mephistopheles lay, motionless. Raphael stood in silence before it, and so did Adonides.

“... Did you truly do this?” Bifrons spoke, unable to keep some quiet surprise from his voice.

Raphael’s eyes did not so much flicker towards him. He kept looking at his sire, expression unreadable. “Yes. Now go. The Steward will join you soon.”

Bifrons did not ask how, or why. Neither answer was important, now. He went back to Hutijin’s body and lifted it, mace and all. A burst of fire and he was gone with it - a long way below, deep into the eternal ice of Nargus, before the doors leading to the vaults, where Adonides’ own gelugon guards only shared a look with him before parting to let him through.

***

“Where’s Haarlep? My mother?”

“They are well. In my own quarters, for the time being, and safe. Barbas was able to track them down, but they held him off until my arrival.”

“And the chamberlain…?”

“Dead. Do you wish for his body to be taken to the vaults, too?”

“You may feed it to my father’s hounds, if you’re so inclined.”

“I believe I might be,” Adonides muttered, and looked down at Mephistopheles once again. 

There was blood, thick and black with traces of arcane magic still, dripping like molasses from the steps leading to the throne; that showed clearly enough that was there he’d died. Still, the body had been laid out on the ground before it. Snow was drifting down on the body, which wore the visage of the Lord of the Hellfire, but there was no heat left to melt that snow. His hands had been folded over the fatal, gaping wound on his chest. 

The spear of the Reigning Serpent was nowhere to be seen, of course; none could see it, if Asmodeus’ involvement was to remain a secret. There were likely other wounds hidden by Mephistopheles’ robe; one of his horns was broken, but it was the only truly noticeable damage one could see above his neck. His eyes were shut, his forehead smooth. A ghost of a smile seemed to linger at the corners of his lips.

“... As for your sire, do you truly wish to keep him in the vaults?”

“Not permanently, no. But for the time being, it seems the best place.”

“I’ll give word to the attendants to clean off the blood. And I’ll send for one of his finest robes.” He went to kneel by the body to teleport with it, but Raphael put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Wait.” Something was pushed against his palm; the tip of the horn which had been shorn off. “See if it may be reattached. A golden band should do well enough, I believe.”

“He rent you asunder while you screamed, and yet you wish to keep him whole in death.”

“I owe you no explanation.”

“... Then I shall ask no more questions,” Adonides replied, and teleported to the vaults without another word alongside the remains of the Lord of the Eighth - leaving Raphael before the throne he’d won, beneath the falling snow, alone.

But not for long.

***

“Not quite the throne you’d planned to take, is it?”

Durge’s voice was quiet, but it echoed into the devastated room all the same. They had left the others to guard the doors - more for show than anything, as none was going to defy an order by Asmodes - and slipped back inside as soon as they’d seen Adonides leave through the crack in the door they’d been watching from.

Raphael nodded without turning. His back was rigid, his hands balled into fists by his sides. When Durge stepped by his side, he barely turned his head towards them before he spoke. 

“I’d seen myself stepping over it on my way to Nessus - never sitting upon it. Even in my grandest dreams of glory, this was his. He was supposed to live, to see my triumph and to know the humiliation of paying tribute to his bastard son. And yet…” A pause, another glance at the throne, a wide gesture to the ruined room. “Thus far I’ve come, but no farther. I have killed my sire, yet I could never humiliate him. His throne is mine, and I could make him see me, but I could never make him bow. Maybe that’s why he smiled, in the end.”

“Was seeing him bow to you truly what you wanted?”

“... I think it’s best for me not to speak aloud what I wanted. This court would latch on any weakness I show to gain leverage. It is how it is, with fiends.”

“And what of friends, I wonder?” Durge asked. There was a light scoff, the faintest ghost of a smile on Raphael’s lips.

“That was atrocious. My first act as Lord of the Eighth will be to forbid you from attempting word plays at this court.”

“Not an answer, that.”

The smile faded. There was no answer, not aloud, but he turned to Durge and that was all they needed. They reached out to pull him into an embrace, armor and all, and held tight. They heard a sharp inhale and then felt him exhale, slowly, resting his head against Durge’s shoulder for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Durge murmured. 

“... He’d have never stopped pursuing me. There was no other choice.”

“There wasn’t.”

A nod, another long breath, and Raphael pulled away. A step back and in a burst of flames the armor was gone, replaced by a familiar doublet. The blood was gone, too, leaving only a bruise over his cheekbone barely visible on red skin. He cleared his throat, adjusting a sleeve at the wrist. “I suspect it won’t be long before Lady Baalphegor arrives.”

“So she’s to be the envoy?”

“Who else? She was always Amsodeus’ most trusted diplomat, before she was even my sire’s consort.” A sigh, and he looked at the blown-out wall. “I suppose she’ll want the meeting to take place at the grand hall, so that the entire court bears witness.”

“Yes, I guess it would make sense--”

“Um, guys? I think the envoy is here.” Karlach’s voice caused Durge to trail off, and Raphael to turn to the door, lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“Well then,” he murmured, and stepped past Durge, towards the doors leading to the hall. His strides were purposeful, his head held high. “Let us not keep Lady Baalphegor waiting.”

***

“Duke Adonides said we should stay put--”

“And what is he going to do? Punish the lover and mother of the new Lord of Cania?”

Haarlep had a point, of course, but it was still difficult to wrap her mind around the idea - Israfel on the throne and Mephistopheles gone, the being who’d smiled like a satisfied merchant when he sprung his trap, whose hand had burned both cold and hot on her belly when he’d pulled away after-- this too I claim as mine -- sealing her fate.

For the longest time, she had never dared to think or dream of the day the Lord of the Eighth may be vanquished; it simply did not seem possible. Then there had been a faint hope, but the wish to see him only took shape in her mind when anger won over the utter dread his mere thought caused. She’d envisioned her son standing in triumph over his dead body; with fear for Israfel’s safety gripping her chest, she’d hoped for that outcome with all she had.

As the ice melts upstream, the flood shall come to take its due. Will it bring you joy when it does, and the devil who tricked you is no more?

Dalah had said yes then, and she meant it. Now, however, she was not so sure. She had felt little to no joy in so long, it was hard to recall precisely what the feeling was supposed to be. There was something a lot like vindication, but there had been no impulse to cry out or even just cry, as she’d thought she might. There had only been relief beyond words, like a weight lifted from her, and a sense of numbness that had yet to leave her. 

She certainly felt numb now, as she walked with Haarlep through hallways and staircases, up towards the grand hall; distantly, she noted that every fiend they came across had the same distant stare, disbelief and incredulity but with a hint of fear for what was to come next. 

How many of you mocked him?, Dalah found herself thinking, her gaze moving from one devil to the next while she followed Haarlep up, up to the top of the palace. How many of you jeered when he was powerless, and how many of you are wondering if he’ll be any more merciful than his sire? Many, most of you. I can tell you’re scared. As you should be. 

She did not voice such thoughts, and was quick to avert her gaze before any could catch her staring. In the guise of a pit fiend, Haarlep was saying something under their breath as they led her into the rather crowded grand hall, but she did not quite catch the words. It very much felt like part of her mind was encased in ice, and she gripped their arm without thinking once she saw them - the doors leading to what had been Mephistopheles’ throne room. 

No more. He is gone. Oh, he is really gone!

She did not see Israfel nor the white dragonborn, but his other mortal companions were standing before those doors. They were battered and bruised but alive; they looked at the gathered friends with expressions that made clear there was fight in them yet, should they try to approach. It was the first tangible sign that what Adonides had told them was true. 

That, and the whispers among wide-eyed devils. “Cannot be--”

“A halfbreed, and some mortals--”

“Surely Lord Asmodeus will see them punished--”

“Who’s to rule Cania?”

“Who but the one who won the throne?”

“Usurped, you mean. By what right would he rule?”

“By right of conquest, I’d expect. Of course, if Asmodeus decrees he is to rule--”

“A halfbreed could never, the Reigning Serpent will swat him like a fly--”

Dalah swallowed, and gripped Haarlep’s arm tighter. “He is gone,” she whispered, and the incubus nodded, and covered her hand with their own.

“Why the surprise? I’m rather sure Adonides wouldn't get that wro--”

“Make way for Lady Baalphegor, envoy of the Ninth!”

Speak, quite literally, of the devil. Adonides’ voice rang out from the hallway, and a hush fell on the crowd. Those standing at the back parted hurriedly to let the Steward through; he was followed by two massive pit fiends - and behind them was Lady Baalphegor.

Dalah had seen her clad in more robes than she could recall, many of which she’d embroidered herself; the vast majority had been black with hues of red. There was no red now, or any other color. Only the deepest black, from head to toe; the half-smile never too far away from her lips was gone, too, replaced by detached expression as she walked through two wings of fiends, head held high, long red hair cascading down her shoulders. She looked so very small, for someone whose authority had so nearly matched Mephistopheles’ own. Her gaze passed over her and Haarlep, pausing only one moment before she turned away.

I do hope his demise tastes sweet for at least one of us, she’d said. Dalah was not certain she tasted the sweetness of it quite yet. She hoped to, once the numbness was gone. She deserved to, surely, after so many centuries and what she’d been put through.

Lady Baalphegor clearly found nothing sweet in it, and likely never would. No longer Mephistopheles’ consort, the envoy of the Ninth was nonetheless clad in mourning clothes; it couldn’t go unnoticed by anyone present, yet no one made a sound to comment on it. They stared, transfixed, as she walked up to the center of the hall… and then turned as one as the doors leading to the throne room were pushed wide open. 

That was the first glance most of them got at the devastation inside, and there were a few audible gasps; Dalah could pay no mind to anything but her son, stepping out through those doors. The dragonborn with him came to a stop right outside the door, but Israfel took a few steps further before he stopped and sank on one knee, lowering his head, gaze to the floor. 

“Lady Baalphegor, envoy of the Ninth,” he greeted her. “The Lord of the Eighth is gone by my hand. I submit to the Lord Below’s judgment.”

The hall was silent enough one could hear a pin drop - and everyone certainly heard the sound of Justiciar Bele clearing his throat before he stepped forward. “Lady Baalphegor,” he spoke, his voice not quite as firm as he probably would have liked. “As the Justiciar of Cania-- well, as you know, I often discussed matters of Justice with Lord Mephistoph--”

This time, Lady Baalphegor smiled. It did not reach her eyes. “I am aware, Justiciar Bele. But the Lord Below does not require your counsel,” she replied, a coldness to her gaze before she looked back at Israfel, who still knelt on the floor, head bowed as though under the wright of his own great curved horns. She looked at him as though trying to find something beyond what the eye could see. And perhaps she did, for her tight smile seemed to soften a fraction.

“Rise, Raphael. Even in a palace this grand, the floor is no place for the Lord of Cania.”

In retrospect Dalah would find it almost funny, how he stood just as every member of the court present scrambled to kneel in turn; so did Haarlep not to stand out, pulling her down with them. Even as she knelt, Dalah dared look up - and, for the briefest instant, met her son’s gaze. She saw Mephistopheles in those features, just as much as she saw herself in Israfel’s human face. 

The same red skin he’d worn on the night he’d come to ensure she held her half of the bargain, the same slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the sunken look around his eyes… but the eyes, those were nothing like his sire’s. When he wore the form that most resembled Raphael’s, Mephistopheles had what looked like dead white eyes from a distance. Up close, there was something moving within them, like a swirling white mist that just barely hid every horror one’s mind could comprehend and many it couldn’t; she could only bear the sight for a moment, then, before she’d closed her eyes while trying with all her might to think of nothing. 

But her son’s eyes were nothing like it: they were molten gold against black sclera, midday suns in the night sky. They found hers, and held for a moment; his lips curled for a brief, faint smile before he turned back to Baalphegor, bowed, and swore his fealty to Asmodeus for all present to hear. Dalah heard the words, but she was not truly listening. 

She only looked on, and smiled.

***

The casket Baalphegor’s entourage brought all the way down to the vaults was red as the very earth of Nessus, and mostly plain but for the inscription on its lid, glowing a hot red one moment and a cold blue the next with brief moments of bright whiteness in-between. 

“Obviously this is only for transport and safekeeping, until both the mausoleum and the sarcophagus are ready,” Baalphegor spoke as the doors of the vault were opened before them, and the guards stood aside. “It shall not be long.”

“A mausoleum, entirely for my sire?”

“Yes. Close to the rawest flames from the pits of Nessus. The First Flames, we call them.”

“... It does seem fitting. And very generous.”

“Lord Asmodeus knows that Baator would not have been the same without your sire. He is seeking to ensure none who live in it may forget as much.”

Mephistopheles’ body lay on a table of ice, and attendants were just now stepping back, bowing as they saw them coming in. Raphael had never seen his sire sleep; he suspected he rarely ever did, as he had no need for it, and that in such occasions it would not be all that restful. There was always too much going through his mind, all at once, at a speed even he struggled to keep up with - projects and research started and abandoned, the torment of being forever a step ahead of other archdevils and yet two steps behind Asmodeus. Now that was over and he did, at last, look peaceful.

The blood was gone, no bruises marking his skin. Adonides had not lied when he’d said he would send for his finest robe; all dark blue silk, with flames embroidered in threads of gold, silver and and burgundy up the sleeves and over the chest. There were bands of gold around his horns, one of which held the broken horn in place, and a golden medallion at his neck; they had put golden earrings at his lobes, a ruby headband on his brow and sapphires at his fingers, which were wrapped around the handle of his ranseur.

Raphael stopped a few paces away, and found he could not make himself come closer; Baalphegor, however, did not hesitate. She stepped up to the table, and gestured for the pit fiends accompanying her to come closer.

She watched them put the casket on a nearby stand, and only looked away when they went about to put the body in. Raphael did the same, and both their gazes fell on the other corpse in the room, laying on his back with the mace across his chest.

“... I should have expected Duke Hutijin to fall with him. He’d have died fighting Asmodeus himself before he denied him. The only Duke of Cania with power, troops and sway enough to challenge my--” a pause, a sigh. “To challenge Mephisto for the throne, and yet he’d rather guard him with his life.”

“One could argue it would only be fitting for him to continue guarding him in death. Surely the mausoleum will have enough space for both,” Raphael replied, and Lady Baalphegor nodded. 

“And I for one would agree. I shall speak to the Lord Below of it. I’m rather certain an entourage will return soon with another casket.”

“Hopefully I’ll be able to give them a better welcome than what I could give you now.”

A faint smile. “You cannot do worse, I suppose,” she replied, and turned back. The body was gone from sight, inside the casket, and one of the pit fiends was picking up the lid. She stepped forward. “Do not close it yet. Leave us for a few minutes.”

A few silent nods, and they obeyed. Raphael watched in silence as his sire’s former consort walked up to the casket, slowly, and looked inside. Her expression did not change, and Raphael knew he was expected to approach too. A deep breath, and he too stepped closer. 

“I have given you reason to grieve. I know that much. I do wish--” Raphael began, only to trail off when Baalphegor shook her head. A hand reached inside the coffin, to tuck back a strand of long black hair which had become entangled in one of the horns. It lingered for a moment next to Mephistopheles’ face before she retreated it, slowly, and rested it on the edge of the casket. 

“What you may have wished is meaningless, Lord of the Eighth.” She spoke without taking her gaze off the body of what had been her consort long before Raphael even drew his first breath. She looked calm; the only sign of any turmoil was the grip of her hand tightening on the edge of the casket. “This tale could only end with his death, or yours.”

It is the outcome you needed. I am not certain it is the one you wanted, Raphael thought, but did not say as much. He already knew what she would say - that her wants were irrelevant as his own. “I am aware,” was all he said in the end, and she nodded.

“I would have chosen a different death for him. So would Lord Asmodeus, I believe, but this is how it had to be. So make no apologies and rule. You had every right to end his life, but the Lord Below shall grant you none whatsoever to insult his memory. Be the archdevil I know you can be, and none shall dare mock Mephistopheles for falling under your blows.”

Raphael nodded, and bowed. “I’ll strive to make it so, Lady Baalphegor.”

She nodded back, and took a step away from Mephistopheles’ remains. A gesture from her and the lid was lifted in the air; Raphael got one last glimpse of long bejeweled fingers before the lid came down to close the casket with a staggering sense of finality - and that was that.

Outside of Nessus, that was the last anyone would ever see of Mephistopheles.

***

“All this looks valuable, is what I’m saying…”

“Astarion. No.”

“Oh, come on, love. Last time you were here, you raided the vaults.”

“And I think it should be clear by now what a spectacularly bad call that was.”

A sigh, dramatic as they come, as they looked around what had once been the quarters where Mephistopheles must have hosted his most esteemed guests. There was hardly a surface or wall that did not hold some kind of work of art or valuable artifact. 

“Ah well. Raphael agreed to let each of us pick something to take from the vaults, so there’s that at least,” Astarion muttered, leaning back against Durge’s chest. They chuckled, resting their chin on top of his head as they sat with their back against Halsin, who was taking a well-earned rest in his bear form. Some distance away, Wyll and Karlach were asleep on the same bed, limbs tangled and snoring slightly. The two of them were the only ones still awake. 

“I believe I took enough from those vaults as is,” Durge muttered, and felt Astarion’s chuckle more than they heard it. 

“What I’m hearing is that I can pick two things, then.”

“I suppose so.” Durge glanced over towards Wyll and Karlach again. “I do hope Raphael can take Wyll’s soul back for him. My greatest regret is that we could not free him his contract.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will. Mizora may be the new Steward of Avernus, but Raphael is on great terms with her archduke. And when the Lord of the Eighth who just so happens to get on well with your archduke says he wants your warlock, then I’m pretty sure the Lord of the Eighth is getting your warlock. Call it intuition. Or bloody common sense.”

“However good their relationship is, Bel remains a devil and Wyll’s soul is valuable. A powerful warlock with a celestial blessing to boot. There would be a hefty price to pay.”

“A price the Lord of Cania can afford, I’m sure. And he rather does owe us.”

“Fair enough.”

A brief silence, peaceful, before Astarion spoke again. “... He offered to let me decide what happens to Cazador’s soul, you know.”

Ah. Durge had not been aware of that. “Right. It’s here, isn’t it?”

“Being experimented on at the School of Hellfire - Mephisto was very displeased with his failure to deliver him seven thousand souls. Well, the School itself has ceased operation for now, to quite literally stop adding fuel to the fire while they work out a way to strengthen the foundations of the Cania, whatever that means. But he said I can buy it for a pittance. As a servant, as a soul coin - or just tell him to make a lemure out of him.”

“I see. And you’re pondering that?”

A snort. “Gods, no.” He turned in their arms to lean his head against their shoulder. “I’ll admit it is tempting. To even just go there and parade myself in front of him, but then I’d be thinking of that all the time, and maybe wishing to do it again, and-- I’d be thinking of him again, and I’ve spent much too long doing that. The Hells have him, quite literally, and can do what they will with him. I am free and he is not. It’s all that I need.”

Durge smiled, and nuzzled his hair. “I’m proud of you.”

“You sap. But I’m not above telling Raphael to let him know I’m out there living my best life. I’ll do that, when he’s done running around his new palace and deigns to join us for a meal.”

“I imagine this is the busiest he’s ever been. But it seems like a fair request to me.”

“It is, isn’t it? Speaking of meals and fair requests, I won’t deny I am somewhat thirsty…”

Durge grinned, and tilted back their head to expose their throat. “Be my guest,” they said, and held back a low groan when they felt Astarion’s fangs sink in their neck. A hand reached up to cup the side of their head as he drank, and they covered it with their own, smiling. 

As long as blood could flow from a wound, they were alive and it was all that mattered.

***

For all the regalia Mephistopheles would take to his grave, there was far more that had been left behind in his quarters. Raphael supposed he would be expected to wear some of it for his visit to Nessus, when the time came to be officially recognized as the Lord of the Eighth. 

The thought filled him with nearly as much dread as the idea of sleeping in the bed that had been his sire’s. He already knew what most archdevils, bar Bel and perhaps Baalzebul or Glasya, would see - a halfbreed pretending to be a proper devil by wearing his sire’s jewels. 

This is not how I’ll convince any of them I belong on the throne I tore from him. They will test me. I must prove them wrong at every turn. 

Still, the regalia was there to act as a statement and he would not dismiss that either. So he reached for one of the medallions, and put it at his neck. It did not fit him: made for the frame of someone much taller, it hung nearly at his navel. The sight made him feel somewhat ill and he took it off, placing it back on the table next to a comb of silver and ivory. Then he slipped on one of the golden bands around his right horn and it fit perfectly, as though it was made for him. It made him feel worse.

“Oh, you should go naked. You look great naked, if I do say so myself.”

Haarlep’s voice was all that kept Raphael from destroying the vanity right there and then. Through the mirror he saw them standing in the doorway, wearing his own likeness. Raphael breathed out, and let the gold bands still in his hand drop back before he turned. 

“Haarlep. Adonides told me he had you brought to a safe--”

“Rather cold, isn’t it? After all this, you wouldn't come see me. Not that I was expecting you to do that first thing, mind you, but maybe third or fourth…”

Raphael cleared his throat. “I would have, soon. But with all eyes on me as of now, I could take no such risks.”

“What risks would coming to see us pose for y--”

“Not for me, but for you. I have been Lord of Cania for only a matter of hours. I have just now seen off the envoy of the Ninth, Mephistar has hardly any of its guard left, portions of the citadels need rebuilding and I had the School of Hellfire cease operations effective immediate. If the court saw me coming to check on you first thing, they’d have known that you’re--” he paused, cleared his throat. “Should anyone think of you or my mother as a weakness of mine, you may very well become targets.”

Haarlep raised both eyebrows, and pushed away from the door to walk up to him. There was a shimmer and they left behind Raphael’s glamor for their own true form. “A weakness, mh? Is that what you call it?”

“That is not-- you know precisely what I mean.”

“Ah, what happened to all your eloquence just now?” Haarlep grinned and reached to cup his cheek, running a light thumb over a bruise still gracing his cheekbone. “I’m not all that helpless, you know. I can handle court intrigue pretty well. I held up against Barbas in a fight too, although admittedly your mother did help. Her, and several crates of potat--”

The riveting tale was quite abruptly interrupted when Raphael reached out to grab them and pulled them close, tight. Haarlep let out a surprised noise, a cheek pressed against Raphael’s shoulder and wings fluttering haphazardly in confusion for a moment before stilling as Raphael sighed, some tension finally leaving his frame. 

“... When I heard you were being taken to my father, coming in before that could happen was the only thing on my mind.”

“Ah, yes. There is that, I suppose.” Haarlep chuckled, and turned to press their face against Raphael’s neck. “Archduke,” they murmured. “And yet mine still, aren’t you?”

A long breath, a nod. “Yes,” he replied before pulling back just enough to reach into a pocket, and pull out a very familiar ring - the golden band, the light blue stones. He cleared his throat. “I did keep it safe. Of course, there are far more impressive pieces I could offer now,” he began, glancing at the discarded regalia, but Haarlep would have absolutely none of it. 

“I like this one. It suits me,” they cut him off, and held up a hand. From the way they held it, it seemed they had learned enough of mortal customs to know they should not let Raphael get away with pressing the ring against their palm… and he did not try to. 

With a laugh - the first sincere one, he felt, since he vanquished his sire - Raphael did slip the ring at their finger. A proper kiss and some mindless pleasure besides would have not been unwelcome, but Haarlep had enough sense to tell that was not the right moment to cloud Raphael’s mind with lust, wonderful as they claimed the look was on him. So they only kissed the corner of this mouth before pulling back with a grin.

“Well, I’ll go have a look at my new quarters, I suppose. And you… ” They tapped his forehead with a finger. “Go see your mother. Unless you’re too busy already, Lord of Cania . ”

“... I only have one meeting to attend before I see her,” Raphael said, and smiled, knowing full well it did not reach his eyes. “I’d say it’s been a long time coming.”

***

With the throne room in the state it was in - hopefully, Tunchet and his wizards would set about to fix it once the dispatch summoning them reached Nebulat - the first meeting of the new Lord of the Eighth with the members of the high court took place in the rather less grand setting of a meeting chamber.

Well. At least it would have been a meeting with the high court, if not for the fact Adonides had been told to arrive at a later time… and for chamberlain Barbas’ unfortunate passing. 

But Bele, Justiciar of Cania, was unaware of both things. For now. 

“Ah, my lord. It seems I have arrived early.”

Raphael glanced up from the scroll he’d been reading to see Bele in the doorway, bowing so low it was a wonder his nose did not touch the floor. He smiled, and put the scroll down. 

“Not at all, justiciar. It is the others who are late. At least you take punctuality at heart, even with a meeting at such short notice. I thank you for taking part. I realize these past few hours have been-- quite something.”

Bele looked up, and smiled. His smile was not quite as oily as Barbas’ or as sharp as Adonides’, but it could be unsettling all the same, never reaching those hollow black eyes of his. Of course he could also fake meekness, or gentleness; he had done exactly that, when Raphael had only just arrived at court… and he was doing it now. Meek. A gutless coward not entirely certain of his standing, but yet hopeful to maintain it.

Hope burns you in the end. Not always, I learned as much. But when it does, it burns deep. 

“I live to serve this layer, my lord, and its ruler,” Bele was saying, bowing his head before he took a few steps towards the table, to the closest seat. “I do hope both the steward and the chamberlain will be ready to do the same.”

Raphael smiled. “That you do, Justiciar. But then again, you probably had more time than they did to prepare for this day.”

Bele looked up, taken aback. “I did?”

“Oh, no need to be modest. I know that you saw this coming a long time ago. After all…” He lifted a hand, casually. A wall of ice rose up from the ground to cover the door, causing Justiciar Bele to turn in alarm and then back at him, eyes wide with dawning horror. Raphael’s smile widened, all teeth. “... You did call me your Iittle prince, did you not?”

Bele stood abruptly, knocking the delicately carved chair to the ground. “Archduke, I--!”

“I know that you were in the habit of discussing matters of justice with my late sire. I shall not break tradition. I am keen to discuss my own take on justice with you, too. In great detail.”

Then down came the claw and Justiciar Bele screamed for a long, long time.

Until he didn’t.

***

“You know what? I think this is art, my friend.”

“Thank you kindly. It’s satisfying enough for a first, but I’ll strive to do better next time.”

“How many times do you intend to do that, precisely?”

“I suppose it entirely depends on how many members of this court intend to deserve it. But perhaps setting an example will deter at least a few.”

“What the-- what are you doing in the meeting roo-- is that-- Raphael, what have you-- ”

“Archduke Raphael, if you please,” Astarion piped in, just as Karlach guffawed.

“My lord will do just as well, won’t it? Not that I’m calling him that.”

The remark caused Raphael to chuckle. “You did more than earn first name privileges, I suppose. Are you well, Adonides?”

The Steward of Cania did not respond right away; he seemed too busy staring at what remained of Justiciar Bele. His features were still perfectly recognizable, if frozen in an expression of pure agony and terror, head thrown back and mouth open in a scream, arms held up before him as though trying and failing to shield himself. 

And he was quite literally frozen into a statue of ice: Durge had to once again commend Raphael’s skill with the Plume. From his eye sockets and open mouth came white, dancing flames which burned so hot they could feel it from the entrance. Eternally burning hellfire, searing against the eternally frozen flesh of a fiend that could not be burned but felt the agony nonetheless, unable to scream… or make any noise ever again.

Adonides, on the other hand, sputtered. “Why would you--”

“Quite the personal matter and not one I am keen to divulge, I am afraid. But rest assured, you have not committed a grave enough crime to warrant this.” Raphael turned to Adonides. “Incidentally, it seems another spot in the high court has opened up. Do tell, is your current position satisfying, or would you rather try your hand as Cania’s Justiciar?”

Adonides’ eyebrows went up; it did not escape Durge how quickly he’d stopped paying any attention whatsoever to Justiciar Bele’s unenviable fate. “Quite frankly, my lord, I was expecting to be removed from the high court entirely.”

Raphael shrugged. His eyes were still fixed on Bele’s frozen features, as though he could not get enough of the sight, of the silent agony of it. “You’re perfectly on time to resign, of course. That is entirely up to you, but I suggest you make up your mind before I meet with Tunchet. I’ll need to know what position to offer him.”

At that, Adonides’ frown faded entirely. “A Gelugon in your high court does send a message.”

“And it’s precisely the one I intend to send.”

“I’m certain he’ll be pleased.”

“Only until I order him to work with Quagrem to find viable solutions to the spread of Hellfire beneath our feet.”

Adonides guffawed. “Work with Quagrem! They’ll be at one another’s throat before the first day is out.”

“It does sound an awful lot like our future cooperation is shaping up to be.”

A grimace. “... I do hate to admit you are correct. My lord,” he added, just a touch belatedly. “Mephistar will need--”

“A new name, certainly. But I’ll get to that.”

“... Yes, of course. But it will need a new chamberlain as well. Most pressing of all, Cania needs a new High General. May I suggest Duke Bifrons, at least ad interim?”

“He does seem the most viable choice. Do let him know. He has command of the troops, or what remains of them, at least until we have the time to sit and go over all options. He should keep an eye on the border with the Seventh. Baalzebul may have helped me to spite Mephisto, but he has been salivating over the Eighth for too long a time to be trusted.”

“Of course, my lord.” The words seemed to come a little easier to Adonides’ lips; as for the sour taste they obviously left in his mouth, Durge supposed he’d have to get used to it. Perhaps it would dull, over time. “While not as pressing, for the role of High Cant--”

“No,” Raphael cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp enough to cut. It was the voice of someone who’s just been hit on a still sore wound, and needed all his self-control not to lash out in turn. When he looked back at Adonides, his eyes were cold. “None of that.”

“There is power to words; you know it better than most. As a new Archduke, it would help--”

“I’m capable of composing my own hymns. This court shall never have a High Cantor again.”

Adonides seemed startled, but did not discuss further. Durge held back the instinct to walk up to Raphael, pull him into an embrace again. Such things, they supposed, were best left without witnesses - so that other fiends would not be drawn to a perceived weakness like sharks to blood in the water.

“... Very well. I’ll make that known.” A pause. “I have also been informed that the incubus is settling into the Consort’s chambers. Said they’re theirs now. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes. Make of that what you will.”

“I see.” As Adonides cleared his throat, Raphael turned back to what remained of Bele. 

“Do you happen to know what room Haarlep occupied, when they sold evenings in my form?”

The question caused Adonides to clear his throat. Again. A little more noisily. “Just so you’re aware, I was most certainly not among those who--”

“I am aware, Haarlep told me as much. And they also told me that unlike you, Bele was there quite often. You do know which chamber that was, don’t you?” he asked, and let out a hum when Adonides nodded. He gestured to Bele. “Take this there. Leave it in the middle of the room, if you please. And leave the doors wide open. Better yet, have them taken off their hinges. Everyone who passes by must be able to take a very good look.”

This time, Adonides’ smile did not resemble a grimace at all. “I’ll ensure that my personal guards get that done.”

“Very well. As for yourself, I do need you to take my companions down to the vaults one last time. They may each pick something for themselves, as a reward.”

“Ah. Are you cert--”

“Within reason,” Raphael added, and Durge laughed. 

“No artifact granting the power of a god shall be taken, this time. You’re not the only one who’s had enough harsh lessons to last several lifetimes.”

Raphael smiled. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it, then, and don’t you think I have forgotten I do owe you a supper. I have another important matter to tend to now, but I’ll join you this evening before you return to your own Plane.”

“We look forward to it,” Durge said, and the Lord of the Eighth smiled again, faintly, before he took his leave. Halsin was the first one to speak after he left, heaving a long sigh. 

“I do not like the thought of leaving him on his own here, but I must confess I long to go home. I don’t think I could last one more night in the Hells.”

“You shouldn’t worry about him. He is very much in his element, whether or not he’s aware of it yet,” Durge said, and grinned. “The devil we knew would have been a terrible archdevil supreme. But I think the devil we know now will be an excellent archduke.”

“Whatever excellent means in the Hells.” Karlach sighed. “Can’t believe I’ll miss the fucker.”

“Ah, not to worry. I doubt there is any place in the Material Plane where he won’t find you, should he wish to make contact,” Adonides informed her before gesturing for them to follow. 

Wyll made a face. “Thanks for making that sound so damn ominous,” he muttered, but did not seem to mind. 

None of them did.

***

It took a very long time for Dalah to make herself let go.

Before the desperate embrace in the vaults, she hadn’t held anyone - or been held by anyone - for nearly two millennia. She’d forgotten how it even felt like; she’d forgotten the warmth of it, the safety, the wholeness. Back in the vaults, only the knowledge that time was short could compel her to pull away from her son. 

But now that Mephistopheles was gone - truly gone, dead, his corpse deeper yet in the Hells, his shadow never to haunt her again - there was no reason for her to break the embrace. So she held on and cried and cried and cried, all the tears she had not spilled those long centuries, all the sorrow she’d had to silence. 

My child, she wanted to say, but she had no voice to. Mephistopheles’ own voice rang in the back of her mind, even now.

This too I claim as mine. 

No. No. You couldn’t have him. He’s here with me, we’re free of you and you are gone.

“Mother,” Israfel called out after a time. The word sounded clumsy in his mouth, as though he was speaking a foreign language. The hand on her back, too, seemed uncertain. 

Dalah hiccuped a sob and finally looked up. “He’s really gone,” she rasped, cupping his face.

Israfel nodded. He did not smile, but he did lean into the touch. “Yes,” he murmured. “He is gone. And we’re still here.”

Another sniffle, and she managed a smile for both of them. “Do I belong to you now?”

“... Your soul is bound to eternal servitude to the Lord of Cania. Regardless--”

“So, yes.”

“You’re not to serve anyone ever again. At least one part of me would have died in the vaults if not for you.” A pause, a faint smile, and he stepped back. A burst of flames and there he stood in his human form - the one she’d see when she helped cheat death, the one she could not bring herself to even talk to when they met again before the vaults. “Not your favorite part of me, I suspe--”

This time, she did not let him finish. She stepped forward and pulled him into another tight embrace, a hand running through his hair before resting on the nape of his head.

“Oh, hush. You should have never been split in the first place. I was just--” Overwhelmed. Ashamed. There you stood, with my own face, and I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. “I’m sorry. It shouldn't have taken all this for me to embrace you.” She pulled back, now not much shorter than him at all, and cupped both sides of his face. “I should have done so from the moment you breathed your first. We had but that one moment, and I squandered it.”

Israfel stared for a moment before he averted his gaze. “You have no reason to apologize. You were tricked into bearing me, and you were dying for it. I was hardly born out of lov--”

“But you were,” she blurted, causing him to blink and look at her, clearly taken by surprise. She grasped both his hands in hers and held right. “You were. I was tricked into it, that much is true. But the entire reason why you exist is that I loved someone beyond all reason. Rahirek knew it - he must have, if he raised you.”

Again, he smiled faintly. “Lord Starspire took some time to warm up to me, but he was nothing if not fair. He’d taken me well and truly under his wing by the time Duke Barbas came to collect me.”

That was easy to imagine: for all his gruff exterior, Rahirek had always been kind. “It does sound like him,” she murmured, and tried to ignore the stab of pain in her chest as she said so. Almost two millennia later, after so long trying to keep memories of him out of her mind to just survive, she found she missed him still. She cleared her throat, and squeezed Israfel’s hands. “You should tell me all about your time in the Material--”

“He grieved you to his last day. When he passed, he was buried next to you.”

It was a bittersweet feeling, that: knowing she had been loved so deeply, and that her passing had caused such pain. Dalah drew in a shaky breath. “I do hope he has peace now,” she choked, and Israfel squeezed her hands.

Had she looked up, she might have noticed him opening his mouth for a moment, as though to speak, and then hesitate. But she did not look up until he spoke again, and saw none of it.

“... He grieved you too much to tell me a lot about you,” was all he said  in the end. “He never had a chance to rectify that. I was hoping you might.”

“Heh. My life would make for a dull tale indeed.”

“Please.” 

A request. And such a subdued one, from a being who had power of life or death over her and indeed over near everyone in that layer - but who, right there and then, chose to only be her son. How could she refuse?

So Dalah sat on the small settee nearby, still holding Israfel’s hands so that he’d sit with her, and began to talk of a life she’d pushed so far at the back of her mind, she was amazed she still held any memory of it.

And he listened, hanging onto every word, for a very long time.

***

“Well, this was quick. Tunchet’s wizards are skilled indeed.”

“Yeah, you’d never think we battled it out with Mephistopheles here just, what, yesterday?”

“Just over one day as Lord of the Eighth, and I think I can already see gray in his hair…”

“You are aware that I can hear you, aren’t you?”

“Oh good, so your hearing isn’t going yet. That’s encouraging.”

Durge chuckled at the bantering, but truth be told they were barely listening. They let their gaze wander across the restored throne room - the grand window of glass-clear ice, showing the slowly descending snow outside; the restored flooring and ceiling; the two columns where the pits had been, at either side of the throne.

They were two mighty columns of Plume ice, and within each were in turn columns of hellfire, from ground to ceiling. The throne, too, had been changed - all Plume ice, impossible to melt, encasing hellfire. Ever-burning, never going out, but contained under the ruler’s utter and complete control. As far as messages went, that was a very clear one.

But the one change that truly made Durge pause was above the throne. Mephistopheles’ sigil, the ranseur running through a halo of flames, was no more. Another had taken its place, and it looked familiar. Durge had seen it already, on the box which had contained items from Raphael’s life in the Material Plane and on the locket with his mother’s portrait on it. 

A spire rising up to the skies, to pierce a star. 

“Starspire,” they said, and smiled. “Is that how you plan to rename the citadel?”

A shake of Raphael’s head. “Not quite. It’s how I intend to name the palace.”

“Ah, I see. And the citadel?”

Raphael smiled. “My sire chose my name, when I was taken to the Hells. I made it my own; I do not intend to go back on that now. But Israfel has a nice ring to it, does it not? It seemed a shame that only my mother would ever use it.”

“I’m certain she’ll be pleased.”

“I imagine she will be. But as we’re on the subject of names, if you changed your mind abo--”

“Aww!”

“Mama’s boy!”

“Mommy’s little archduke!”

“Are you quite done--”

“With you? Never.”

Raphael seemed about to protest when Haarlep’s voice rang out from the entrance. They walked up to them with a spring in their step. 

“Ah, here you are! Easy to find. All I had to do was follow the sound of mockery. Surely you didn’t think of leaving without letting me say goodbye to my favorite mortals, did you?”

Halsin laughed. “Of course not.”

“Oh no, we do like you.”

“Probably better than Raphael.”

“I actually have a gift for you,” Astarion announced, and took one of the hand crossbows off his belt. “Picked a new one from the vaults, anyway.” He’d hoped to find something that may let him walk in the sun, truth be told, but there was no such thing in the vaults; he’d shrugged it off muttering it was worth a try, but Durge knew he’d felt the string of it. “This one is called Ne'er Misser - I pilfered it from a Zhentarim. Might be of some use to a novice like you.”

Haarlep took the crossbow, looked it over, and grinned. “Oooh, is that a challenge I hear?”

Astarion scoffed, waving a hand. “Please, don’t embarrass yourself. You could maybe pose a challenge if you keep practicing for another century or two.”

“Give me a decade.”

“Hah! Deal.”

Karlach chuckled, and glanced over at Raphael. “So, when is it that you have the meeting with all the bigwigs?”

“I am not certain it is proper to refer to the archdevils of the Nine as such, but-- tomorrow. Asmodeus seems keen to settle the matter quickly from an official standpoint.”

“You sure you don’t need us to stay, or…?”

Raphael shook his head. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I believe I’ll manage. If not, I’m not cut out to be archduke of anything and I’m better off hiding away in the Material Plane.”

“Heh. Perhaps you could join us, and find out if you’re a better fit for the adventurer’s life,” Durge chuckled, but their voice was serious when they spoke again. “Should you need anything, though, don’t hesitate to--”

“Approach you ominously by a broken bridge in the wilderness? Of course.”

“I mean, we’d also appreciate something less ominous.”

“Like showing up at a tavern and paying for all our drinks.”

“Or just a message through a sending spell will do, really.”

A quirk of his lips. “I’ll consider it.”

“Also - remember what you promised about Hope and Korrilla’s soul, all right?” Karlach spoke quickly. “And, uh-- Wyll’s.”

“I’ll keep my word, on all accounts. The matter of Rave-- Wyll’s soul will need some negotiating, but given some time I am certain I’ll be able to come to an agreement with Bel.”

“What of Mizora?”

“Bel’s word is her command. She will be entitled to compensation once I have convinced the Lord of the First to relinquish your contract to me, but it’s nothing I cannot settle.”

Wyll nodded, breathing out as though a weight had been taken off his shoulders. “... Right. I-- well. Thank you.”

“I’ll take your thanks when I return the contract to you. Now, on the subject of returns - where on the Material Plane do you wish me to send you?”

“What, you can send us back just like that?”

“I did so before. I fail to see how that’s surprising.”

“Right.” Wyll turned to Halsin. “Well, how about Reithwin Town, then? I wouldn’t mind a few days’ walk to reach the Gate, and Halsin has been away from his nine wagons of kids much too long already.”

A smile, brighter than any other Halsin had been able to give in the past months. “I’d be more grateful than words can say.”

“It’s settled, the--”

“Wait,” Durge spoke up, searching through the bag of holding. They found what they were looking for quickly, cold as it was against their fingers, and pulled it out. “Here. I bet all archdevils will be carrying something, and so should you. It’s no Ruby Rod, but it seems a fitting pick for the Archduke of Cania, no?”

The Mourning Frost gleamed, the air around its freezing cold crystal crackling icy cold. Raphael stared at it for a moment before he chuckled. “You did owe me a new staff,” he muttered, and took it. He stared at the crystal for a moment before he nodded and tapped the staff on the floor, clearing his throat and lifting his chin. “Thank you, mortals. For this gift, and for the services you rendered to the Lord of Cania--”

“Oh, fuck off. Group hug!”

“Absolutely not--!”

None of them listened and frankly, if Raphael had truly been opposed to becoming the centerpiece of a mass of intertwined arms he’d have put a lot more effort into getting out of it. If any of the others thought anything of the fact Durge was the last one to let go, they said nothing of it. “You are absolutely insufferable,” Raphael grumbled, only for Durge to grin. 

“We’ll be waiting to hear from you. And, well. Of you, Lord of the Eighth.”

Raphael’s lips quirked. “Likewise, saviors of the Sword Coast. I look forward to hearing more tales of heroics when we next meet,” he said, and tapped Mourning Frost on the floor, once. 

Everything - the restored throne room, Haarlep, Raphael himself - disappeared in a flash of blinding light. When they opened their eyes again they were standing in the middle of a forest clearing, the sun having just dripped beyond the horizon, the distant sound of laughing children drifting to their ears carried by a warm breeze.

***

There were seven letters awaiting Raphael when he made his way into what had been his father’s chambers, and which he now would have to make his own.

The proclamation in Nessus would take place the next day, but word had already spread and archdevils from Avernus to Maladomini had sent word. The tone varied; it went from cold acknowledgement from the Second - penned not by Dispater himself but rather by his nuncio Titivilus - to the rather enthusiastic congratulations from Lord Bel. 

Mammon’s congratulations bordered on groveling, as dignified as a doormat; Lady Fierna had written both on her own behalf and on Belial’s, each word full of barely contained curiosity; one of Levistus’ avatars had penned a polite note of acknowledgement, and Baalzebul’s own letter oozed so much satisfaction he could barely stomach it. 

But what truly gave him pause was the letter from Lady Glasya. Ruler of Malbolge, daughter of Asmodeus, Princess of the Hells… and something of a goddaughter to his own sire, although Raphael was not privy to how that had come to be. 

He only knew that she would address Mephistopheles as her dearest uncle more often than not; it may have annoyed him, but he’d never done a thing to make her stop - most likely because there was nothing he could do, he supposed.

The envelope was different from all the others. Most of them were addressed to the Lord of Cania, or the Lord of the Eighth; Glasya’s was not. Little Cousin, was all the envelope read. Raphael stared at the words for a moment before he scoffed and broke the seal on the envelope. The note was short, penned in a delicate hand, and smelled distinctly like flowers. 

Congratulations will be in order tomorrow. For now, do accept my condolences.

Raphael stared at the words for a long time before he put the letter down, slowly, and turned to leave the chambers. He’d sleep there, eventually; he’d make it all his own. But not yet, he thought. 

Not just yet.

***

Haarlep was not at all surprised when Raphael came to their bed.

He’d always sought their comfort after a long day, and that had perhaps been his longest day yet. That, and they suspected it would take a long time before Raphael would spend a night in what had been his sire’s chambers. Clearly, joining Haarlep in the Consort’s chambers was the less loaded option. 

Fair enough, that; they didn’t mind at all. Nor did they mind when Raphael made the rather unusual request for them to fuck him slowly, make it soft, and draw it out. 

He’d rarely been one for gentle lovemaking, but from time to time the need to be pampered during sex as well as after it had to win out, they supposed. That worked just fine for them, really. They took their time, took their pleasure, and gave Raphael exactly what he asked: slow deep thrusts, reverent touches and languorous kisses. 

They watched him groan in bliss, throwing his head back against the pillow, groaning for them to keep going long after his orgasm.

“My archduke,” they whispered, rolling their hips, their long red hair falling around him like a curtain. The request to take him while wearing their own true form, too, had not been unwelcome. They leaned in to kiss him again, swallowing his next moan, hands roaming across his body. “My beautiful brat. Mine, mine, mine - aren’t you? You may rule the Eighth, but you’re all mine. ”

Raphael groaned deep in his throat and opened his eyes to look up at them, gaze unfocused, lips parted. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”

“Go on, tell me what you want.” They stilled within him, and laced their fingers with Raphael's, keeping his hands pinned above his head. They kissed his brow, the bridge of his nose, trailed their lips across his jaw. His skin was slick with sweat, eyes glazed over with desire, hair tousled. He was perfect. “Tell your Haarlep what you want.”

A long, shaky breath, and he wet his lips before he spoke. “Would you tell me your name?”

That caused Haarlep to blink, admittedly a little startled. “My name? You gave me--”

“The one you had before.”

It was a loaded question, that; an incubus’ first name was usually an even more private matter than their true form, and one thing no contract could oblige them to reveal. And there was no contract whatsoever between them now; Haarlep could deny him an answer, if so they wished… but they found they didn’t. 

He was theirs, after all… and they were his.

“It is mine, Raphael, in every sense of the word. One thing I claim as mine alone; none but me and Lady Baalphegor know it, and even she only ever spoke it once. You may not speak it either, even when we’re alone. But I will whisper it to you now. Once and never again.” A thrust, slow, making sure he felt the drag of their cock pulling out before they pushed back inside. Raphael groaned; they could feel he was once again hard against their skin. “Our little secret, hmm?”

A shiver, a moan. “Yes,” Raphael panted, chest rising and falling with each breath. It made Haarlep smile before they leaned in to nibble at Raphael’s earlobe and whisper their name in the shell of his ear, following it up with a roll of their hips, another deep kiss on that pliant, sweet mouth.

They were true to their word: they whispered it that one time, and never again. Raphael was true to his, and never spoke it. 

But now he knew it and that, too, they didn’t mind at all. 

***

[Back to Chapter 39]

[On to Chapter 41]

Weaving and embroidery had been the only things she’d excelled at, a natural talent. She just let her hands do the work for her, listening to whatever music someone was playing, whatever tales were being told, her mind thousands of miles away. Then she’d be startled out of it, a finished piece in her hands that rarely failed to draw impressed glances.

It was perhaps her one true talent and, when she’d exhaled her last breath to find herself in the Hells, Lady Baalphegor had seen it quickly enough. Over the centuries she’d embroidered more clothing than she could recall, woven more tapestries than anybody else ever did; it was easy work to her, and it kept her confined to the same few rooms, out of harm’s way most of the time.

Most, but not all. Being Baalphegor attendant meant being her eyes and ears in Mephistar, lest one wished to lose her protection entirely. The devils at court hardly looked their way, and let an astounding amount of information slip before indebted souls. So she had to be able to take on other tasks if needed, to blend in, to go unnoticed either cleaning the halls or in a kitchen, cleaning the court’s mess or preparing their food. 

She was not a fast learner, but she did learn. She learned how to butcher all manners of carcasses in minutes, to portion the meat for cooking; she’d learned how to cut through the joints, slice through muscle and sinew. She had never turned the blade to anything living; she had not once thought a knife would serve her against a devil, let alone a duke powerful enough to destroy her with a gesture if he wished.

And Barbas almost had done just that: the only thing keeping his fury in check now was Haarlep’s ruse, and it would not keep him much longer. 

“I saw her flee and followed, of course,” they were saying now, their impression of Bele’s voice just as perfect as the glamor. It could almost distract from the clothing, far simpler than anything the Justiciar of Cania was known to wear… but only almost. “I too saw this mortal summon Zariel, but you should not do anything rash. She might have information. We ought to take her in custody--”

Dalah did not see Barbas scowl, but she heard it in his voice. “I did not see you upstairs. And you look unharmed,” he added. Even his robes were torn, probably by his own hand as he tried to pull some of the cloth over his head and face, to protect himself from the holy light. It left the back of his hooves uncovered, the goat-like arched legs he usually hid with silks.

“I was some distance away, luckily enough, and a column shielded me from the celestial’s light. Terrible business, what has happened. This soul has much to answer for, and I have plenty of questions for her. I shall take her--”

“And I did not see you on the way down,” Barbas cut him off, his voice raspier than usual. He did not notice Dalah shifting slowly, pulling herself up on her elbows. 

Of course not. Devils of his ilk seldom deigned to truly look down - but that served her perfectly well. She ground her teeth, and inched closer. The upper crust of Mephistar loved to watch their servants crawl, so crawl she would. Just a few more inches, just a little more…

If Haarlep saw her moving, they gave no sign of it; their gaze did not shift on her for an instant, and remained trained on the Chamberlain of Mephistar. They shrugged, in a gesture of the utmost elegance. “I watched them go down from a window, and took the stairs.”

“Ah, I see. Is the wing injury still bothering you?” Barbas asked, straightening himself. On the palm of his good hand something began to form - a faint shimmer in the air and then something dark, gathering into the shape of a dagger black as the deepest void. 

A trick question. Bele has no wing injury.

“Only somewhat,” Haarlep replied. “It’s well on its way to heal--”

They were cut off by a scream when Dalah moved, the paring knife slashing through the air in a perfect, precise arc. The knife was a small blade; it was no great weapon, and she was no fighter. She never knew how to wield a dagger or sword, and had never drawn any blood but her own. She did not know how or where to strike to kill someone, let alone a devil such as Barbas - but killing him was not her goal. 

She’d portioned meat before, goat meat as well. She knew exactly where to slice, and then it did not matter how ridiculously small the knife was, how small she was, or how silly her attempt had to seem against Barbas’ power. There was one thing on her mind, a simple truth that no power of the Hells could change: a severed tendon is a severed tendon.

Duke Barbas let out a cry and his leg gave out, causing him to almost collapse; he had to steady himself against a crate with his good arm, and the dagger he’d conjured fell to the ground, disappearing in a burst of swirling darkness. His eyes found Dalah, two pits of pure malevolence, and his burnt features twisted in fury. 

“You--” he seethed, turning, and Dalah scrambled back just as his eyes lit like furnaces, and he began to speak something in Infernal - a spell or a curse, she did not know and in the end it did not matter. A crossbow bolt pierced the back of his neck and stuck out the front, drowning any and all words into the gargling of blood. A swipe of claws sent him stumbling down on the floor not half a pace from her. He fell on his knees, reaching for his throat with his good hand, just as Haarlep - again in the form of a tiefling - held out a hand to help her up. 

“Well, change of plans. We really should get out of here.”

“No argument from me,” Dalah managed, and took that hand, standing on shaky legs. They dashed to the stairs and they were almost, almost out when Barbas lifted a hand, gargling a snarl through the blood. A wall of fire rose up to engulf their only way out. 

“Ah. That is annoying,” Haarlep muttered. 

The heat was so intense it caused Dalah to take a step back, eyes wide, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Trying to go through it would destroy her; she was sure of that. Haarlep, on the other hand, would hardly even feel it. “Go,” she heard herself saying. 

The incubus turned, stared at her a moment, and then laughed. “Ah, don’t be silly now. I cannot leave you here. I promised Raphael I’d--”

“He barely even knows me. He needs you.”

That gave them pause, and they seemed to give it thought, working their jaw for a moment before they shook their head. “No. Get behind me,” they said, and pulled Dalah behind them by the arm without giving her a moment to reply. With a shimmer, they changed form to a familiar one - her son’s. 

Dalah could hear the smile in their voice as they spread their arms, a crossbow in each hand. The wings spread out, too, to shield her. “Hello, Chamberlain,” they sing-sang as Barbas stared, too stunned to move. “I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

***

Raphael held no memory of his first ascension. 

It had been no conscious decision; it was as instinctive, a desperate bid to survive despite all odds, against the hellfire devouring him from the inside. A drowning mortal will reach for the surface and draw in a gasp of air; a dying devil will reach out for souls. He’d done that and he’d awakened in a bed, barely alive, unaware of all that had happened - including his own transformation. 

His second ascension had been on a battlefield; that, too, was a matter of self-preservation. But he held memories at least of what transpired between the moment he’d realized he was about to die and the one when he’d found himself kneeling amidst burning corpses, covered in their gore. Few and confused - screams and blood, fire is his belly and flesh coming apart in his claws - but memories nonetheless. 

To ascend was a terrible thing, but the power it granted could not be denied. So he’d done it again and again; each time it was like exercising an atrophied muscle, gaining more control over it, retaining more memories once back to his own form. Retaining full control for the entire ascension required a will of iron, but that too he’d mastered.

What he never could entirely control was the agony. To ascend was to hurt, something within him screaming and rebelling against it, that thing he forced upon himself. He’d assumed it to be the price to pay for it alongside the souls consumed, until he’d spoken of it with the Hag Countess of Malbolge, not long before she met a gruesome end and Glasya took the layer for herself. She’d given that grating laugh of hers before shaking her head.

“Moloch could ascend, and never once did he say there was pain. Oh, he was a prideful fool, and he may have lied - but I would have known. No, Steward of Avernus, ascension does not hurt a full fiend the way it does you. But what else would you expect? You’re half mortal. Part of you will always flinch away from the rest, and whenever you ascend it attempts to tear itself away. You may hear its shrieks in your very bones, if you listen, but I’d advise you do not. Agony is the price you, and you alone in the Hells, pay for your heritage. Worth paying, if you ask me.”

And pay it he did, time and time again, until that last time in the House of Hope - when even ascension had not saved him.

He did not recall what Mephistopheles had done to him, to his fiendish half, to force him in a state of perpetual ascension. Whatever arcane magic had been used allowed the ascension to continue without consuming a single soul, but it did nothing to take away the agony of it. Even with no humanity in him, the empty nothingness where half his soul had been remained a source of suffering. Every moment, every step, every breath, every instant was pain. 

When he’d faced his human half again, the torture had become excruciating enough that perhaps he’d have attacked it even without Mephisto’s order, anything to make it stop. The agony of it had been unbearable, and he’d remember it to the end of his days. 

But now, it was gone. 

Ever since he’d become whole again ascension had come without pain, as natural as breathing, leaving his mind clear in a way it had rarely ever been while in that form. No shrinking in his bones, no torment to mark his every movement, no part of him trying to shrink away from the rest. There was just him. One. Whole.

And he fully intended to remain whole, thank you kindly, his father’s attempts at tearing him to pieces notwithstanding. So he stepped into the hellfire, ascended, and fought with all the had. 

And it was almost not enough. 

His ascended form had grown taller and more powerful, burned more brightly. Even so Mephistopheles’ own ascension towered over him, his roars shaking the very foundations of the palace, of all of Mephistar, of the entire glacier the citadel stood on. A beat of the wings sent hellfire surging across the throne room, a wall of scorching heat and death; his every cry brought forth a burst of white-hot flames. None of it could harm Raphael - not anymore - but it was beginning to take a toll on his companions, who were not always able to seek refuge behind a wall of infernal ice or beneath one of the globes of invulnerability they had summoned with scrolls. 

Without the resistance Asmodeus had granted them, they’d have all died already. Even with it, they struggled. Halsin was casting healing spell after healing spell, sparing none for himself; only occasionally he’d take a swig from a potion before he went back to the fight. Healing may be his true calling, but he was nonetheless fierce in battle; when he did attack, his spells rarely missed. 

This time was no exception: Mephisto was hit by his blight spell, and then by Raphael’s swipe of claws; he roared, steam rolling off the mouths of both skulls, and slammed against him before Raphael could try to get out of the way. They clashed amidst burning hellfire for what felt like an eternity, all claws and fire and tusks and roars; two beasts out for blood, one another’s blood, the same blood, even though it looked so very different, Mephisto’s own thick and black, rotten through with corrupted arcane magic.

All around them hellfire burned, ice froze over it, the winds howled. The grand window had been shattered when a well-placed blast from Ravengard had thrown Mephistopheles back against it, letting in the howling blizzard. There were more spells, crossbow darts, arrows; in his single-minded focus to destroy his son, Mephistopheles did not attempt to evade any of it. 

Jaws snapped only inches from Raphael’s own skulls, and there was a terrible impact when his back hit a column, cracking it, causing chunks of ice to rain down from the high vaulted ceiling. One struck his shoulder, but Raphael took no notice, straining to keep Mephistopheles’ jaws off him, to push back. 

“I warned you, did I not?” His voice boomed in Raphael’s own mind, yet another roar. “I was never going to hesitate to destroy you, son of mine.” 

Raphael roared, pushing him back. It took all his might, every limb straining; he may have crumpled then if not for something washing over him, a spell of resistance, and he held. With a snarl, he lifted his head to look up - through all four eyes, whole again - at his father’s fangs, at the six dead white eyes.

“You should have killed me the first time you tried,” he replied, his own voice a snarl directly into his sire’s head, and he gave one more mighty shove, the flames that wreathed him burning higher. Mephistopheles slid backward a few paces, then pushed back - but only for a moment. Then they were deadlocked once again, hatred and anger burning hotter than the hellfire they shared. “But perhaps you did not finish me for the same reason why you did not dare use the Crown of Karsus against Asmodeus. You did not have the stones.”

A growl. “Nonsense. The netherstones were always in my--” the thought trailed off, and there was another roar. “YOU INSOLENT LITTLE--”

“RAAAAAGH!”

“Dolor!”

An eldritch blast struck Mephistopheles’ side just one instant before something else entirely was thrown against the side of his head - the Orphic Hammer, seriously? - with enough strength to crack bone, turning at least two eyeballs into so much gore. Mephistopheles roared, his focus faltered a moment, and Raphael shoved him back. This time, he got him exactly where he wanted him - with his legs sunk into a slurry of melted ice. 

Raphael’s rightmost eyes glanced sideways to Durge. They were wounded badly enough that they had to lean on the staff, a hand against their side; but they saw him, understood, and held up the staff . They staggered, only for Astarion to immediately appear by their side, holding them up. The staff shimmered, channeling the Plume, and Mephistopheles let out a cry of fury when the slurry around his legs froze into ice which hellfire would not melt. 

He would break free eventually - that was certain - but not right away, and it was enough. It would buy them just enough time. Raphael dismissed the ascension before Mephistopheles could react, making himself smaller, and was able to slip from his grasp; a swipe of the claws barely grazed him, the armor taking most of the damage.

“The globe, quick!”

The last Globe of Invulnerability left was not far, but Durge was obviously about to collapse and Astarion was not faring much better, staggering under their weight as he tried to help the storm sorcerer walk. He turned to him, wide-eyed and panicked. He did not show fear when he’d let loose an arrow against the flesh of an archdevil but he was terrified now, with Durge’s limp body against him. 

“Raphael--”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Raphael had strength enough to carry Durge to the globe, and so he did; not a moment too soon, because they were unconscious by the time he made it beneath it and lay them on the ground. Halsin immediately set about to heal them while Astarion drank a potion of healing. He offered one to Raphael, who took it with a nod and turned back.

All the while, Mephistopheles had shrieked in fury. Now Raphael could see that his entire form was engulfed in hellfire as he tried - uselessly - to melt the ice trapping him, thrashing to break it. 

Ravengard and Karlach reached the globe next; the warlock turned, breathless, to Durge. He was on his last leg, too, and Astarion promptly shoved a healing potion in his hand. He did not drink, not right away. “Where…?”

“Here.” Durge sat, Halsin’s healing already taking effect, and pulled something out of the bag of holding - the runepowder bomb. They held it up with both hands, and Karlach snatched it. She looked at Raphael, and grinned. She was covered in blood and sweat, and she looked as though she was having the time of her life.

“Mind if I do the honors?”

“By all means. I shall not deny you the pleasure.”

She laughed, and stepped just out of the globe. The bomb was heavy; far from easy to throw a great distance, but she made it look so very easy. She grasped it with both hands, made a half-turn with her entire body, and threw it before leaping back inside the globe and covering her ears. They all did, and closed their eyes for good measure. 

Raphael, on the other hand, did not. He watched the runepowder bomb hurtle through the air in a perfect arc, across the half-demolished throne room, towards the mass of flaming hellfire that was Mephistopheles. And not a moment too soon: Raphael could hear the crack of ice breaking, could see his sire starting to move away from the spot.

But he never got to teleport, or even to take a single step. The runepowder bomb disappeared into the flames and, quite literally, hell broke loose.

***

The explosion shook the entire citadel.

The walls shook, tapestries falling from the walls, furniture tilting over and falling alongside everything they held. Part of the spire above the throne room collapsed, down below onto the denizens who lived in the lower levels of the citadel; no part of it was spared, but that would only become clear later, when someone would actually go survey the damage. 

That someone could not be Duke Hutijin, who found himself quite busy as things were. The explosion caused the ground to tremble and him to fall; he stood quickly, and saw that the mastodon too had fallen, and the celestial had to beat her wings to keep herself upright, looking upwards in clear confusion and concern.

Whatever that was, it came from the throne room. I must get to Mephistopheles. I must.

Of all the pit fiends and guards who’d closed ranks to fight the celestials who’d appeared before them, he alone remained. All others were dead, or as good as dead: those who fled would be dealt with later, he swore it, and painfully. But that would have to wait.

Now, he had one goal and one goal only. 

Duke Hutijin spat out a tooth, lifted his mace, and charged again with a cry before the mastodon could stand. His mace fell and it would have dented the creature’s skull, at least, if not for the sword that came down to meet it. Its steel hummed, painfully bright. “Yield,” Zariel spoke. Some blood marred that angelic face of hers at last, drenching the blindfold. 

Hutijin sneered. “Never.”

“I can respect a warrior. I can respect loyalty. Yield now, and I shall spare you,” she replied, only for Hutijin to laugh. He struck out at her with his tail, forcing her back, and took a step backwards himself. 

“Your kind truly should leave the tempting to us. You’re shit at it,” he replied, and lifted the mace. Flames sprouted from his hand, covering the entire weapon. “You wouldn’t take your own offer, would you? Break your oath to live in shame?”

“... No. Not a second time.”

“Then I have nothing else to say,” Duke Hutijin replied, and let his mace do the talking for him.

***

Barbas had his good hand at Haarlep’s throat when, without warning, the ground shook. 

It was a blessing - a rare thing in the Hells - because Haarlep was truly in trouble, losing blood and with both crossbows on the ground. He’d clawed Barbas’ forearm to ribbons, but the furious chamberlain’s grip did not slacken. 

Burned by radiant light and with an unusable arm, made lame in one leg and with crossbow bolts sticking from his gut and chest, a Duke of the Hells was still a force to be reckoned with; Dalah had known from the start that Haarlep would not be able to hold him back for long, not while also trying to shield her in any way they could.

“How very quaint. An impressive display from a glorified whore,” Barbas had snarled, and tightened his grip around the incubus’ throat. He could have killed them quickly, but of course he relished the act. One could trust a Duke of the Hells with few things but this: they never failed to be cruel if they could. Barbas had laughed at Haarlep’s attempt at kicking away, and held up the injured arm with a hiss. “I’ll take your eyes first, and then--”

The words had turned into a grunt of pain when Dalah had grabbed one of the crossbows and shot, almost blindly in her terror, praying whatever god may still be willing to hear her that she wouldn't hit Haarlep. 

She did not, but she didn’t land much of a blow on Barbas either: the bolt  had grazed his shoulder and buried itself into the side of a crate. Barbas had turned to look at her, eyes aflame, and bared his teeth in a sneer while she fumbled. He turned Haarlep to face her. They were gripping weakly at Barbas’ arm, struggling for breath.

“Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder,” the chamberlain of Mephistar had laughed. At the fingertips of his wounded hand, sparks began to gather. “Before I take your eyes, you’ll get to watch me crush this insect. You should have ran while you still--”

He never got to finish the sentence. 

There was the sound of an explosion above them, many floors above but still loud enough to dwarf the most powerful thunderstorms she’d witnessed as a child on the Storm Horns. The ground shook, everything did, and it threw all of them off their feet. 

Haarlep took the chance to roll away, back towards her… and not a moment too soon.

There were plenty of things Dalah had never seen coming in her existence, many of which had occurred in the past few months specifically. After summoning and speaking to a celestial that day, she did not think she’d see a more stunning sight for a long time to come. 

But when a pile of precariously stacked crates gave way, spilling their entire contents on Chamberlain Barbas, she had to stand corrected. A resplendent celestial appearing at the court of Mephistopheles alongside a golden mastodon was a sight to behold, but somehow it seemed to pale next to a Duke of Cania disappearing beneath a seemingly endless cascade of potatoes.

If not for the utter confusion as to what had happened, she may even have found it amusing. 

Haarlep stood beside her, or tried to, wounded as they were and trying to walk through a carpet of potatoes. Dalah held down a hand and they took it, letting her pull them up before turning to look at the scene - Barbas groaning on the floor, dazed, surrounded by potatoes.

“... Well. Whatever you did, good job.”

“I didn’t do anything. There was some kind of--” Dalah trailed off when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that the wall of flames barring the exit had vanished when Barbas’ focus had been broken. She grasped Haarlep’s wrist. "Come, quick!”

“Ah, that’s usually Raphael’s specialt--”

“Stop talking and move!”

They did, thankfully - and they both were through the door just one instant before a fireball hit the spot where they’d been standing moments earlier, with Barbas’ screams of rage following them up the stairs.

***

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank you, Wulbren Bongle.”

“Ugh.”

“Ew.”

“Don’t say that.”

The general dissent caused Astarion to shrug. “It is what it is. That’s his work right there,” he muttered, and turned to hold down a handh, helping Durge up. Now recovered reasonably well, Durge took that hand and stood before they turned to survey the damage. 

Mephistopheles’ palace was made from magic as well as ice - an extension of its ruler indeed - and even the might of runepowder did not level the entire structure as it might have done with others built by mere mortals. It was that, or Wulbren and Barcus had both rather exaggerated its destructive potential - but that seemed unlikely.

Still, there was extensive damage. The explosion had blown out an entire wall of the throne room, opening it up to Cania’s bitter cold, the shrieking winds and snow. There was a crater on the floor, the ice slowly reforming to close it out of sheer magic, and debris everywhere; several columns had been taken down by the blast, chunks of the ceiling had fallen down onto the ground. The pits at either side of the throne were destroyed, too; only the throne and the steps leading to it still stood, surely protected by more arcane magic. 

And most of all, there was no trace of Mephistopheles. Durge stared a moment, and turned to glance at Raphael. He’d summoned his lyre, and was playing a few notes; there were a few sighs of relief as the benefits of the Song of Rest took hold, and Durge nodded their thanks before they spoke, looking at the devastation all around. A scene from which Mephisto was notably missing. “I don’t suppose…?” they began, only for Raphael to shake his head.

“Of course not,” he muttered, something like outrage in his voice, as though personally offended by the suggestion. “Surely you don’t think my sire is this easy to kill.”

“Easy is not precisely the word I’d have chosen,” Halsin muttered, while Wyll lifted his rapier.

“He is right. I don’t believe he’s gone for a sec--”

Before he could finish the word, three things happened in quick succession: the globe of invulnerability petered out and faded, its duration over; Raphael turned suddenly, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to cry out a warning; and a cloud of ash came together in a burst of flames a few steps from them. From those flames a three-pronged ranseur shot forward, swift and lethal, aimed directly at Halsin.

Thinking back later, they would think that it was not a surprising move. It was advice everyone had heard at least once, and for good reason; advice which Mephistopheles had ignored in his fury, but which he clearly intended to follow now - kill the healer first.

Mephistopheles’ ranseur was a formidable thing; it would have pierced easily through Halsin’s armor, had it met its target, but it did not. Karlach was quicker than any of them; quick enough to shove Halsin out of the way. Not, however, quick enough to avoid the blow. 

The favored weapon of the Lord of the Eighth went through her like a knife through butter, running her through from one side to the other. She gargled, her blood steaming hot as it rushed forth, and her knees folded.

“KARLACH! NO!”

Wyll’s scream as he caught her before she fell was covered by Mephisto’s laugh. He now stood before the once again in his habitual form. Of course the runepowder bomb had not killed him… but he was wounded, far more obviously than before, if still a long way from going down. He lifted a hand, and the ranseur piercing Karlach disappeared in a burst of flames to reappear in his closed fist. 

“Your tricks won’t save you,” he seethed. His eyes were blazing fire and icy cold at the same time, but he didn’t ascend again yet. “She was the first to die. Who will be next, I wonder?”

“No. No. She is not dead, she is not--”

But she was; for all of Wyll’s desperate pleas, the wound was such that it had killed her instantly or almost. It had left her no time for a last cry, a last word, a last touch. Her body was limp in his arms, her eyes glassy, jaw slack. Halsin knelt by her, whispering something to Wyll that Durge could not catch but could certainly guess.

Durge and Astarion turned as one back to the Lord of the Eighth, fury burning hot as a furnace, grip tightening on their weapons. As for Raphael, he had never looked away. He said nothing to his sire before he spoke, still sneering. 

“Thus dies Zariel’s old guard dog. But do not worry, you shall join her soon. Unless you decide to hand over my spawn, in which case I shall grant you a quick--”

His next words were covered by a scream of blackest fury, by a blast of cold wind. Not just any cone of cold - Wyll was using the Plume, and fury seemed to give him the edge he needed to wield it with something close to mastery himself. Mephisto’s laugh was cut short. He stepped back, hissing, when the attack found its mark. Had they had half a mind left for it, Durge may have wondered what that felt like to suffer cold for the first time in eons. 

But they did not: all they could think of was Karlach’s blank gaze, Wyll’s cry of anguish when he threw himself, alone, against the Lord of Cania. So they ground their fangs just as Astarion let loose an arrow, and stepped forward. 

Raphael grabbed their wrist. “Don’t let him reel you in,” he hissed. “Protect Halsin. There is hope for Karlach yet - but if he dies, it’s all over.”

“Raise a wall,” Halsin spoke. He was focusing on Karlach’s body, hands held over her and trembling with the effort to cast such a powerful spell. “It will protect me well enough as long as you keep him away. Go help Wyll.”

There was much that could go wrong, but at that point there was hardly a choice. Wyll was going head to head with Mephisto like he’d done against Zariel, both out of fury and to give Halsin enough time to bring Karlach back, and for all his power he could not last long without their help. So the wall of hellish ice was raised with a gesture of Raphael’s hand, and back into the fray they went. 

What followed would forever be a blur in Durge’s memory, and not solely because of the brain damage they’d suffered well over a year past. Everything was ablaze with magic - spells and counterspells, crackling electricity and arrows bringing forth bolts of celestial light, unforgiving ice and burning hellfire; their spells missed more often than they struck, but they had no choice other than to keep going. 

Even so, some moments would remain seared in their mind; Wyll’s scream when he reached the very limit of his powers to open a blade into reality itself was one such moment. He sent the planar rift hurtling against Mephistopheles, and the archdevil’s scream of rage and surprise when the blade-shaped rift cut deep into his side was one Durge would never forget. The Lord of Cania staggered back, stunned and outraged in equal measure, and lifted an arm to cast - only for the planar blade to strike again at Wyll’s gesture, cutting one of his horns clean in two.

For a moment, Mephistopheles stilled to watch the detached horn fall to the ground, as though stunned by the sheer audacity of that mortal, daring to disfigure him in such a way.

“Someone pick that up!” Astarion yelled from his cover behind a fallen chunk of the ceiling. “I bet it’s valuable!”

“Does it seem like the moment--!”

Mephistopheles looked up and snarled, unfolding his wings. Durge cursed under their breath and reached for a scroll as the air around the Lord of Cania began to heat up, ready to unleash the full force of a hellfire blast that Wyll could not possibly survive. They saw Raphael cry out a warning and lift his hands to cast - but he was hurt and he was far, too far--

Something crashed against Mephistopheles’ face, a vial of acid that shattered on impact. A howl of pain and he was clawing at his face, the shimmering heat around him dissipating. Behind Durge, there was a hoarse cry. 

“About fucking time one of those hit!”

“Karlach!” Giving one’s back to any enemy was unwise, let alone an archduke of the Hells; but blinded as Mephistopheles was for at least a moment, Wyll easily ducked under his swipe and ran back to her. “Oh, thank the gods!”

Standing before them, entirely healed and rested as though she’d only now entered battle, Karlach grinned. “Thank Halsin, that took a lot out of him. I don’t think he has enough juice left to do this again, though, so--” she trailed off when Wyll grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her down in a kiss. Karlach hummed, reaching to cup his cheek before breaking the kiss and resting her forehead on his. She grinned. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

A smile, bright as the sun. “I wouldn’t have it any other wa--”

“HEY! How about you get a room once the Archduke of Cania is down?” Astarion called out, and shot another arrow towards Mephistopheles.

It hit him almost the same instant as Raphael’s dagger of Plume, and the archdevil staggered backwards a moment. When he turned, the right side of his face was sizzling and his teeth were bared in a snarl, eyes filled with hatred. Durge didn’t wait to find out what they might do. It was time to find out if the scroll they had found in Sorcerous Sundries was truly as powerful as Gale said it was. They just held it up, and cried out the incantation. 

“Pario!” 

There were six blasts - each of them looking unnervingly like a ghostly skull - as the scroll disintegrated between their fingers. Each of them found its mark, knocking Mephistopheles back several feet with their sheer force - right within Raphael’s striking range… but he never did get to strike. 

A gesture of Mephistopheles’ hand countered the spell he tried to cast, and then the Lord of Cania moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow. He was the archmage of the Lower Planes, a wizard with few rivals in recorded history; magic was where his true might lay, and there were no tales of martial prowess about him. 

Yet, he held a ranseur and he could use it. Three swift strikes were all it took. 

One aimed at Raphael’s head only hit his invisible helm, knocking it off his head; another was blocked by Raphael’s armored forearm. But the hit was powerful enough to stagger him, and Mephistopheles struck again, snake-quick, when Raphael instinctively held out his arms to grab onto anything to avoid falling - burying all three prongs of the ranseur into his son’s throat.

There was a gurgling noise, and nothing else. Raphael crumpled on the ice, uselessly trying to stem the flow of steaming blood that fell down his armor, and Mephistopheles laughed. He stepped back a few paces as though to better admire his handiwork, the blood spreading across the ground. 

“I told you, son of mine, that overreaching would be your end. All this is on your head.”

There were cries, and a barrage of attacks aimed at Mephistopheles - but the archdevil was still sneering at his dying son as though feeling little to none of it. Raphael tried to speak, but he only brought forth more blood, limp on the ground. His head turned to the side, away from the sight of his sneering sire, and his eyes found Durge, wide and terrified. He tried to speak again, and only spat out more blood.

No, Durge thought, desperation cutting through the icy cold that had stilled them for a moment, and which had nothing to do with the winds blowing snow into the throne room. For a moment they thought back to their own blood leaving their body, spreading across the stone floor of his father’s temple. It should have been their end… and then it was not.

No, this is not how it ends.

There was no Withers now, but they were there and it would have to be enough. So they lifted their staff and cast a spell they had only learned in theory, and never got to truly try before. It was time to find out if it worked as intended. 

“Tempus interiectum!” Durge cried out, and just like that, within that throne room, time itself stood still.

***

When it came to most of the upper crust of Mephistar, Haarlep truly had no strong feelings one way or the other.

They’d known many carnally, but that had been about it; a brief interaction, or a business transaction followed by a few minutes or hours or days of bliss, depending on how much they were willing to pay. Some were particularly unpleasant - Bele paid well, but hurt almost more than it was worth when they wore Raphael’s likeness; clearly there was some history there that their little brat had never told them about. Most were just… forgettable. 

Haarlep had never had much reason to be particularly pleased or displeased to see any of them, in any setting. But this time they were very, very happy indeed to see Adonides almost as soon as they burst out of the door leading to the pantry, and ran into the empty kitchen. 

Adonides did not seem equally glad to see them: all Haarlep saw on his face was confusion, then annoyance. “You were supposed to stay in the--”

“Come back here!”

The bellow caused Adonides to blink, and turn towards the pantry. He blinked, quite obviously recognizing the voice.

“... Barbas?”

“He followed us,” Dalah managed, her voice still shaking, and Adonides frowned. He seemed about to say something when Barbas burst into the room, dragging his wounded leg and looking, quite frankly, like he’d just been through the digestive system of one of Maladomini’s giant centipedes. Haarlep supposed they could take some pride in that. 

“You! You cannot escape-- Adonides?” The chamberlain of Mephistar stilled, staring at the steward of Cania with a wild, confused look on his face. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Duke Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? What has happened to you?”

“That’s the incubus! The one who belonged to Raphael!” Barbas snapped, and lifted a bloodied arm to point at Dalah. “And that mortal summoned the celestial!”

“An indebted soul, summoning a celestial? Are you out of your mind, chamberlain? Victim of a confusion spell, perha--”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAW! DETAIN THEM!”

Adonides sighed. “Very well,” he said, and snapped his fingers. Something appeared on the ground around Haarlep and Dalah, a circle glowing red with a script Haarlep didn’t bother to read. They felt Dalah tense and they put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze to try to convey the instruction to wait. 

“There,” Adonides was saying. “They are going nowhere.”

That seemed to calm Barbas a great deal, for he breathed out and limped closer. “Good,” he rasped. “Our lord will be very pleased--”

In retrospect he should have seen that coming, he truly should have. Dukes of the Hells made stabbing one another in the back one of the most common pastimes in the Hells. Of course, this time the stab in the back was only figurative. In the more literal sense, Adonides stabbed him in the chest with a blade of ice he conjured by just flicking his wrist. 

Barbas tried to scream, but his wounded throat turned his cry into a rough gargle. His hands gripped Adonides’ robes as he looked up at him, eyes wide, features frozen in pain and dawning horror. Adonides smiled. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a very, very long time,” he said, and twisted the knife. One last gargle, and that was it - Barbas, Duke of Cania and chamberlain of Mephistar, fell to the ground and never rose again. Adonides made the knife disappear with a flick of the wrist, and snapped his fingers. 

The circle around Haarlep and Dalah disappeared. Adonides turned back to them, and to Dalah specifically. He crossed his arms. “A celestial, really?”

“I had a--”

“You summoned Zariel in Mephistar.”

“You told me to create a diversion. I did.”

“I most certainly did not tell you to summon a celestial and her war mount--”

“You did not tell me not to.”

A groan. “By the Pits, it’s like talking to him. How did you even…?”

“Isra-- Raphael gave Haarlep the means to summon her, and they let me have it.”

“And neither of you thought to mention to me that you had the means to summon Zariel?”

Dalah blinked. “I assumed he did--”

“Raphael wouldn’t tell me if my robes were on fire,” Adonides cut her off with a groan, rubbing his forehead. He breathed out. “Well. It did work to our advantage. Now, we can only wait.”

“That explosion before,” Haarlep asked. “What was it?”

A hum. “I am not certain, but it did come from the throne room. It seems your brat is putting up quite the fight indeed,” Adonides conceded, looking all the world like he’d swallowed a lemon. 

Haarlep grinned. “Of course he is,” they said. They couldn’t hold back some pride - and a hopeful feeling that perhaps Raphael would come out of battle victorious after all.

***

Raphael was dying.

Durge was no healer, but they had seen - and given - death too many times not to recognize the signs of its coming, not to tell at a glance that someone was just barely clinging to life. Once they restarted time, Raphael would die within moments; a simple health potion or the few healing spells still available to Halsin would not be enough. 

Kneeling next to Raphael’s still body, Durge looked away from the horrified expression frozen on his face and glanced across the rest of the room, where everyone else - Mephistopheles still sneering, Wyll with a hand lifted to cast, Karlach mid-throw of a pike, Astarion about to loose an arrow, and Halsin already running towards Raphael - stood motionless. 

Time would restart, whether they willed it or not, the instant they did anything that affected any of them. Still, they knew what they had to do. It was the only thing they could do: create a globe of invulnerability to protect Raphael and give him their potion of Angelic Slumber, giving him a chance to heal completely and have his powers restored before rejoining the battle.

And yet…

He can call down a meteor swarm. We need a globe of invulnerability, Raphael had warned, but the meteor swarm had not been summoned yet and it had taken all their scrolls, he suspected, to even just survive to that point. It was terrifying to think of - they were barely holding up despite a Song of Rest and several globes of invulnerability, while Mephisto had not yet been hurt quite enough to resort to his most powerful spells. 

Durge still had enough magic in them to cast one more globe, and then that would be it. If Mephistopheles used that spell after the globe faded, they’d have no protection from it unless they used Asmodeus’ amulet to counterspell it - which would in turn leave them entirely unprotected against the Wish spell. 

That would mean their doom either way… but without Raphael to fight by their side, Durge suspected they wouldn’t even last long enough for Mephisto to need those spells. 

And, of course, they had no intention to let him die. So Durge lifted a hand, summoned their last globe of invulnerability around them, and reached into their bag for the potion. They lifted Raphael’s head, poured it into his mouth, and the spell was instantly broken - the eerie silence shattered by screams and clashes and the crackle of magic again.

Within the globe, Durge didn’t so much look up; they just made sure Raphael swallowed the potion, even if it had to be alongside his own blood, and leaned his head down. 

“Rest. We need you,” they said, and could have sworn Raphael’s gaze held some understanding for a moment before his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a deep sleep, safe in the midst of chaos, as the potion began to take effect. Durge picked up their staff, stood and, still within the globe - they could not lose concentration now, everything depended on it - they lifted it to call down more lighting on the Lord of the Eighth.

***

By the time Zariel’s summoning came to an end, Hutijin was barely standing. 

The grand hallway they’d fought in was only a field of dead bodies and debris; the mastodon was still alive but exhausted, back to its smaller form to recuperate behind Zariel; and the solar herself too seemed to have tired, her movements less precise and fierce, more sluggish.  

When she brought down her sword after causing him to fall backwards, Hutijin barely had the strength to hold up his mace with both hands. He groaned through his fangs, arms trembling with the effort to keep that blade away from his flesh; above him, Zariel seemed to shine less brightly. “You have fought bravely, and you have fought well. But it was your last fight, Duke Hutijin,” she spoke, gaining herself a glare that would have made most devils of the Hells fall on their knees and beg for forgiveness he would not give. 

“Fuck off,” Hutijin snarled, and tried to kick her back - but his foot never made contact. There was a burst of light - two bursts of light - and both Zariel and her damned pet were gone, back in Celestia or wherever it was they lived those days. 

He did not know, and did not care; all he knew was that the way was clear; he had to reach the throne room, and his master. Duke Hutijin stood, painfully, and began to limp towards the stairs without even waiting for his regeneration to kick in.

***

The battle was still raging when Raphael awoke, fully rested and all his wounds healed. 

It was no slow awakening, with the potion of angelic slumber; one would be asleep one moment and perfectly awake the next, ready to stand and fight. And by the looks of it, his companions desperately needed him to do just that. 

Only Karlach, recently revived to full health, was fighting Mephistopheles at close range; it was clear that what protection against hellfire Asmodeus had granted her had been put to the test, because the burns and damage her armor bore left little doubt on the nature of the attacks she had withstood. 

Still, she did not retreat an inch - and that was the best possible strategy, all things considered. A melee fighter at close range is the bane of any spellcaster.

Inside the globe with him, Durge was casting another Plume-based spell against Mephistopheles, and Astarion was firing arrow after arrow from his bow imbued with celestial light, to nullify his regeneration powers; right by them, Halsin was pushing through his obvious exhaustion to cast one more regeneration spell and restore Ravengard’s left leg; it had been severed above the knee by what must have been a vicious blow. 

Ravengard’s face was ashen, but he ground his teeth and did not make a single pained sound. If anything, he managed a smile through clenched teeth when Raphael stood. “Welcome… back. Hope you don’t mind if we had some fun in your absence.”

Raphael smiled back. “Not at all. But I am keen to make up for the lost time,” he replied, and Durge gave a barking laugh.

“By all means, be my guest. But keep in mind, this is our last globe of invulnerability.”

… Well. That was important information indeed. “Did he call down the--”

“No.”

Raphael pressed his lips together, and turned back to his sire. He watched him parry a blow from Karlach and turn, his lips curling in disgust when he saw Raphael was once again standing on his own two legs. Oh, not just disgust: it was anger. His sire was furious to see he still drew breath, and was in full health to boot 

You make mistakes when you’re angry, Durge had told him once, and Raphael supposed it was time to see if he had indeed fallen that close to the tree. 

“Your tricks won’t save you. This shall be your tomb,” Mephistophele was growling. “None lives who dared to cross me.”

Raphael sneered, and with a few beats of his wings he left the globe to land to the far end of the room - right by his father’s throne, which was somehow unscathed through magic or luck. He leaned against it before he spoke. “Magadon Kest begs to differ, I believe,” he replied, his voice rotten honey. “What did it feel like, holding godhood for a moment before it was ripped from you?”

“Like you are the one to talk, whelp --”

“Oh, I never went as far as to hold the Crown. But you? You had the fraction of Mask’s divinity you sought. It was yours, Lord of the Eighth, and it still was not enough.” He smiled, and slowly, deliberately, sat on the throne. “All that work, all those schemes, such power you boast - and you are no god. You’re not even the Lord of the Nine. How come?”

The entire palace seemed to tremble at Mephisto’s fury. “SILENCE!”

“How come you keep failing, time and time again, where Asmodeus succeeded?”

“ENOUGH!”

He never called down his next blow; with his rage so great and his power so vast, his will alone sufficed. The white skies of Cania, visible through the blown out wall and the holes in the roof, lit up a faint orange, growing more vibrant by the second; every falling snowflake, every hurtling particle of ice, seemed to light aflame. 

Raphael stood, and took flight at once.

“In the Globe! Now!”

Karlach may have not made it on time, if not for the haste spell that Durge cast on her; she immediately dashed to the left and jumped into the protective globe just as Raphael dove down, hitting the ground a little harder than he’d have liked in his rush - but still avoiding annihilation by a mere seconds.

A Meteor Swarm was a massive display of raw power, and it would have without a doubt spelled their end if cast once the globe was gone. In his blind fury, Mephisto had foregone all thought, all strategy. 

Mephisto and yourself are more alike than either of you would perhaps like to admit, Asmodeus had said. How annoying, he mused, to concede both him and Durge had been entirely correct. 

Raphael turned to tell Durge they were forbidden from bringing that up, but the words never left his lips. In the blinding orange glow, in the last few instants before the spell struck, he saw the debris before the broken doors to the throne room were blasted away and someone was stumbling in - limping, bleeding, but holding onto his mace still.

Duke Hutijin had survived the onslaught of a former archdevil, only to die at the hands of his own master. Raphael may have laughed, if he’d had the time to find it amusing. 

Then the swarm struck, and for a time he could see and hear nothing but all the fury in the world crashing down around him.

***

Duke Hutijin did not see his death coming right away. 

For a few moments after he finally, finally made it into what remained of the throne room, all he felt was relief. Lord Mephistopheles was there, wounded but far from beaten; of course not, Hutijin had never truly thought that might happen. He stood against the backdrop of Cania, hair whipping in the freezing winds, eyes alight and arms lifted to cast. The Lord of the Eighth, about to crush his enemies as was his right. 

Good, Hutijin thought, stepping closer. And if any was left standing, he would do his duty and-- 

A distant roar like thunder halted Hutijin’s thoughts, and he finally saw it - the unusual hue lighting up the skies outside, the skies above. His relief turned to concern, to alarm, to realization. He knew what was about to happen, that he had no escape, that it was his end.

“My Lord,” he called, directly into his mind. Not to plead for salvation, there could be none with the spell already cast, but so that the Lord of Cania would look his way first, so that he’d know that he had tried. He’d been loyal to the end. He was there.

And Mephistopheles did turn. With meteors hurtling down, casting their light on his features, he saw his expression turn from fury to surprise, and then stunned realization.

“Hutijin--” he called out, and held out a hand too, as though to try and cast again, to give him protection, to undo what he’d done. He could do none of those things, but he tried. He tried. And sometimes that’s the most even great lords can do.

The meteors fell and Duke Hutijin, Shield of Mephisto, knew now more.

***

For a time, they could not hear nor see a thing. 

Beyond the globe they were huddled in there was nothing but fire, the crashes of meteors destroying what was left of the roof and crashing down around them, tearing holes even in the magically protected floor and hitting the globe of invulnerability with deafening bangs. 

Durge ground their teeth, squeezing their eyes shut and covering their ear holes; it did little, and they suspected that the ringing sound in their ear canals was not going away anytime soon. 

But as long as they were alive to hear it, they’d bear it gladly. 

By the time the swarm passed, everything around them was a ruin - craters several feet across opening up in the floor of blackened ice that even the arcane magic the citadel was imbued in struggled to repair; the roof was entirely gone, columns collapsed, debris everywhere. 

Amidst all that devastation there was Mephistopheles, still shrieking in fury, flames rising around him… but he was not looking at them. Some distance away, amidst the rubble, lay the unmoving corpse of a huge pit fiend. 

“Duke Hutijin. He will truly hold nothing back now,” Durge heard Raphael mutter, and suddenly he was summoning something in his hands - his mother’s lyre. 

“Really? You just have to play a little song, now,” Astarion asked, voice a couple of octaves higher than usual, but Raphael did not listen. It was a rare thing to find a lull in a battle which would allow for a Song of Rest, as long as the globe held it seemed the best thing to do. 

Karlach was holding up well after her resurrection, Raphael was as good as new, but the rest of them desperately needed even what little help a short rest could give them. 

When the notes rang out, there were several sighs of relief - the worst of their wounds healed, some of their power restored. Halsin downed a potion of healing just as Karlach helped Wyll stand on his newly regenerated leg. 

Raphael let the lyre disappear in another burst of flames, and turned to Durge. “Be ready,” was all he said, and he didn’t need to add anything more. 

“YOU!” 

Mephistopheles' cry shook the entire layer; it was all the howling winds of Cania, the roar of hellfire beneath the surface of collapsing glaciers, the arcane magic singing through every stone. He turned back to them just as the globe of invulnerability shimmered once, and faded away. There would be no more protection, from now on. Only one last clash, their last chance to bring the archmage of the Hells low enough to kill. 

The Lord of the Eighth’s features twisted once more; they blurred, letting that truest nature of his show through for only a moment before he opened his mouth to speak - and the amulet around Durge’s neck hummed.

A Wish spell was unlike most other spells; the most terrifying, perhaps, allowing its caster to rewrite reality. The caster could wish them all dead, and die they would; he could undo what had happened, change the outcome of that battle entirely. Durge could feel it, the sheer wave of pure malevolence coming off him in the split instant as he prepared to speak. It was a split instant only, but it felt like so much more; once again time seemed to slow, the air seemed to thicken, a hum of anticipation in the air…

… And the hum of the amulet at their neck, singing in their veins and in every nerve ending as Durge lifted their hands, and spoke the words to counter the spell. The surge of power that followed was their own and yet it was not, something unmistakably infernal to it - the very power of Nessus, the evil of it, the malice, the inexorability. All of it surged within them and then was cast at Mephistopheles in one single beam of dark light. 

And the Wish spell combusted into Mephistopheles’ mouth in a burst of even darker flames. 

The words turned to a scream of outrage as the Lord of the Eighth staggered back, choking on the thick black smoke which rose from his mouth. He seemed to gag on it, hand reaching for his throat, and Raphael brought up a wall of Plume ice only a moment before Mephistopheles howled his wrath. 

A surge of hellfire roared across what remained of the  throne room, forcing them to dive beneath the wall just as Mephistopheles’ voice rang out, again, across all of the Eighth. It was recognition and unbridled fury. It was an outraged accusation, it was hurt beyond comprehension, a threat and a plea. Most of all, it was horror and utter disbelief - disbelief that it was happening, disbelief that he had not seen it coming .

“ASMODEUS!” 

There was no response to that cry which shook the sky itself. The Lord Below had heard; of that Durge was certain. But he did not respond; he was not there. The Lord Below had sent his own blood to kill him, and did not even deign to be present. One’s most powerful servant is, after all, still only a servant. 

And the master needs not be present when a servant is replaced.

The hellfire surrounding Mephistopheles engulfed him, and the scream turned into a roar when he ascended once more; Durge felt the heat of Raphael’s own ascension a few paces away. They turned to see him looking back at them with their leftmost eye; his voice rang in their head, as clear as if he’d been talking. 

“Hold fast. We’re almost there,” he said, and with a deep, guttural roar he charged at the ascended archdevil one more time.

***

Raphael would never quite know how long the battle had lasted, in the end. 

Entirely too much, he’d think, almost beyond the limits of what any of them could endure; and yet entirely too little to be a fitting ending to a reign which had lasted for so many millennia that memory of a time before then was all but lost. Eons upon eons coming down to this: two beasts clashing before a melting throne, up close and personal, all claws and teeth and magic.

Even with his newfound energy and spells restored, even with his sire as gravely wounded as he was, suffering from the drawbacks of a failed Wish spell - even as some of the most powerful mortals he’d ever known rained blows and spells on him - Raphael was almost overwhelmed. Almost.

“The spear alone - the venom in it - will allow you to end your sire for good,” Asmodeus had told him that day on Gelineth. “But only once he’s been brought low enough.”

“How will I know when that will be?”

A quiet, long look. “You will know.”

And he did. In the midst of carnage, locked in a vicious struggle, he felt something within his sire falter. When Wyll Ravengard screamed the power word to inflict pain , his sire cried out rather than brushing it off - and his next spell failed.

It is time.

Raphael may have faltered, if he’d had time to think, but he did not. As Mephistopheles turned to try to counter the barrage of attacks coming at him with renewed vigor thanks to Halsin’s very last mass healing, Raphael dismissed his ascension and held up a hand. Something hurt in his side despite the armor and he could not move his left arm above his shoulder, but it did not matter. When the spear materialized in his grip, the deadly venomous fang at its tip, he could only focus on one thing: striking. So he brought back his arm, and did just that.

He tried, at least. Mephistopheles turned suddenly, snake-quick, and lashed out with a clawed hand. It struck the spear’s shaft, and even the might of infernal iron could not withstand it. The spear snapped, and the tip was thrown amidst flaming debris several paces away; Raphael stumbled back and could swear he’d seen the skeletal jaws of his father’s ascended form curl in a smile before he lifted another claw to strike. 

“DOLOR!”

A well-placed blast hit the side of Mephistopheles’ head first, followed an arrow and a pike that pierced his arm; it caused the ascended archedil to rear back, just as a moonbeam was called down on him, tearing another hoarse cry from his throat. 

Raphael had barely enough time to roll out of striking distance and stand when they felt Durge grasping his shoulder. 

“Come.”

They cast a Dimension Door, and took him through it - right where the tip of the spear had fallen. It was not difficult to find; something about it called to him, and Raphael had it within moments - more shortsword than spear, but it did not matter.

As long as Asmodeus’ fang was on it, it would do what it had to do. 

I don’t wish him dead, he thought, but it’s much too late for that.

What came next was as easy as breathing. Raphael looked up to see Mephistopheles had been backed up towards the throne, which against all odds still stood, and was rearing up to strike down, or to summon yet more hellfire.

Raphael gave him no chance to do either. 

Teleportation took no more than an instant and he was before his sire, beneath him, in a burst of fire. Flames danced between the exposed ribs of bone, but he knew there was flesh there too - and that was where, with a cry, he sank Asmodeus’ fang.

Mephistopheles roared again, a cry that seemed to shake the world, and pulled away - but it was too little, too late. Raphael watched, his mind oddly blank, as the flames around and within his sire petered out; as the ascended fiend took two shaky steps before collapsing against the stars leading up to a throne he’d occupied since time immemorial. He convulsed once before going still, and thick black smoke rose, the venom consuming what power he had left.

Outside, the winds fell and the ice storm stopped; everything became so very still, and so very silent - a layer of the Hells holding its breath as something so unfathomably ancient came to an end. 

The smoke rose up and then it was gone, leaving behind no flames. Only a bloodied, crumpled form in torn robes upon the steps leading to his throne, breathing in gasps and with the fang still buried in his chest, long black hair spilling onto the ice. The veins in his neck bulged, black with venom.

Raphael could barely believe he was truly looking at his sire. He recalled him as he was the first time he’d seen him, atop the throne in whose shadow he lay dying now. It had been so long ago. He had seemed so much more powerful, and so much taller. He had not worn the likeness which resembled him most, then… but he did now, at the end of everything.

Father, Raphael wanted to call, but his mouth was dry and his tongue did not obey him, not right away. So he swallowed and just took a step towards his fallen sire.

Then another.

***

The first thought on Durge’s mind when they saw Mephistophele was that, beneath the blood, the resemblance with Raphael was unnerving. They had begun their fight against the Cold Lord, with the dark blue skin and the pale eyes; now dying before them was the Lord of Hellfire, with the same crimson skin as his son and unnerving, dead white eyes. Those eyes were now struggling to stay open, looking up at the skies through a ceiling that was no more. 

His left hand opened and closed by the broken shaft of the spear still embedded in his flesh, but he made no attempt at pulling it out. The venom was in, and that was it. He knew it as well as they did. Through Raphael’s hand, Asmodeus had dealt a fatal blow.

Standing above him, Raphael seemed to hesitate a moment before he scowled and changed forms, standing at the heart of Cania in his human form for what was perhaps the very first time. He crouched over his sire as though to make sure he’d see that face of his - his mother’s face - before he died.

“The master was slain within his own house,” he rasped. “They dined on him both, the cat and the mo--”

Mephistopheles made a choking noise that could barely be recognized as a laugh and, in a last burst of strength, he reached up - grasping the nape of Raphael’s head and pulling him closer. 

Somehow, that forced Raphael to revert into his cambion form with a sharp gasp. He stared down at the dying archdevil, eyes wide, and Mephistopheles bared his teeth. It almost looked like a smile. 

“It is true,” he whispered. “We do share a face.”

“What…?” Raphael fell silent for a moment, staring as though not quite comprehending the words he’d just heard. Then something terrible twisted his features; his moment of triumph taken, like a rug pulled away to reveal a dark chasm beneath that no corpse could fill - not even one as grand as Mephistopheles’. He shook his head, still in his father’s grip. 

“No,” he choked out. “No, no, no. You can’t--”

He didn’t get to say anything more. Mephistopheles was an archdevil, the second most powerful being in Baator, but his end was not marked by shaking ground, collapsing glaciers, or columns of roaring hellfire. There was only that surreal silence, the winds no longer blowing as he died the way most creatures do: with an exhale, his eyes falling shut even as he kept them fixed on his son. 

His grip slackened, and the hand grasping the nape of Raphael’s head slipped off. It dragged across the side of his face, almost a caress, before it fell limply to the ground - and Mephistopheles, Archduke of Cania, Lord of Hellfire and Archmage of the Lower Planes, did not move anymore. 

Durge swallowed and turned to look at the frigid wasteland outside, waiting for the blizzard to resume. It never did. In the silence,  there was only Raphael’s voice, on the verge of breaking up. “... No,” he choked. Durge turned back to see he was shaking, eyes wide and face wet, still staring at his fallen sire. They swallowed. 

“Raphael--” they began, but never got to say more before Raphael screamed.

“No. NO! You cannot do this! YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THIS NOW!” He fell on his knees and grasped his father’s torn and bloodied robes, as though he could shake him back to life, make him open those eyes and look at him again. “Look at me! Face me, damn you, and tell me-- come back and face me! Come back! Come back, come back, come back --!”

But that was not to be. The body remained limp; the Lord of the Eighth’s eyes remained closed. Raphael shook the corpse one last time before he gave the long, wordless scream of someone who just felt something within them shatter. It caused Durge to instinctively step forward, but they paused when Astarion rested a hand on their forearm. 

“Give him a moment,” he murmured, and Durge nodded, looking away once more.

There would be time to talk. There would be time for many things - for whatever had to happen when someone took over a layer, for official announcements, for Raphael to sit on that throne. There would be time for Archduke Raphael - but later. 

For now, they just let a son scream and cry and curse his father’s name, still holding onto him as one would to an anchor in a world suddenly adrift.

***

[Back to Chapter 38]

[On to Chapter 40]

Dalah swallowed and dared pull her hands away, cracking her eyes open. The light had dimmed to something bearable, at least for her. Around them, fiends lay screaming on the ground, or tried to run for cover. Further ahead, Barbas tried to cover himself with his cloak while Hutijin roared in blind fury, an arm still over his eyes. He tried to step forward, lifting his mace, only to be struck by a golden mastodon large enough to take up much of the hallway. 

“I got this!” it cried out, the voice much too shrill for a creature that size. As the pit fiend and many of the guards he commanded were sent tumbling back by the force of the impact, Dalah met the gaze of… well. Not quite a gaze. The celestial above her had a blindfold over her eyes, yet she seemed to be looking right at her.

Dalah swallowed. “It was to help them. I… they have to-- if Mephistopheles found out--”

“Hush. Let me in,” the celestial spoke, except that her lips did not move, and the voice was in her own head. The next moment she felt it - a presence searching in her mind as though shining a light someplace dark, looking through thoughts and memories and images - of the vaults, of all the faces of her son, of the mortals who accompanied him - and of the thought of the fight that had perhaps already begun, all of them against the Lord of the Eighth. 

It was unpleasant, but it only lasted a moment. Then the presence retreated, and the celestial smiled. That alone soothed the discomfort, made her forget her fear. 

“I see and I understand,” that voice spoke straight in her mind once more. “You seek to help them, and thus my sword is yours. Find the incubus, and get as far from here as you can. My friend and I shall keep them away for as long as the summon lasts. Go, mortal.”

There was a cry, something screamed in the guttural snarls of Infernal, and Dalah looked up to see that some of the guards had regrouped, and were now rushing at Zariel and her mastodon, with Duke Hutijin leading the charge. Dalah had just enough time to stand and run through the same door she’d seen Haarlep duck into before they met, and chaos ensued - a vicious battle soon joined by more fiends, many against two. But it was not her battle.

I have to find Haarlep, was all she could think. The hall she was in was mostly empty but for a few fiends who had limped inside to get away from the holy light and were now laying on the floor, some motionless and some still groaning, most of them with blistered skin and eyes white as a cooked fish’s. No trace of anything resembling an ascended fiend, but of course--

A clawed hand landed on her shoulder, causing her to almost cry out. The voice that followed was raspy and unfamiliar - but the words caused the scream to die in her throat, and fear to turn to relief. “Well, looks like we really should make ourselves scarce, don’t you agree?”

Haarlep had taken the form of a cornugon, and they gestured for her to follow them to the nearest window. The blizzard raged outside, as always, and the incubus turned to tear a cloak off the shoulders of a harvester devil who lay on the floor, groaning, asking in a whine what had happened. They draped it over Dalah, pulled the hood over her head. 

“Better wrap up. It is rather cold outside.”

“Outside?” Dalah turned to look at the blizzard, biting her lower lip. She had never been outside Mephistar ever since her servitude had started; she’d heard a few minutes exposed to the ruthless Canian cold would be enough to freeze her solid. Haarlep hummed.

“Only a short flight, I assure you. But it’s best for us to go a few levels down, away from battle. And the safest route is from outside,” they added. In the hallway the mastodon trumpeted, swords clashed, someone screamed. Haarlep was right, of course - the blizzard was the lesser evil, if the Hells did have such a thing as a lesser evil. 

Haarlep threw the window open, and turned to her. She hesitated only a moment before reaching out, letting Haarlep pick her up. A quick check to make sure the cloak was wrapped tight around her and they leaped out of the window without a word of warning, leaving the chaos of the battle behind and causing Dalah to mute a scream against their shoulder while they plummeted down, down, down, towards the glacier below. 

Neither of them noticed one wounded fiend watching them leave from the far end of the room, features twisting in a scowl.

***

“Well, sounds like leaving the feather with Haarlep was an excellent choice. I am half tempted to go downstairs and have a look at the carnage--”

“You’ll do no such thing, spawn. Keep moving.”

“See, this is why Raphael does not like you. Isn’t it right, Raphael?”

“Among other reasons.”

“I’ll try to bear the sorrow. This way - quick!”

In normal circumstances, the powerful devils who dwelled in the upper floors of Mephistopheles’ palace would have seen through their simple invisibility spell easily enough. But with a celestial wreaking havoc a few floors beneath them and most fiends at court either seeking refuge behind closed doors or rushing to join the battle, they went unnoticed all the way up - through corridors and halls, up stairs and finally, to a hall grander than the rest, one more hallway… and that was where the spell dissolved. 

But it did not matter.  They were close, and the way forward was clear.  

“This is where I wish you luck and take my leave,” Adonides spoke, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael which he returned with a glare. “Asmodeus’ orders. But of course I would not be coming in with you either way. I’d be the first you’d sacrifice as cannon fodder.”

“... Hmph. I won’t insult your intelligence or mine by denying it,” Raphael muttered.

Adonides gave him one last, long look. “I wish you luck. I do. For Cania, if nothing else.”

“I’ll do my best not to die. I’d appreciate it if you could find my incubus, and my mother. Ensure that they survive this, too. I wouldn’t forget it.”

‘And I won’t destroy you if I live to be Lord of Cania’, was what that meant, and Adonides understood perfectly. He nodded. “... I’ll see what I can do, little duke,” he replied, and in a whirl of icy wind he was gone, leaving them alone only a couple of halls away from the doors leading to Mephistopheles’ throne room. Raphael breathed in, and turned. 

Normally, those halls would be patrolled by Duke Hutijin; a fearsome opponent indeed. But he was not there, busy battling the former archduke of Avernus, and nothing was left between them and the Lord of the Eighth. “He must be aware of Zariel’s presence,” he said, and resumed walking. “That may have kept him from noticing us thus far, but it won’t last. Follo--”

“Raphael, wait,” Durge called out, and when Raphael turned they were holding out something priceless indeed - a personal gift from Bel himself. He’d faintly wondered what had become of it near the beginning of that rather unlikely quest, when Haarlep had returned the gloves to him, but other events had quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Truth be told, he’d forgotten all about it until now, with Durge holding it out to him - the Helldusk Armor.

“I entirely forgot I had it,” Durge was saying, as though they were not talking about an armor crafted by the forgemaster of Avernus himself. “I assume the boots are part of it - I found them in Wyrm's Rock. Did Gortash take them with him  when he fled Avernus?”

“That he did,” Raphael replied. He’d raged when he’d found out part of his armor set was missing. It had been two or three decades earlier, no more, yet it felt like centuries now. He reached out to take the armor, only to pause and frown. “Is it cheese I am smelling?”

Durge had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Yes, that is-- some cheese ended up in the-- well. I will make sure to better separate camp supplies from equipment going forward.”

“Count yourself lucky. It took me days to get the smell of fish out of this one,” Astarion muttered, gesturing at the penumbral armor he was wearing. Between that and the Shadow of Menzoberranzan, it seemed he had come to the conclusion that stealth and quick strikes, followed by an even quicker retreat, would be his best strategy. He was not wrong on that.

Nor was Durge wrong in assuming Raphael would want to wear the Helldusk Armor: he was going to need all the help he could get. For that, he supposed he could endure the smell of cheese. So he nodded, took it. A burst of flames and there he stood, clad in his old armor; it felt good, like slipping his hand into an old glove and finding it still fit him no matter how much he’d gone through. Speaking of which…

The gloves Haarlep had given him were in his bag, and he put them on before glancing up. Astarion had stepped closer and was holding out something else - the armor’s own helmet. 

“Found this in your vault alongside the staff,” he said. “And Mol’s contract. And all the gold.”

Raphael snorted. “Of course you did,” he muttered, and took the helmet. He was rather grateful to find that it did not, at least, smell of cheese. He cast a quick spell of invisibility on it, so that his sire could see his face, and put it on. 

“Oooh, looking scary now,” Karlach muttered, leaning on her silvered halberd. Like she wasn’t a fearsome sight herself, clad in bonespike gear. “Ready to go in, soldier?”

No. I am not ready. I don’t think any of us are. But we have no choice, and so in we go.

Raphael looked down at himself, and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said in the end. He cast one more spell on himself; he had to choose between foresight and mind blank, and he chose the former. Casting mind blank first would make him impervious to foresight, and it would be good to anticipate his father’s first moves. It was less time than he’d hoped he’d have to prepare, but it would have to do. 

To his right, Wyll Ravengard laughed. “Good enough. Well then, let us go forth and con--”

“Wait,” Halsin called out, and held up something - an armful of potions, elixirs and oils. For speed, for strength, for resistance, accuracy, and more. Where did all that come from? “We’ve been hoarding all these for the right fight. I suspect this is that fight.”

Ravengard let out a hum. “Oh, you never know. We might be asked to take down Asmodeus next,” he said, and Raphael’s laughter was almost sincere as he reached for the bottles.

***

Mephistopheles knew a celestial had manifested at the heart of his citadel as soon as it happened, and had his eyes on it - or rather, on her - within a scarce minute. It was unmistakable, the divine aura about her; particularly to a being who had given out that very same aura himself, once. Even though that had been such a short part of his long existence he still remembered it and oh, how he loathed the memory.

The demons he’d fought at the very beginning of the War had loathed it too, of course; they took a savage joy in each celestial light they were about to snuff out. They had almost snuffed out his own, once, when he’d been too deep into the Abyss as the trumpets sounded, calling for a retreat. He’d been surrounded before he knew it, arrogant young thing that he was, and soon enough he was unarmed, helpless, ready for a last blow that never came. 

There had been light, causing the shrieking chaos or the horde to part, and the beating of wings. He recalled Asmodeus’ hand stretching down towards him and grasping his wrist, he recalled Dispater’s mace crushing every demon who tried to come between them. 

They’d put up a fierce fight, the three of them, as they climbed their way back to the heavens.

Hold fast, brothers, hold fast, the resplendent celestial who’d one day become the King of the Hells had said, almost snarled, savagery twisting his beautiful visage while they fought back entire hordes. I swear on my holy light, I shall never let you die.

Only later had Mephisto learned that, in their mad dash down the chasm and into the Abyss to reach him on time, Asmodeus and Dispater had defied clear orders to retreat and leave stragglers behind. Their first act of defiance, for his sake, and they had borne the punishment for it in silence; Mephisto had borne it with them, insisted on it. 

And it was on that day, perhaps, that something had changed.

The first angels to fall, as they called them on Mount Celestia, but that was one of their many lies. They had not fallen; they had carved their own path, contract in hand and away from their influence, to build their own power. Asmodeus had made his throne; Mephistopheles had made his libraries and laboratories; Dispater had built his iron city, the tower at its heart. More had followed them, joined their ranks; some had indeed fallen due to failings of their own, like Baalzebul did long ago… or Zariel, much more recently.

But she’d risen again, it seemed, and her holy light shone anew - this time much deeper than Avernus, in his own court. Bold of her, he had to give her that. But most of all he had to wonder - what was she doing there?

The scrying eye gave him few answers, if any. Zariel fought viciously, her war mount at her side, against dozens of pit fiends; Duke Hutijin led the charge, crossing his mace with her blade time and time again. Of all of them, he was the one who could put up the fiercest fight - that was no surprise. But what Mephisto truly noticed was something else: Zariel gave her back to the stairs leading higher up the palace, to the spire where he resided and had his throne and grand hall. She was not being held back from reaching the higher levels of his palace: she was keeping everyone else away. A distraction.

And he could think of only one being who might be bold enough to seek a celestial’s assistance in Mephistar of all places; only one being who might even ask for such a favor, having had a hand in turning the archduke of Avernus into a celestial once again. And his ascended half, he could see, was conspicuously missing from the fight raging only a few floors below his grand hall.

Raphael. He is here. Mephistopheles’ lips curled in a smile that held no more warmth than the glacier his citadel was carved into. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the scrying orb he’d been looking at and stood. He closed his eyes, tuned out the hum of the celestial’s presence, and focused on something else - more subdued, but familiar. 

Raphael was many things, few of which he could find in himself to praise. But he was, undeniably, of his blood. And that blood called to him, too, if he listened closely enough. 

Mephistar was more than a citadel, more than a jewel fashioned out of ice; every wall and floor and ceiling was as much an extension of him as the rest of Cania was. His consciousness unfurled, through walls of ice and heated air, listening, seeking… and he did not need to seek far. Raphael was indeed at his door, all of him. How that could be, he did not know. He’d make sure to ask, before he ended him. It’d take him but a moment… if he chose to be merciful, of course. He could draw his death out for much, much longer than that.

Mephistopheles, Lord of No Mercy, smiled as he called out for his son.

***

There was a time when Dalah had not feared heights at all. 

Being raised by the Storm Horns in Cormyr had seen to that since an early age, and things which seemed daunting to most - like crossing a narrow bridge across a gaping crevasse - had never been a problem. 

Not for her and certainly not for her brother, who’d carried her on his shoulders over those bridges long before she could walk. He had been fearless, she recalled, sure-footed as a cat but far more reckless. She recalled him almost dancing across those narrow bridges, or just jumping from one side to the other, curly black hair bouncing as he did. 

The boldness of youth, she recalled her mother saying, laughing. But then a seemingly solid rock had given way beneath Israfel’s foot, and he would never grow any older than he’d been that day. Young, bold, and gone before his time; he’d plummeted down a crevasse so deep it would take three full days to recover his body - a body she had not been allowed to see.

The last image she had of him was that look of utter surprise that barely had the time to turn into terror, an arm stretching out towards her. Dalah had reached out too, for that hand which had brushed away her tears after a bad dream, while he sang to her all the rhymes he knew - but she was too far away. She’d known even then that she was too small to save him, even if she could reach his hand; that she would have just gone over the edge with him. 

Even with that knowledge, she’d dreamed of that grasping hand for a very long time - fingers clawing at nothing before Israfel disappeared down, down into the chasm with hardly a scream. Their mother had not laughed, then, or-- I lost the wrong child -- or even again as far as she could recall. Dalah had never been able to bear heights again. 

Any heights whatsoever - let alone the thousand or so feet between the window they’d jumped out from and the icy ground below. She could not bear to look, and so she did not. She closed her eyes, clung to Haarlep, and just kept her face pressed against their shoulder when finally wings unfurled, and their fall came to a stop. 

They were warm, too; that helped, with the blizzard whipping at them, cutting through any layers of clothing she had on. The descent resumed, but smoother, more controlled; then they landed onto a balcony, and Haarlep put her down before they took on a different form - a tiefling. “Now, Lady Baalphegor did say this would always be open… ah, good. This way.”

They pushed a door open, and slipped back inside the citadel. They were rather low down but still within the upper levels, in the huge pantries below the kitchens that served the court; there were crates of food, and no one else in sight. Dalah took off the cloak, shaking snow and ice off it. “What… what do we do now?”

“My instructions if it ever came to this are to peel potatoes and lay low. I’m not very good at laying low. And you’ll probably have to show how to peel a potato,” Haarlep spoke, but their grin died down when they turned to Dalah. She said nothing, but she did not need to. They were perceptive as always. “... It has to be now, doesn’t it? Now that the game is up.”

“... Yes. Adonides told me to buy him time, and left.” She breathed out, and somehow she felt colder now than she did at any point while in the midst of the blizzard. For a moment she saw it again - her brother’s wide eyes when he realized the ground had given way beneath him, the way his fingers grasped at the air, and then… “Do you think he has a chance?” she choked out, and Haarlep bit their lower lip. They crossed their arms as though they, too, were cold. When they spoke, it was with their gaze fixed on the floor.

“I don’t know that. But I know Raphael. If there is a chance, he’ll seize it. Maybe Mephistopheles won’t see it coming. He thinks him as inoffensive as a mouse next to his might.” They looked up, and finally, they smiled. “This would be a really good moment for my little brat to prove he truly was the fox all along.”

Down came the claw, Dalah thought, and I can only pray it’s his own.

She did not speak as much aloud; she just nodded, and sat back on a crate, trying to fight back the growing sense of dread. She tried to recall the vision she’d seen then, Israfel standing above Mephisto’s broken corpse, and she clung to that with all she had.

***

“If anyone wishes to leave, this is the moment.”

Raphael spoke quietly, hands hovering before the double doors of ice that led to his father’s throne room. His voice was tense and the words more than a touch dramatic, with the long pause and all. The most theatrical part of him - which was to say, all of him - was probably patting itself on the back right then. 

Unfortunately for him, few of them quite shared his taste for theatrics. Durge guffawed.

“Bit bloody late for that, don’t you think?”

“We signed a binding contract, remember?”

“And even without it, we’re in too deep to just leave.”

“Stop trying to sound cool and open the door, soldier. I have an axe to grind on your old man.”

“Don’t you mean, an axe to grind with-- ”

“No. I said what I said.”

Raphael breathed in, and the next breath out was almost a chuckle. “Don’t make me regret ever approaching you more than I already do,” he said, and went to push the doors open. 

He never got a chance.

“Come forth, boy. Face your maker, if you dare.”

The voice reverberated through the doors, through the walls, through their very bones. The massive set of doors swung open an instant before Raphael touched them, beckoning them inside a massive throne room. Ice, all of it, a pit of fire and a pit of swirling souls at either side of an empty throne. And, descending the few steps from that throne to the ground, clad in robes of dark blue and silver, was the Lord of the Eighth.

Durge had seen portrayals of several visages of Mephistopheles. In most of them, there were things which were unchanged - the long straight black eyes, the beard at his chin, the four ram-like horns adorning his head. The visage of the Lord of Hellfire, with crimson skin and dead white eyes, bore a striking resemblance to his son’s… but it was not the one he was wearing that day. 

That day, the visage before them was that of the Cold Lord, with dark blue skin that turned almost black at the base of his horns, and cold eyes of the lightest blue. His features too seemed different in that form of his, more gaunt, sharper. It made Durge think of shards of ice indeed.

But beneath it all, the Lord of Hellfire yet burned; what balance there had been between the collected façade and the raging passions inside had broken, and threatened to break up his entire layer. He looked perfectly at ease, entirely in control. And yet, if he was anything as his son had been…

He makes mistakes when he’s angry.

He did not seem angry now; somewhat annoyed, perhaps vaguely amused. He spared them a passing glance, pausing briefly on Durge - the slightest grimace; surely he knew who they were, of their role in the heist that had started it all - before looking at son. 

Raphael met his gaze, and for a moment he was silent, lips pressed together in a thin line before he spoke one word, clipped and cold. “Father.”

“Raphael,” Mephistopheles greeted him, and chuckled. A gesture of his hand, and the great ice doors slammed shut once more behind them, locking them in with him. 

Good, Durge thought. They could sense their companion’s tenseness as though they all shared the same nerves, hear a faint creak as Karlach’s grip on her weapon tightened, the whisper of an arrow being pulled out of its quiver. 

But none of them moved, not yet, as Mephisto spoke again. Out of a grand window, so tall it almost reached the vaulted ceiling, the blizzard raged. “Such a long journey to return here, in my grasp, to die all the same. A waste of time, and yet you have brought me a gift.” Those pale blue eyes shited on Durge. “The one who started it all, one of the thieves who stole from my vaults. The banite’s life is extinguished, his soul beyond my grasp, but I shall have your blood, child of Bhaal. Do not doubt that. Yours, and that of the vampire spawn who denied me seven thousand souls I was owed.” 

The cold gaze turned to Astarion, and Mephistopheles’ lips pulled open to reveal teeth that looked much too sharp, even for a fiend. Thin and pointed, like those of a fish of the deep. “Your old master is being tormented here for failing to uphold the bargain, did you know that? Perhaps I’ll keep you, too, to torture each other. What a touching reunion that would be.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Astarion, a low growl from Karlach and Halsin both, and Durge’s grip on their staff tightened just as Wyll shifted to stand between Astarion the the archdevil. But it was Raphael to speak, his voice a growl. 

“You’ll do no such thing.”

A laugh, cold as a glacier. “Ah, growing bolder, are we? What do you precisely plan on doing?” A raised eyebrow, no trace of concern, no sign he felt in the least threatened.

And why would he? He was the Lord of the Eighth, at the very seat of his power. He did not know of the scheme which had unfolded around him, with none other than Asmodeus pulling the threads from the shadows. But at the end of the day, if Asmodeus was the great puppet master of the Hells, what did that make his archdevils?

“You have reclaimed your other half, somehow. A notable feat, I must admit,” Mephistopheles was saying. “The wise course of action would have been to then flee, and never return. But you were never wise.”

“And I suppose you’ll claim you’d have allowed me to keep living if I did.”

A chuckle, and Mephistopheles stepped closer, hands folded, not even attempting to cast yet. He was taller than Raphael, even like this, but they had been warned that he could change form - they had seen the size of his maw, in the Orb of Infernal Envisioning - and that in Ascension he was terrible to behold. Durge suspected they would soon find out how many terrible things lurked beneath the pleasant façade of the Lord of Cania.

“You were always too rash, for all the patience you so pride yourself in. If you and the thieves you associate with had waited but perhaps a day, you’d have known I had an offer--”

“Lady Antilia, for my fiend half. I am aware.”

That caused Mephistopheles to fall quiet, those pale blue eyes narrowing. A flash of something crossed his features, but was quickly smothered. He took a step towards them, still composed and regal as they come; Durge swallowed, ready to respond to an attack which did not come, not just yet. 

“... Someone from my council was quick to inform you, I see. I shall get to the bottom of that, don’t you doubt it. But you still have time to return her, and walk out of here alive.”

Raphael did not reply right away. He only looked over at his sire, jaw clenched. “You once told me you sired more bastards than you cared to count. That none of us means a thing to you - the mere happenstance of your spraying seed, as I believe you put it once.” 

Mephistopheles’ eyes narrowed further, two slits of pure malevolence. “Choose your next words carefully,  whelp.”

“What makes her different?” he asked. The choice to refer to her in present tense, as though she still lived, did not escape Durge. It made sense, to try and keep Mephisto from learning the truth just yet. Mephistopheles did not, at least, deny his daughter once more. 

Still, he grew wary. “... How did you extort such information?”

“I did not. She gave it willingly.”

“Mph. She did always have a soft spot for you. Either she did not see just how foolish you are, or found your idiocy endearing. Where is she?”

Raphael clenched his jaw, saying nothing as his gaze flickered away. Something flashed over Mephistopheles’ gaze, there one moment and gone the next, so quickly that Durge could not name it. It was as though he’d teetered on the brink of comprehension for an instant, and then wilfully turned away. 

Instead, he sneered. “So be it. Since you insist on being whole, I’ll ensure I destroy all of you this time. I'll give you one more chance to listen to the sound of your own voice, as you so love it.” One more chance to tell him where his sister was, and perhaps he’d make it quick. “Do you have any last words?”

Raphael did not reply right away; he looked up, met his sire’s gaze, and he seemed to steel himself before he spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet, somber. Not mockery, not a challenge; only a message relayed, a promise fulfilled.

“... She wanted me to tell you that she was loyal.”

Durge remembered, quite vividly, how something had shifted in the House of Hope in the few instants before Raphael arrived to catch them in the act. They recalled the sensation of time slowing, the air itself becoming thicker, almost pushing back while they tried to move through it as though the House itself strove to keep them there - an extension of its master.

Now it was the same, yet much different. Now it was as though time stopped entirely; even the wind outside had stopped howling, as though all of existence itself-- every layer is an extension of its ruler -- was holding its breath in the deafening silence that followed.

It was a mere instant. It was eternity. It was the blink of an eye suspended in time, until finally Mephistopheles’ features twisted, almost blurred-- something else beneath the surface, ancient and terrible and hungering -- and at last, the Lord of the Eighth screamed .

At least, what was the only way one could describe it. It was a scream but also something else entirely, something which was not heard as much as it was felt. It reverberated into the walls and the ceiling, through the entire citadel, across all of Cania, wordless, overpowering. 

The ground shook, the winds screamed again; outside the grand window glaciers collapsed and columns of hellfire shot up to the skies as the entire eighth layer of the Hells seemed to seize up in fury, in agony, in utter and complete outrage. 

It was awe-inducing, and terrifying beyond what a mortal mind was meant to withstand. There was a wave of pure dread that could have broken them, left them paralyzed on the spot. But there was something to counter it, a faint hum in their very bones, and the dread passed them by without taking root. 

From this moment on, no matter what horrors you may face - you shall never be frightened, Zariel had said after giving her boon, and she’d spoken true. Durge had thought it would be useful, then; now, they realized it could very well have just saved their lives.

Before them, Mephistopheles had lifted his arms with another cry of fury that made the entire palace groan around them. Something materialized in his hand, a three-pronged ranseur; the air around him seemed to shimmer, and it was the only warning they got. But it was enough. 

Raphael moved fast, bringing up his hands, drawing something up from the ice floor - a fine mist that solidified in the blink of an eye into two walls of ice on either side of him. Asmodeus may have given them some resistance to hellfire, but none of them was eager to test how effective that would be against the brunt of an attack from the master of hellfire himself.

“Go,” Raphael hissed just as Mephistopheles brought his ranseur down with a cry and a streak of scorching hellfire burst forward, right at them. 

“You were supposed to say duck!” Durge heard Wyll protesting as they-- well, ducked behind the walls of ice Raphael had just created. 

It was not just ordinary ice, of course; hellfire would have burned through that in the blink of an eye, and got to them next. But Raphael’s command of the Plume was a thing of beauty, despite how little time he had to master it, and the walls held against even the scorching heat of hellfire. Most of the flames broke against it, while some spilled above, burning brightly above their heads for a few instants. Beside Durge, Astarion nocked an arrow.

“Well, that was an explosive start for sure,” he muttered, and turned to grin at them. “May I get a kiss for luck before the dance starts?”

He could, and did. Durge pressed their forehead against his for a moment more, too, before pulling back. “I’ll see you on the other side, won’t I?” they asked, and Astarion laughed.

“My dear, we’re in the Hells. Let this be testament of the fact there is nowhere you can go where I won’t follow,” he replied, and darted away from behind the wall, seeking a vantage point to strike. 

Durge gripped the staff more tightly, turned to glance at the others - they looked back, Karlach and Wyll and Halsin, the same grim determination on their faces - and at last they stood up to fight, staff raised to call down the first strike of lighting.

***

While his companions dove for cover - or ducked, as Ravengard so insisted - Raphael stood his ground, not far from the very spot where Mephistopheles had tried to destroy him with hellfire for the first time. He’d underestimated him, then; Raphael had to hope he’d underestimated him now too. 

Unlike his ability to control it, immunity to hellfire was something he’d built up. He’d gone from being able to just about survive it to withstand it with limited damage - and then without taking any, first in his ascended form and then in his every other form as well. He’d been determined to never again be left at the brink of death by something that was his to control; he’d sworn to himself that should Mephisto ever try to pour hellfire down his throat again, he’d be able to spit it back in his face and laugh. 

Now he did not, however, feel like laughing. 

Hellfire surrounded him, licked at his flesh and armor, powerless to harm him despite the devastating heat. Amidst the white flames he saw his father, ranseur still raised, features twisted in a snarl as he looked upon him with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. 

I could have been loyal too, once. I’d have served you with all I had for just a second look from you. Did you know that? Did it ever matter?

He met his sire’s gaze and held it; for a few long, endless moments, there were only the two of them staring at one another amidst roaring white flames.

“Perhaps you’d wish to sit on my throne,” he’d said that day so long ago, a hand at his throat. “Is that what you covet, you ungrateful wretch?”

He hadn’t, not then. After that, he’d set his sights higher, and he was brought low. He’d clawed his way back into the Hells, into that room, before that very same throne. Now he’d either sit upon it, or perish before it… and he had absolutely no intention to perish. 

The ground between them turned into a field of hellfire, Mephistopheles snarled, any and all composure gone. The rising heat caused his long hair to flutter like an ominous cape behind him, nearly indistinguishable from the dark flames emanating from his body.

“I will destroy the very memory of you, whelp,” he thundered in Infernal, and Raphael felt himself smile. It did not reach his eyes. 

“Call me archduke,” he snarled, and lifted his arms. There was no verbal component to cast any Plume spells, just as there was no verbal component needed to unleash hellfire. 

All that Mephistopheles could see was steam from melted ice on the ground rising up in a fine mist around the still burning hellfire, and suddenly turning to ice, encasing it. It made the fury turn to surprise for just a moment, the archmage of the Hells unable to tell by what magic had Raphael trapped his flames into ice which would not melt. But it was brief; the next moment he sneered, and knew. 

“The gelugons. This is their doing, is it not? Nebulat will know my wrath once I am done wit--”

The crack of thunder drowned out his sire’s next words, and lightning struck true as Durge always did. Mephistopheles did not scream, but the blow was felt; he ground his teeth as electricity coursed through him, and he seized for a moment before his form came apart in a burst of flames, turning into a cloud of ash and disappearing from sight. 

Casting foresight on himself before stepping in had been a good choice, truly, because Raphael knew precisely what he’d try to do, and he could counter it. He teleported out of reach in a burst of flames - ah, he did miss those boots - just one instant before the cloud of ash appeared where he’d stood, and his sire’s form came back together. 

The thrust of his ranseur met only the ground where Raphael had been; Mephistopheles bared his teeth in a snarl, and turned to seek him out, as though having entirely forgotten his companions were even there. His eyes found Raphael, and seemed to burn. 

“You cannot escape me, whelp! Do you truly--”

“Shut up and fight!”

Karlach’s throwing axe whistled through the air, but did not meet its target; with a scoff and a single, fluid movement, he struck it in mid-air with the ranseur before it could touch him. He did not, whoever, see the arrow that Astarion let loose next. 

It hit him behind a shoulder, but what tore a grunt from him wasn’t the arrow itself: it was the guiding bolt that had come with it, courtesy of a bow that had something markedly celestial about it. That was exactly what Raphael had hoped would happen. Mephistopheles could heal himself quite easily by devouring souls, much like Raphael himself, but he lost that ability at least for a time if he took that kind of damage. It was a weak spot Raphael had made sure to rid himself of - any and all radiant attacks against him would in turn stun his enemies.

But it seemed that the archmage of the Hells had taken no such precaution. And that was how it always went, was it not? When one’s power seemed overwhelming and eternal, that was when they’d grow careless; hubris may look like well-earned confidence in the powerful, but hubris it remained. That was how the child-who-would-become-a-god doomed his empire, how the Cold Lord brought his kingdom to the brink, how the fox could fall to mice

“It's what we're meant to endure, this hunger for more,” Mephistopheles had told him once. “All your siblings were and are the same, all those yet to be born will be the same. And all of you will meet your end for it, one way or another. Overextending yourselves. Overreaching.”

He had been right about Raphael - about most of his offspring - but he’d also been blind enough to believe himself exempted from the warning. The apples had not fallen far from the tree, and nothing thrived in its shade. No new seed would take; the apples would rot and nourish the very roots of the tree which had borne them.But those roots, too, were diseased . 

There was a cry, and Ravengard cast a cone of cold; he did not have the command if the Plume Raphael did - none of them could - but it was fiendish ice nonetheless, and it did cause injury as well as another grunt of pain. That, at last, caused the Lord of the Eighth to turn his attention on the mortals, too. He sneered, and lifted a hand as Halsin tried to attack. 

The counterspell snuffed out whatever spell Halsin had tried to cast, and caused the druid to stagger backwards, slipping on the ice. The Lord of the Eighth laughed, low in his throat. Even so his fury was a palpable thing, so thick one could almost choke on it if they stood too close. Lord Mephistopheles turned to seek out his son with that terrible gaze of his; he found him, and smiled. Somehow, it seemed the most horrible sight the Hells had to offer. 

Raphael knew precisely what he was about to do. He’d have known even without the aid of the foresight spell: he’d expected that move - but it had expected it later, rather than so soon. 

Mind blank, I must cast--

It took him a blink of an eye for that thought to form, and it was already too late.

Mephistopheles was not the archmage of the Hells for nothing; a single gesture, and the spell was cast. “You have brought insects to my palace, whelp. Do something about it, won’t you?” he ordered. Raphael felt the enchantment take hold, an unyielding grip on his mind, the fog beginning to fill his vision. He fought its hold and he almost broke out of it - but only almost. 

The geas spell took hold, the fog fell, and Raphael knew no more.

***

Duke Hutijin had absolutely no idea what in all the layers of Baator had just happened.

He knew a few things, he supposed. He had seen plainly the human soul block their path - mortals, how he hated them - and lift up the shimmering feather before calling Zariel’s name. 

Once that accursed holy light had abated enough for him to look, teeth ground and ignoring the burns and blisters on his skin, it had been easy enough to put two and two together: the mortal, whoever it was, had the audacity to summon a celestial there, at the heart of the Eighth. And not just any celestial - the one who’d until recently been Lord of the First. 

Hutijin had known little of Zariel, either as fiend or celestial; his business rarely took him to the First. His priority, always, was protecting the Lord of the Eighth. Always and especially now, with an attack within the palace.

I shouldn’t be here. What use is a shield when so far from its lord? Why did I let him send me to guard the vaults? And where in the Hells has that creature gone now?

So many questions, so few answers - and no time to try and find any. The fight raged on, turning the grand hallway into a battlefield, with Hutijin leading the charge - his mace clashing against the longsword, the force of each blow making the opponents grind their teeth as they tried to push one another back without success, raw strength evenly matched.

No other among the guards or the other pit fiends he commanded could hope to match the solar’s sheer power; most they could do was try to give him support before being beaten back with a flare of holy light, a slash of that glowing sword. One such slash grazed at his arm, but it gave him the opening he needed to swing his mace and finally, he truly struck. Zariel let out a pained groan, ichor falling on the floor and freezing in place. 

“Zariel!” the mastodon cried out, loathsome creature that it was, and to his chagrin she answered with no sign of pain in her voice. 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Hold them back. Leave this one to me.”

And damn it, the golden creature did hold them back: a single blast of that trumpet kept throwing off their feet, sometimes knocking them several paces back before they could strike. Guards fell, but more rushed to take their place. The battle was starting to look as though it would stretch for a while - perhaps until the time for the summon was up - and it did not escape Hutijin that the Lord of the Eighth was not there. 

Surely he’d know a celestial was there by now; surely he’d have intervened by now, if not to fight to summon more forces. Unless--

The swing of Hutijin’s mace met only air when, suddenly, the palace shook, knocking him back a few paces. All of Mephistar, all of Nargus, all of Cania seemed to groan, to seize, to scream alongside its ruler. It made even the loathsome celestial creatures pause, in a moment of unreal stillness and silence. For a moment, even breathing was a struggle. 

Something was wrong, and he had to get to Lord Mephistopheles now. Had it been Zariel alone, himself and the pit fiends he commanded may have been enough to at least hold her back so that they could reach the stairs leading up to the palace’s spire. But she was very much not alone, with the damned mastodon laying waste on his forces, while it took all of Hutijin’s strength to counter Zariel’s strikes.

Enough. I have a duty. The guards can deal with her and get butchered for all they matter.

The stairs were right there, behind the celestial, and Hutijin did not bother to counter her next blow: he only dodged it and, in a moment of intense focus, teleported - past her, at the foot of the stairs. He had only enough time to laugh, and attempt one step.

The triumph was short-lived. The accursed celestial too could teleport, and she did. Another burst of loathsome holy light caused him to snarl and step back, closing his eyes; an upward slash of her sword and he was falling back, hitting the floor with a hoarse cry. 

He was wounded, losing blood from a gash across his chest. But he still held his mace, and he could still fight. “Out of my way,” he snarled, standing. 

The celestial looked at him, or so it seemed, despite the blindfold on her eyes. “No.”

“You’ll let me pass, or die. ”

“You know loyalty better than most of your brethren. I can respect that.  Regardless, you shall not pass for as long as I draw breath. I too made an oath.”

A sneer. “Or for as long as your summon lasts. You can’t stay here for long, can you? You’re not of Baator any longer. Sooner or later, you’ll be forced to leave.”

A quirk of her lips, and she lifted the longsword; behind them, there were cries and a sound of shattering bones when the mastodon charged again, crushing all in her path. Hutijin did not turn to look: all he saw was the celestial between him and his lord. 

He roared, and swung his mace; she caught it with her blade, speaking calmly even as she strained against him, over the screams and sounds of the raging battle. “That being the case,” she replied, “I’ll make sure as few of you as possible live to go up these stairs.”

***

It was the steps on the stairs that alerted them that someone was coming into the pantry. 

Dalah knew it was a devil the instant she heard them. That was not the sound of shoes or boots, but the far more distinctive one of cloven hooves - so it was neither Adonides nor Baalphegor. It was enough to make her wince, and turn to Haarlep. They, on the other hand, were already gesturing for her to hide, and moving to another spot behind a pile of crates. 

Hide. As though that ever helps, Dalah thought, but it was the only possible course of action, and so she did. Maybe it was nothing to worry about; maybe it was one of the supervisors, doing routine checks of the pantry - consequences were always severe, should food run out when one of the Dukes planned a lavish banquet. But even that was a frail hope: who would be bothering with pantry checks with a celestial in the palace? 

And it was indeed no pantry check. A few words, spoken by a voice she knew and hated, were enough to shatter that hope. “I know what you did,” Chamberlain Barbas snarled, his oily voice rougher than before; there was that charred scent that came off fiendish flesh scalded by holy light. “I know you’re here. I can smell that accursed celestial all over you! ”

The last words were a roar, and a bolt of fire hit the crates she was hidden behind. It threw her back with a cry, and she hit the ground heavily. She had barely enough time to look up, to see the snarl on his burnt face, when a voice rang out - all surprise and outrage. 

“Barbas, enough! What do you think you’re doing?”

It caused the chamberlain to stop in his tracks and turn, blinking. He was holding a wounded arm to his chest; it still smoldered faintly. 

“... Justiciar Bele? What are you doing here?” he asked. There was surprise in his voice, but also suspicion. It was no wonder: Haarlep looked the part perfectly, but they were not dressed for it. Soon enough, suspicion would win out… and if it came to a fight, they would stand no chance. Not against a Duke, however wounded.

Dalah did not stand, not yet. She turned and reached out, across the floor, as Haarlep said something she did not catch through Bele’s lips.

Her hand closed around a paring knife.

***

“Impero ti--”

“Don’t!”

Karlach’s hand grasped Wyll’s wrist, and the spell he’d been about to utter to trap the now possessed Raphal in a magical hold fizzled out. 

He turned, taken aback, to see Karlach shake her head. “Don’t bother wasting it. Do something about the hellfire with the magic ice thing, or strike the motherfucker over there.”

Wyll blinked. “He’s under his control, if he’s not stopped we’ll be facing two--"

“Not for long. You didn’t come to the House of Hope, but we fought him - really fought him - and I promise this won’t last. That’s why the others didn’t try to hit or trap him.”

That was true: Karlach had helped Halsin on his feet instead, while both Durge and Astarion had struck out at Mephistopheles. The archdevil has been able to cast the arrow off course with a gesture of the hand; Durge’s blight spell found its target, however, and tore a grunt out of Mephisto. Even still, he had not seemed particularly concerned. 

“Persistent insects at that,” he’d muttered, and lifted a hand. “End them, Raphael.”

The ravaging inferno created by Raphael’s previous attack burned all around them. Wyll and Karlach had narrowly avoided the brunt of it by ducking back behind the wall of hellish ice - Halsin had sought refuge there, too - and it had left them effectively stranded, unless they were ready to take some damage. 

As Rapael turned to Durge - pliant and empty-eyed, a living doing rather than a living being - Wyll knew he had to do something… but Karlach had grasped his wrist before he could. 

“Just trust me ,” she whispered. “Get rid of the hellfire.”

And so he’d trusted her, of course - he always did, with his life - and had called upon the plume to cast an ice storm on the still burning surface around them. It did not come easy to him, but it was enough to encase the flames in ice… and it allowed Halsin to step forward. 

This time, the archmage of the Hells was not able to counter his spell; the sunbeam shot forward, striking the Lord of the Eighth, and the pained noise was unmistakable, even as it turned into a cry of fury at the end. Mephisto once again disappeared in a cloud of ashes, only to reappear a further distance away - right behind Halsin, the ranseur lifted to strike. 

“Enou--!” 

Something shot through the air before he could strike; something that looked like an ice dagger, but which seemed so much colder even at a distance. It struck true, at the center of Mephisto’s chest; the scream that followed made clear it was not, in fact, just ice.

Well. That was fast.

Wyll turned to see Raphael standing a few paces away, once again in full control of himself. His teeth were bared. “You forget, father,” he sneered, “how disinclined I am to follow orders.”

For a moment, the Lord of Cania only stared, stunned, as though he was only now seeing his son for the first time; his chest was covered in ice which his own heat struggled to melt,  Then the surprise was gone, and his features twisted.

“Impudent whelp,” he thundered, lifted a hand… and suddenly, something ground to a halt. Wyll could feel it, the way a fisherman feels the sharp tug of the hooked fish that just ran out of line. He heard it again, the faint humming of the stone Astarion had picked up in Nebulat - a little less faint now that it had been activated.

The first of Asmodeus’ boons had been of help already, it seemed. There would be no summoning any underlings that day… and going by the rage on Mephistopheles’ face, he had just realized as much. 

“You’ll regret this,” he seethed, “but not for long. ”

A single hand was held out, and the souls rising and falling from the pit by his throne were pulled towards it, into Mephisto’s nostrils, lightning him up from the inside before his very features seemed to blur and… and…

“Get away from there.” 

Raphael’s voice was the crack of a whip, the kind of order you just know you must heed - and a dimension door saw to that for Wyll and Karlach, with Raphael grabbing Halsin to fly him to the far end of the room, where Durge and Astarion already stood.

They regrouped, and not a moment too soon. Before their eyes, the rest of the throne room seemed to explode in hellfire. Even from a distance, they felt the heat and might have taken some damage, too, if not for the limited resistance Asmodeus had granted them.

Shielding his eyes with an arm, Astarion yelled. “Isn’t that something of an overkill?”

“I am fairly certain overkill is precisely what’s on his mi--” Durge began, and never got to finish that sentence. Even if they did, no one would have heard them through the roar which shook, once again, the entire palace. 

Wreathed in hellfire was a towering creature of bone and flames, looking at them through three pairs of white, dead eyes. Two sets of jaws snapped; Wyll found himself staring at the gleaming fangs, at the  clawed hands meant for nothing but tearing, rendering, destroying. For a moment, Zariel’s boon was almost not enough to keep terror at bay in the face - faces - of an ascended Mephistopheles.

Beside him, Raphael breathed out. “Down came the claw,” he whispered, and stepped forward into the hellfire.

[Back to Chapter 37]

[On to Chapter 39]

They were not truly brothers, of course; not the two of them nor Asmodeus, although it never kept Glasya from calling him ‘uncle’ with that peculiar note of something that was always in her voice, never falling into mockery but not too far from it either. The kind of teasing that only Asmodeus’ daughter, archduchess of Malbolge and princess of the Hells, could afford to use with whomever she pleased.

They shared no sire nor mother; none of them had been born. They were  created, alongside countless celestials, to serve the gods’ purpose long before mortals existed.

But they’d referred to one another as brothers on the battlefields of the Abyss, and in the early days of their rule over Baator - when it had been the three of them at the forefront, leading those willing to follow away from Mount Celestia. Their homeonce, where they were now tolerated rather than welcomed. It was rare for that word to leave their lips, as of late. 

But when it did, Mephistopheles knew he should pay attention, and so he did. As the other archdevils continued on through the corridors of Malsheem, towards the grand hall for the great occasions - towering Bel about to be anointed archduke once more, Belial and Fierna side by side as always; Mammon and Glasya not so much looking at one another, a dripping wet and half-frozen avatar of Levistus, and of course Baalzebul, a loathsome half-smile on his lips - Mephisto did pause, and linger behind with Dispater to exchange words in private.

“... Very well. What precisely is wrong, then?”

A light scoff, as though the question was insulting. “I never said I can tell you what precisely is wrong,” Dispater informed him. “But I can tell you, something is not right.”

Mephistopheles was not above admitting his temperament could flare up as quickly as hellfire and burn just as hot; however, he considered himself a creature of great-self restraint. The fact he did not bring his staff down on Dispater’s skull right there and then was, he felt, testament to that. 

“I see. Well. I do thank you for the enlightening conversation. If that will be all--”

“Your runaway son was seen in Avernus, was he not?” Dispater cut him off. “He aided Bel in taking the throne from Zariel. He was his steward, once. And surely, Gabriel had help--”

“Raphael.”

An impatient gesture of his hand. Until not too long ago, Dispater would not have allowed himself such a show of nervousness, would not have shown such clear anxiety. Careful, calculating Dispater, ever-vigilant and always collected, keeping all the cards to his chest; that had changed since the Reckoning, when his vigilance had turned to paranoia and the self-control slipped. 

Of all the changes that had come with the Reckoning, that was the one Mephistopheles regretted the most. He and Dispater may argue, they may send spies to claw secrets from one another’s grasp, but the Lord of the Second had always been as reliable an ally as there could be in the Hells, with an analytical mind Mephistopheles had always appreciated. Now, he hardly ever left the Iron Tower unless called upon by Asmodeus himself; even the everyday rule of his layer was left to his nuncio Titivilus, the only being Dispater seemed willing to let in his tower. The Iron Duke, slowly letting himself turn to rust.

“Whatever his name may be,” Dispater was saying. “I know he escaped. And I know he cannot have done it on his own.”

“It seems I have not rooted out the last of your spies in Mephistar.”

“You’re welcome to try and see if you succeed, but frankly no spying is required at this point. The story is the talk of the Hells. As if the fact he was seen in Avernus, aiding the new Lord of the First. Do you truly need me to tell you who I think aided his escape?”

It was a possibility Mephistopheles had considered, truth be told. For some reason, Bel seemed to have always liked his whelp, and his subsequent role in the fallen archduke’s rise back to power was suspicious to say the very least. Bel may look a brute, but his brilliance and strategic prowess were beyond reproach. Still… “I do not doubt he may have had the cunning to aid the whelp’s escape from my grasp,” he conceded. “What I highly doubt he had was the means, however, or even a reason. Raphael served him for a long time, that is true, but half of him - the human one at that? It seems hardly worth risking my enmity.”

“Bel clearly enlisted his help.”

“That does not mean he had a hand in his escape. Do you have any proof of his involvement, or are you simply suspicious of him?” Mephistopheles asked, knowing full well what the answer was. Dispater was worried about any change of regime so close to his own layer, and was eager to convince Mephistopheles to side with him against a perceived threat.

 If he’d known for a fact that Bel was the one who helped Raphael slip out of his grasp - if he had proof - he’d tell him as much. Eagerly. But of course Dispater had no such proof, and only scoffed. “You don’t see Bel as a threat, do you? Of course not. Easy for you to dismiss him, no doubt, with six layers between you.”

“It is not his spies I routinely root out of my court. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you had a hand in my son’s escape yourself. You’d be better positioned to do so than most.”

The look that gained him was deeply offended. “And what reason would I have to do so? Your whelp is dangerous, brother. It was foolish of him to keep any part of him alive. Creating a hammer capable of breaking infernal chains, and handing it out to mortals! He ought to have been put to death there and then, for that foolishness alone!”

Ah, of course. Of the many fears Dispater held, that was probably among the worst - anything capable of breaking the bonds of the prisoners held in Mentiri, the great prison of Dis and indeed of all Baator. “Are your defenses nor formidable? Is the labyrinth not impregnable? What hope would some mortals with a hammer have against your mighty walls of iron?”

Dispater’s expression turned, if possible, even gloomier. “You mock me,” he said. “But you have yet to succeed in your efforts to locate him.”

And not one word from Antilia.

Mephistopheles scowled, chasing away the thought. “It is a mere matter of time--”

“Lord of the Second, Lord of the Eighth,” a gravelly voice caused him to cut off and turn. By the great doors leading to the grand hall of Malsheem, a huge pit fiend - Baalberith, was it not? - bowed. “The Lord Below has called for your presence, so that the meeting may begin.”

Well then. Mephistopheles supposed he had wasted enough time entertaining Dispater’s paranoia; it was time to get that affair over with, so that he may speak to Baalzebul personally, and see through his lies should he be foolish enough to attempt speaking any. Frankly, part of him rather wished he’d be foolish enough to try.

Seeing him trapped in the form of a slug once more would amuse him greatly indeed.

***

“This is all very moving. Truly. But I fear the duty falls on me to inform you we cannot linger much longer.”

Adonides’ voice was what finally caused Raphael to lift his head from Dalah’s shoulder and glance up, a scowl on his face. He was not necessarily wrong, Haarlep had to admit, but that did not really matter: anything Adonides may say was likely to be met with annoyance at the very least. A shame, they thought, that two such handsome devils could not put their differences aside and be happy bedfellows. “I despise you,” Raphael informed him.

The Steward of Cania smiled. “Rest assured, seeing your face does not fill me with joy either. Or any other part of you. I have seen you unclothed far more often than I’d ever have liked, and I’d appreciate it if you could put a remedy to that before we discuss our next move.”

“Don’t listen to him, my little brat. He’s just jealous,” Haarlep sing-sang, and stepped forward, holding down a  hand to Dalah. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, not truly wanting to let go of her son, but in the end she did, and took Haarlep’s hand to stand. Raphael waited for her to be a few steps away before he closed his eyes, breathed in, and stood in a burst of flames. Once they died out he was wearing a familiar attire; he did always favor that doublet. 

“No offense to the frankly perplexing number of blazers you have stashed in that bag of yours, Durge,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “But they never quite met my taste.”

“Ah.” The dragonborn stared for a moment before recoiling a little, and cleared their throat. Clearly, they had not quite known what to expect from Raphael - all of him, again. Haarlep supposed that the fact he had used their name, rather than likening them to a rodent, was at least an encouraging sign. They chuckled. “None taken. I’ll admit, it’s not my style either.”

“I did like the ruffles. I mean, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them, but I liked how stupid they made you look,” Astarion spoke, gaining himself a hum from Raphael. 

“And here I was, about to offer an apology for taking out your arm,” he said. He did not smile, but he did not seem particularly insulted either. A frown creased his brow as he looked around, but he seemed more disoriented than angered. 

“How are you feeling?” Halsin asked, a healing spell probably at the ready. 

Raphael’s frown deepened only a moment. “Much too tall. And much too short.” 

Not surprising, that. Until only minutes earlier, he’d simultaneously been significantly shorter and decidedly taller than he was now; it followed that he now felt both too tall and too short, despite being precisely the same height he’d been for the best part of a couple of millennia. 

He’d probably feel slightly off-kilter for a while, but he was taking his newly regained wholeness remarkably well. Of course, Haarlep still did not know how much of what was gained may have been lost in turn. They rather hoped they’d find out before Raphael left.

“Do you think this will end, once you’re no longer human?” 

They would do their duty regardless of the answer, but it would be… nice to know, at least.

Adonides cleared his throat. “I do hope that is not all. Are you not feeling more powerful, too?”

Raphael looked down at himself. He did not speak for several moments; it was as though he was listening for something none of them could hear. “There is potential. I can tell as much. Whether I can turn it to power I can wield would depend on how long I have to explore it.”

Adonides hummed. “Well, the bad news is that you’ll only have as much time as Haarlep can buy you with their rouse. The good one is that you’ll have guidance to uncover the extent of what you can do with it. But we must go before we’re caught here.”

Raphael entirely ignored the last sentence, and turned to Haarlep, truly looking at them for the first time. Haarlep had always taken pride in the fact they could read Raphael like an open book, and now… now, to their utter relief, they found that they still could. He did not like the idea of leaving them in the vault any more than they had earlier; it was clear in the way he pressed his lips together, in that twitch in his jaw and the wrinkle over the bridge of his nose. 

“I’d really rather you left with us. If Mephistopheles comes down here, he’ll know. ”

“He would, yes.”

“He’d destroy you. And I know him well enough to tell you he would not make it quick.”

“Oh, my lips are sealed by oath no matter how much he may torture me. If that’s the concern.” Haarlep grinned. In turn, Raphael did not smile. Not even a twitch of his lips.

“... It’s not the only concern.”

Well. That was… an answer of sorts, perhaps. Haarlep’s grin did not fade. “He rarely comes here, and what choice do we have?” Haarlep shrugged. “You need time if you’re to have a chance. If he realizes you got in the vault and are whole again, he’ll pull all stops to find and kill you. He’s trying hard enough as is - it’s best to let the sleeping hellhounds lie. And besides,” they added, tilting their head to their right, “your mother is bound to Mephistar by your sire’s will. She cannot leave. Think of it as tasking me to keep an eye out for her, too.”

Raphael had looked as though he wanted to protest more, but that last argument made him falter. He looked over at his mother, and she nodded before picking something up from the ground - the lyre and locket - and walking up to him. “They’re right. If we can’t keep you safe long enough for you to be ready, all this will have been for nothing.” She pushed both objects in his hands. “Rahirek would want you to keep these, I think. He raised you, didn’t he?”

Raphael nodded, putting the locket back at his neck, the lyre at his back. “... He did.”

Dalah let out a long breath, a distant cast to her gaze. “He was a good man. A better man than I deserved.”

“I believe he’d disagree. You died and went to the Hells for his sake.”

A bitter laugh. “Only when my first plan of selling Mephistopheles the souls of my servants for his safety fell through. My poor husband never knew that part, but I was no innocent victim. I’d have put the fort to the torch with everyone in it for his life alone. I was simply no match for Mephisto. I was desperate, cruel, and a fool.  He was only one of those things.” She paused for a moment, and reached up to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch, and she smiled faintly. “... What should I call you?” she asked, and he opened his eyes to meet hers.

“I have been Raphael too long to go back. But you may call me however you like.”

“It wouldn’t displease you?” she asked, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. 

His lips twitched in a smile. “No. It is a fine name you picked. It feels good to hear it.”

“Israfel.” There was an embrace, brief but tight; she initiated it and then she broke it, stepping back. It was as though she had to tear herself away. “Adonides is right. You should go. Mephisto may return any moment, and we have yet to ensure nothing here seems amiss,” she added, gesturing to the room around them - the hole in the ice floor, the deep scratches left by claws, more than a few arrows and handaxes sticking from a wall or the ceiling. 

Raphael seemed to hesitate, and Haarlep grinned. “Leave it to us. No one will notice a thing. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once you return in triumph and all that. Until then, hold onto this for me. I wouldn’t want it ruined.” Raphael felt them press something small against their palm - that small golden ring with the light blue stones. “Do I also get a hu--”

They did get pulled into an embrace, brief and fierce. Raphael spoke in a snarl in their ear. “I’ll be back for both of you. If you get yourself killed before then, I’ll find a way to bring you back.”

“Aww--”

“And kill you again,” he cut them off, his grip clenching on the ring.

“Ah.” Haarlep made a face. “Well then, likewise. If you get yourself killed, I’ll bring you back to kick you in the groin. Very hard.”

There was a scoff, almost a chuckle, and the brief press or Raphael’s face against their neck. “The answer is no, it seems,” he murmured before pulling back, and it was everything Haarlep needed to hear.

For now.

***

The meeting was, all things considered, a simple enough matter. 

Asmodeus sat at the head of the long table, on a chair more decorated than the rest but still rather understated, holding his rod. The Lord of the Ruby Rod, some called him, for neither him nor any of his avatars went anywhere without it. There was no amount of souls Mephistopheles - or any other archdevil, for that matter - wouldn’t have given to get their hands on it, although Mephisto suspected most of his peers did not share the same scholarly interest in it that he did. 

That day, however, none of them had spared it more than a passing glance. All attention was on Lord Bel, and for good reason. A layer changing hands was a rare enough occurrence; that it would return to the same archdevil who’d ruled it before was unprecedented. 

Most archdevils would look at Avernus with interest, several with some distrust. Dispater may or may not confine himself to a single room in the bowels of his Iron Tower, for a time, and Belial seemed to be deeply unamused by the sultry looks Fierna was aiming in Bel’s general direction, although Bel himself seemed not to take notice.

As Asmoseus finished speaking - a brief enough speech, to confirm Bel as the Archduke of Avernus anew - and then it was Bel’s turn, with an even shorter speech from someone whose considerable intellectual prowess was generally better suited for battle plans than it was for pretty speeches. 

Mephistopheles did not truly listen to much of it either way.

At first, he’d been somewhat relieved to see that Asmodeus was alone at the head of the long table. A long time ago, when Bensozia was still alive, she’d sit by his side as the Queen of the Hells. Not quite his equal, none could be, but close. Since her demise, that spot at Asmodeus’ right had remained empty, and it was empty now, with their daughter sitting further down the table as the archduchess of Malbolge.

The Lord of the Ninth and the Lord of the Eighth, both without a consort. But we each have a daughter, and Antilia never gave me any of the grief Glasya gave her sire. Perhaps I should have acknowledged her long ago. 

And he would as soon as she returned, her mission complete. Mephistopheles would entertain no other scenario and so he did not, turning back to where Asmodeus sat alone.  

Mephisto had not truly expected to see Baalphegor sitting there when he’d walked in, but the thought had been on his mind ever since she had left. Surely she did return to Nessus, being Asmodeus’ best diplomat and all, but it seemed he would not have to suffer the indignity of seeing her by the Lord Below’s side. So far, Asmodeus had asked for no explanation as to why he’d broken off their union; it had been somewhat surprising - surely he did wonder? - but also a reprieve. 

It was a shame that she could be at his court no longer; it had been a beneficial union for the longest time, as she was an asset whenever diplomacy was required. She knew how and when to speak, when to keep quiet, and most of all what to say; how to soothe his worst moods when frustration boiled over and he lost control in admittedly unsightly ways. 

Baalphegor had her own goals, her own dalliances and - he was rather certain of that, although he had no proof - offspring of her own, somewhere. Mephistopheles had never intruded in any of it; she was, after all, a succubus. And save from the curious habit of taking on the mothers of his halfbreed offspring as her own personal attendants, she had never given him any grief either.

It truly was a shame that she would not cease trying to look into what else had been stolen from his vaults alongside the Crown of Karsus. The audacity of the accursed mortals who had dared steal from him had cost him more than just a powerful artifact; it had cost him a good asset. A consort whose company had-- never displeased him. 

Mephistopheles scowled at the thought, and the scowl did not abate when his gaze turned to Baalzebul. The Lord of the Seventh was listening to Bel’s speech, a half-smile on his lips as always, ever since he’d quite regrettably regained his old form and left behind that of an oozing slug. He had not looked in Mephistopheles’ direction once, but the Lord of the Eighth would leave him no choice soon enough.

… But not immediately, it seemed, for Belial approached him as soon as the meeting proper was over and they were all allowed to stand, mingle, eat and drink from the trays servants were now bringing in. Mephisto had no intention to appear desperate by interrupting; he would have to wait, but no matter. Baalzebul never passed up the chance to eat and drink in Nessus; there would be chances to speak with him soon, or as they headed back to Cania - a necessity, if he was to continue on to Maladomini. Until then--

Mephisto’s thoughts were interrupted by that grip of iron, again. He turned to see Dispater looking at him from beneath the metal helmet he never seemed to take off. Not even inside his Iron Tower, it seemed, if the few spies of Mephisto who’d been able to slip unnoticed into the heart of Dis had reported. Most of those spies were now prisoners in Mentiri, of course. 

“Something is not right,” he repeated. “Laugh all you wish, but I feel it in my bones.”

“I shall make a note of it. Are you not staying for the refreshments?” 

A grimace, because of course he was not; he never did stay away from Dis and his tower any longer than he had to. Most of all, he never ate or drank anything he did not have his own servants taste first… as though that would make any difference, for an archdevil immune to any and all poison. 

“I am returning to my kingdom. Perhaps you should too. Remain vigilant, brother.”

Mephistopheles stared a moment, and finally nodded. Dispater was paranoid, but odd things had been happening - his son somehow tricking him and reappearing in Avernus to take its ruler out of the picture was indeed a disconcerting event, and vigilance never hurt. In the end, he nodded. “I shall. You as well, Dispater,” he said. He watched his retreating back for a few moments before a rumbling voice spoke, not far from him.

“A little nervous, is he not? Makes him the ideal neighbor, though. Most of the time you forget he is even there.”

Mephistopheles turned, an eyebrow arched. “You may forget of Dispater’s presence at your peril, Lord Bel. He was here to shape Baator with myself and Asmodeus, long before your soul awoke in the Hells as a lemure.”

A laugh, not at all bothered. Bel was smiling down at him through sharp teeth, standing  larger than even Duke Hutijin. “Ah, I jest, of course. I do look forward to working with him - his insight when it comes to securing strongholds against demonic forces is second to none, although most of the time I dealt with his consort.”

“Titivilus is not his consort.”

“No? Could have fooled me.” 

Another glance to see that Baalzebul was still speaking with Belial, and Mephistopheles turned back to Lord Bel. May as well, until the Lord of the Seventh was at liberty to talk. “I have heard a curious tale pertaining to the fall of Zariel. A group of mortals having a hand in it, and among them the human half of an offspring of mine that should have died months ago, down my gullet. Would you happen to know anything about it?”

To his credit, Bel had the good grace not to insult him with a bold-faced lie. “Ah, yes. Raphael was indeed among the mortals who took out Zariel. One among them had beef with her, I believe - a tiefling. Impressive warrior. The former Lord of the First had bought her off and replaced her heart with an infernal engine. An upgrade if you ask me, but mortals tend to take poorly to such things, so she was out for revenge. Raphael assisted her.”

“Word is that those were the same mortals who took him down, in his own House. What reason would Raphael have to help?”

A shrug. “Not a clue, I am afraid. Mortals tend to do odd things, and that part of him is mortal.”

“That part of him was meant to die in Mephistar months ago. How he escaped that fate is something I am still trying to establish. But you could have spared me some annoyance if you’d seized him then and sent him to Cania.”

Bel stared at him a moment and tilted his head, crowned with huge, thick horns. There was a deep scar crossing the bridge of his nose, yet another across the right eyebrow. “Yes, I could have. But I was under no obligation, and the kid-- your son had done me a favor. I saw no reason to seize him.”

Mephistopheles scoffed. “You always did like the fool,” he said, and it was a fact. Bel had made him Steward of Avernus, and it was no great secret that they had remained on good terms after Bel was deposed as Lord of the First. “Although I struggle to see why.”

A chuckle. “Oh, come now. Do not insult my intelligence or yours. You don’t struggle at all to see why I made him Steward of Avernus. I am the one at a loss here, to understand how come you always despised him so.”

A grimace. “He had all the fatal flaws that come with his mortal blood, made worse by his fiendish nature. Foolish and needy, more trouble than he was worth. His meddling cost me thousands of souls, if you must know. And that’s without considering his attempt at getting his hands on an artifact which was stolen from my--”

“An attempt any devil worth their salt would have made, let us be honest. There is no one in this room at present who would not have attempted the same.” Bel met his gaze. “But even before all that you were never, shall we say, overly thrilled about his continued existence. That is what puzzles me. Mortal flaws and all he was capable, clever, and powerful. I’d venture to say he was more like you than any other of your offspring ever--”

“Precisely.” 

The word left Mephistopheles as a hiss, with little thought behind it - partly because he’d spotted Belial moving away from Baalzebul to discuss something with Glasya, and he was in a hurry to end the conversation to start the one he truly had been looking forward to. And so end it did, turning his back to the Lord of the First, walking up to the Lord of the Seventh with long strides and a sneer on his face.

And entirely missing the long, quiet look that Bel gave to his retreating back.

***

Raphael recognized Gelineth the instant he looked around, once Adonides teleported them out of Mephistar in the usual gust of icy wind. The mountain itself was unremarkable, as were its glaciers… but they were not standing on the mountain. Rather, they stood on one of several huge shelves of ice clinging to the side of the mountain like massive fungi; he could feel the hum of magic in that ice, clearly enough that it seemed to reverberate in his chest. 

Raphael held few clear memories of what had been done to him - to the part of him Mephistopheles kept to turn into his puppet - prior to being tasked with guarding the vaults; he mostly remembered pain, something coursing through his body that hurt worse than a bolt of lighting. Clearly, he’d been infused with some manner of power; he had never felt as attuned to arcane magic as he was now. He felt it lie dormant somewhere in his chest, waiting to be used. 

It was a curious sensation after feeling such emptiness for so long, and twofold. 

Wind howled around the mountain, snow and ice hurtling through the air, but not there - not on those shelves, repelled by the same magic which had conjured that place into being. 

“... All right, where are we?” Ravengard spoke, and Raphael glanced over at Adonides. 

“Nebulat,” he spoke. “The retreat of disgruntled ice devils, who have come to Mount Gelineth to sulk after Mephistar became much too warm for their liking and they were replaced by pit fiends at my sire’s court.”

Adonides snorted, turning to look back at him. With the dark blue skin and long black hair, he was more reminiscent of his father’s Cold Lord visage than Raphael had ever been, despite being of his blood; it was a rather stark reminder of the fact he was the only high-ranking devil left in Mephistar who was indeed native to Cania.

“They have been doing far more than sulking, as you’ll soon find out. You’d best be grateful, and learn from them. It will be thanks to them that you may stand a sliver of a chance against the Lord of the Eighth. They’ll help you turn that potential you mentioned into true power.”

“I take it that they have given up on their hope to regain Mephistopheles’ favor, and have resorted to working to end his reign?”

Adonides did not confirm as much, but did not deny either; that was a clear enough answer in itself. “Follow me inside. Tuncheth will want to meet you, and he’ll explain where we stand in more detail than I could. I have to return soon, before my absence is noted.”

Upon the icy shelf, there was indeed only one way to go save from down onto the shelf below: ahead, through a covered courtyard - columns of clear ice holding up a ceiling of blue, glowing ice - and then into the entrance of what may be described, with some optimism, as a small icy palace. A pair of gelugons stood guard at either side of the entrance, spears in hand, but both lowered their weapons and bowed when they recognized Adonides. 

“Duke Adonides. Lord Raphael.” A brief glance at the mortals following them; the guard did not add ‘and whomever you may be’, but it was abundantly clear from the brief clack of the mandibles that was precisely what she was thinking. Gelugons dwelt nearly exclusively in Cania or in Stygia, far from the surface; they encountered mortals far more rarely than devils which populated more superficial layers. They were at least clever enough to see they were with Adonides, and not for them to torment. “Whole and well, I see. Tuncheth awaits you.”

“And we shan’t keep him waiting any longer. Did he pace enough to create a path in the ice?”

The clack of mandibles sounded almost like a laugh. “I suspect he’s getting there. Do come in. You should not be seen outside unless necessary, Lord Raphael.”

I hold no such title, Raphael thought, but did not speak as much aloud. No reason to eschew honorifics when bestowed, after all. He only nodded and followed Adonides inside, through the entrance. He did not need to duck beneath it, but he instinctively did. It gained him a strange look from one of the guards, and a laugh from Karlach. 

“Hah! Feeling tall at the moment?”

“... Quite. I had to duck beneath nearly every doorway in the vaults.”

“You hold all the memories from that half of you, too?” Durge asked. Raphael nodded.

“Some are not too clear. Ascension does not allow for as lucid a mind as I generally like to keep. But yes, I do remember patrolling Mephistopheles’ vaults as vividly as I recall traversing Avernus with you. I must admit, it was not quite as eventful.”

“Right. So, you recall everything about that, too.”

I recall you bedding me if that’s what you’re wondering, Raphael thought, but held his tongue, all too aware of the fact Adonides was well within earshot and would likely not think too highly of the notion.

Raphael had suffered enough snide remarks from him to last him the next few centuries.

“Yes,” was all he said in the end, and left it at that. They would not have had the chance to continue the conversation either way: as they entered a hall with high ceilings - most of the palace, Raphael suspected, was carved inside the mountain itself - their host was impossible to miss. Gelugons’ height almost rivaled that of pit fiends the likes of Lord Bel or Duke Hutijin, but Tuncheth was particularly tall even for his kind, with a formidable carapace and massive, deadly looking spikes across his back. He was, indeed, pacing back and forth, mandibles clacking in obvious worry even as insectoid composite eyes stared blankly ahead.

“... If I didn’t know any better, Tuncheth, I may suspect you didn’t have full confidence the mission would be successful.”

There was a sound of claws skittering on ice, and Tuncheth turned to the door. Emotions were always hard to read on a gelugon, but relief was plain in the way he relaxed the mandible, and exhaled. “The Lord Below be praised, I was starting to fear the worst.”

“We had a slight complication. Mephistopheles was a step ahead of us, and had commanded the ascended fiend to destroy its human half. It was able to defy that order, however,” Adonides spoke, and tilted his head towards Raphael. “Here he stands, whole again. I need to return to Mephistar before the Lord of Hellfire does, to ensure everything looks normal. Surely you can fill you in?”

Raphael knew little of Tuncheth - the ice devils living at the very outskirts of his father’s kingdom did not precisely hold his interest - but he recalled hearing, if vaguely, how easily irritated he was. He certainly sounded irritated now, as he scoffed.

“Have you told him nothing at all of what we hold here?”

Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I have done more than my fair share, I’d say. I leave that honor to you,” he said, and glanced over at Raphael. “... I do wish you good luck. For Cania if nothing else,” he added, and that was it. He turned and left without further ceremony, heading back outside and then, Raphael supposed, to Mephistar. He was still scowling at his retreating back when Tuncheth cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Nebulat, child of Mephisto. And to your companions as well. I heard they have traversed Avernus with you, before aiding you in Mephistar - fearsome warriors, I was told.”

Raphael nodded. “They did. And they are,” he said. No use in denying the obvious… and frankly, the more fearsome their reputation grew, the fewer devils would be inclined to mock him for falling under their blows in the first place. 

Introductions were quick enough; even so, Tuncheth soon grew impatient. It was clear that his true interest lay in Raphael. He nodded his head at each of his companions, and welcomed them to Nebulat, before turning his attention on Raphael once more. “You resisted the compulsion to obey your father. It must have taken great power of will to defy him.”

“It’s more that his mom told him--” Astarion began, only to trail off with a wince when Ravengard pressed a heel down on his foot, hard. Tuncheth either did not hear him, or was rather good at pretending as much. 

“That is auspicious. The task before you requires nothing less than an iron will.”

Ah, yes. The task before him. What an elegant way to put it. It made defeating the second most powerful archdevil in the Hells - second to one who was, in fact, a minor god - sound like something within the realms of possibility.

“I have gathered that you expect me to kill Mephistopheles,” Raphael said, crossing his arms. “What escapes me is how, precisely, you expect me of all who dwell in Baator to achieve it.” 

The gelugon tilted his head. A twitch of the antennae gave away his annoyance before he spoke. “I asked myself the same, in truth. I would not have chosen you. A halfbreed and a creature of fire to boot, like your sire. I did not believe you had a single shred of a chance.”

“I am picking up a past tense. Do I have to assume you changed your mind?”

“Hmph. Whether I’m proven wrong remains to be seen, but you are now more powerful than you ever were, and you can achieve and maintain an ascended state with no need to consume souls. According to Adonides, the amount of arcane power your sired poured into your fiendish half beggars belief. And it is still there, to use against him.”

That was true; both halves of him had grown in strength and power before reuniting. Still… 

“Do you truly think it would be enough for me to best the Lord of the Eighth?”

A snort. “I don’t know. But the Lord Below said it should be you, if you proved yourself capable enough. He must have his reasons. It is not for me, not you, to question him.”

“Say that you had to try and guess. Why me?”

An irritable twitch. “I can only think of one answer. One thing only Mephistopheles and yourself hold, over every other devil of Baator - complete mastery over that wretched hellfire.”

“Other archdevils, and powerful dukes, can use it. Even mortals, if my father bestows--”

“They can use it, yes. They are not its masters. They do not command it the way Mephistopheles does. None developed the immunity to it that Mephistopheles has. None but you. No other - none of the lofty minds trained at the School of Hellfire, none of the countless other bastards your father sired - can boast anything close to mastery over that monstrosity.”

“The obsession with hellfire has become a madness in your father,” Adonides had told Raphael only days earlier. That ice devils were disgruntled by their Lord’s obsession with hellfire was no news; neither was the fact that every day, mountains of ice crumbled and glaciers collapsed. The archmage of the Hells put his experiments above everything, as part of his compulsive search for power through knowledge. 

It had him turn his layer into an immense testing ground rather than a kingdom… and when something went wrong, it went indeed very wrong. There was fear, whispered through the corners of few brave mouths, that sooner or later the entire layer would collapse on Nessus. 

But until then, the gelugons had mostly blamed the pit fiends who’d replaced them at court, or those like Quagrem who kept researching hellfire on his father’s behalf. They’d been seeking to push them out of favor, regain their ruler’s attention to distract him from that obsession. Raphael briefly wondered whether turning against Mephistopheles in the end had been their decision after centuries of failures, or if they were following the course Asmodeus had set. 

Pieces on a lanceboard, every one of them. And Raphael rather preferred being the player.

“... Hellfire cannot be what you expect me to use against Mephistopheles. As you said yourself, he is immune to it. And Adonides said something on how you may be able to help turn my newfound potential into power. So what am I here to learn, precisely?”

Tuncheth clacked his mandible; it did not look like a smile, but it probably was the closest he could get to. “Wizards under my command found another way to turn the very essence of Baator into raw power. Ice magic, powerful enough to counter hellfire. We hoped it would turn your sire from his reckless experiments with hellfire, but he dismissed it. It seems only right, then, that he should feel its bite.”

“... What kind of magic are you speaking of?” Raphael asked. Tuncheth turned, and tilted his head towards the back of the room. There was something Raphael had never seen before: a wall of clear blue ice, with something flickering within. It looked like just flames from a distance, but of course it was not; Raphael would recognize hellfire at a glance, always. 

And yet, it was entirely encased in ice; the ice did not melt, and did not let through any of that devastating heat. Hellfire was not destroyed - nothing could - but it was contained. Raphael reached out to touch it, and the cold spread through his hand, up his arm, to his very core; he had resistance to cold, but not immunity, and it tore a sharp gasp from him before he pulled away. He held up his hand, flexed his fingers; he could see frostbite was already beginning to develop on his skin. 

Behind him, Tuncheth laughed. “It cares not for resistance, and it can wound even those immune to most glacial cold Cania has to offer,” he said, and walked up to him. “Even your sire won't remain unscathed. And most of all, as you can see, hellfire itself cannot melt it. Your father laughed, when we told him what we were doing - said it was purely theoretical. But as you can plainly see, it is a theory no more. The greatest wizards among us have made it a reality. We call it… the Plume.”

The name was announced with quite a bit of pathos that felt frankly unfitting for such an underwhelming name. That may need further work… but the magic itself was powerful, Raphael could tell, drawing power from the very essence of the layer. He stared at the frostbites a few moments before he cast a healing spell, and watched them disappear. His gaze fell again on the hellfire within the ice. “So this is what Adonides said you’d teach me.”

“Yes. Only then will you stand a chance - as I am certain you’re aware.”

Raphael was not entirely sure he’d stand a chance at all even with that kind of magic at his disposal, but pointing out as much as a moot point. What did it matter? He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles, because his mother and his-- I didn’t tell them, did I, but they know, surely they know -- incubus were in Mephistar, in the vaults to buy him time, and it was only a matter of time before the ruse was uncovered. He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because there was nowhere on the Planes where he’d be safe as long as his sire lived. 

And of course, he had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because the Lord Below had commanded him to. That too was non-negotiable. 

“... Very well. I suppose I am as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Another clack of the mandibles. “Good. There is much work to do, but you and your companions and your companions will be our esteemed guests until you’re ready. We’ll start teaching you all about the Plume soon, but you may rest for now. No one knows you’re here, except for Duke Adonides and Duchess Baalphegor.”

“And the Lord Below, I presume,” Raphael said, gaining himself a scoff.

“Goes without saying,” Tuncheth replied, and gestured for two guards to escort them away.

As they were taken into the depths of Nebulat, into their quarters, Raphael felt a scaly hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “... So. How are you?”

Raphael scoffed, but did not shake Durge’s hand off. “I am expected to kill my sire. I doubt I shall be able to do so, and failing means my death and that of everybody I’ve grown to hold dear against my better judgment. Most of all, to my shame , I find I do not wish to kill him.”

“Not too good, then.”

“Your insight shall never cease to amaze me,” Raphael muttered, but he found he could force no venom into his voice; at least for now, he chose to blame tiredness for that. He reached up for that hand as they walked, and let it take a hold of his fingers.

Even now, they felt cold.

***

“Lord of the Seventh.”

“Lord of the Eighth.”

There was enough venom in those words to poison every living thing in Toril twice over; but as always, the mutual hatred was hidden behind smiles. Or, before he was returned to his old form, behind the inexpressive face of an oozing slug in Baalzebul’s case. 

Disgusting as the sight had been, Mephistopheles rather hoped his old enemy would be foolish enough to lie to him, if only to see him humiliated yet again. Still, he doubted Baalzebul would be that careless… which meant he'd have the truth. 

“There is a matter I’ve been looking to discuss with you, if you may spare the time.”

“By all means.”

“Some of my envoys in the Material Plane have found something quite interesting at a diabolist’s place of business in Baldur’s Gate. A portal, opening to Maladomini. A short distance away from Malagard, in fact,” Mephistopheles said, choosing to withhold the fact the diabolist in question was a servant of Mammon; frankly, it was plain to see that Mammon himself had nothing to do with the entire sorry matter, weak imbecile that he was. Much like her patron, the diabolist had been driven by greed; nothing more and nothing less.

Mephistopheles had considered demanding Mammon let him interrogate her, but so shortly after her death her soul was likely still in the Shelves of Despond; it would be some time before it was processed and sent to Minauros. By then, the matter would be resolved.

Baalzebul’s eyebrows went up, and those black composite eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment. “Did it now? It is quite concerning. By Asmodeus’ decree, no portal should ever be opened below Avernus. I trust that the diabolist has been dealt with?”

“She has indeed, but not by my hand. She was found dead, most likely at the hand of the one we suspect used to portal to come into your layer. Raphael.”

“Ah, I see. Your missing son. Well, half of him if tales are true.” 

Tales that Antilia told you of, with my permission. You think yourself so clever, and yet you’ve had my best spy at your court for centuries. 

He knew better than letting any such thoughts show. “Precisely. I have reason to believe he is heading to Cania, with the foolish notion of reclaimed that which I took. As my arcane magic ensures no portals may be opened in the eighth layer no matter how skilled the diabolist--”

A chuckle, loathsome as ever. “Taking measures after the theft? Counter-intuitive, is it not?”

Meetings in Nessus had strict rules against attacking a fellow archdevil if not in self-defense; this unfortunately meant that burning that smile off with hellfire was no option. But it did not matter: for all his jabs, Baalzebul was unable to do the one thing he needed to do now - lie.

“That is not relevant, is it?” A smile, sharp. “Cania is closed to any and all portals; it follows that anyone planning to reach it would need to travel through the layer immediately above.”

“I see. And you believe Raphael may be this someone.”

“Is it not?”

“I would not know. It may very well be.”

“Has he not turned to you for help crossing over to Cania?”

Baalzebul shook his head. Mephistopheles expected him to try and get out of the question with vague words, twisting the truth without breaking it. He had been prepared for it… but not for the answer that came, straightforward as it could be. “No,” he said. “I have not met him.”

Mephistopheles stared for a moment - but it was just that moment. He smiled. “Perhaps he has met someone else at your court, or somebody else in Maladomini who may aid him.” 

“As far as I am aware, Raphael has never met anyone at court. Nor was I aware he may have set foot in Maladomini until now. If he did come to my layer to continue on to Cania, or for any other reason, I do not know.” There was no hesitation in Baalzebul’s voice and, most notably, no sign of Asmodeus’ curse taking hold. The loathsome face looking back at him was unchanged, and to Mephisto’s surprise it could only mean one thing - he was not lying.

No, it cannot be. He is lying, he must be. Surely he does not speak true - does he?

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps very aware and internally gloating, Baalzebul nodded. “I do thank you for making me aware of the weakness in my layer’s defenses, Lord Mephistopheles. I shall give orders for the portal to be found and closed. As for your fugitive son, I am afraid I have no knowledge which may be useful to you. Will that be all?”

Mephisto glared, but said nothing. Asking anything concerning Antilia would destroy her cover and put her in danger, so he did not. A few words, courteous on the surface, and he walked away - composed as always, even as his mind reeled. 

He’d thought he knew his son well enough to be able to predict his next move, but it seemed he had been wrong yet again. Seeking help from his father’s sworn enemy was the only move that would make sense, and the portal found in Baldur’s Gate did lead to Maladomini. Now, Baalzebul’s words suggested a different scenario. For reasons he could not imagine, Raphael had not turned to Baalzebul for help. Had he perhaps guessed that his sire would think of it, and question the one archdevil who may not lie? The more he thought of it, the more it made sense; perhaps his son had more cunning than he was willing to concede. 

And if Raphael had pressed forward towards Cania on his own, across the treacherous lands of Maladomini without seeking assistance from the Lord of the Seventh in Malagard… then it would explain Antilia’s silence from her post: she simply had no news to relay. 

None of it seemed too absurd, sure enough. Perfectly feasible. And yet…

Mephistopheles turned, and saw Asmodeus looking out of one of the great windows overlooking Malsheem, a cup of wine in his hand. He stepped past Mammon, who was deep into some conversation with Lady Fierna, and walked up to the Lord Below. 

“Brother. A word.”

The cup paused halfway to Asmodeus’ lips. Those same lips curled slowly in a smile, and he spoke without turning. He wore deep red robes that day, as he did most times he had guests; with the four great curving horns on his head, he cut a fearsome figure. 

“Something must be greatly upsetting you, Lord of the Eighth. It has been eons since you called me such.”

“Does it displease you?”

“Never.” A drink from that cup, and he set it down on the tray of a waiting servant before turning. The glowing red eyes met Mephisto’s pale blue ones; he’d chosen to wear the visage of the Cold Lord that day. “What is it, then, that you wish us to discuss?”

“I have reason to suspect that the Lord of the Seventh may be lying with impunity.”

Asmodeus tilted his head. He did not answer him right away, nor did he dismiss his concern; he seemed to be considering the notion. “And what makes you think so?”

“I have asked for answers on matters concerning one of my offspring. He has indeed given answers, but I have reason enough to think they may not necessarily be the truth.”

“No proof, then.”

“My instinct has seldom let me down. You know as much.”

“Seldom is not never,” was the response, but again it was no dismissal, and Mephistopheles glanced back. Baalzebul was leaving the meeting alongside the avatar of Levistus, chatting amiably with the half-frozen, sulking Lord of the Fifth. Soon, the two of them were the only ones left in the hall. 

“Is it truly impossible for him to have found a way to dispel the curse you placed on him?”

Asmodeus hummed. “Few things are impossible, but a great many are unlikely. Should I find that Baalzebul has slipped from my control, his punishment will be severe.” He looked into the ruby atop his rod, and murmured something; the ruby seemed to shimmer. The Lord of the Hells looked back at Mephistopheles. “He has not. The hold remains tight as ever. Baalzebul cannot lie to a fellow devil without severe and rather noticeable consequences.”

That was a relief to know, even with needling doubt still in the back of his mind. Perhaps he’d been concerning himself over nothing, after all. Raphael had known that he’d be expected to turn to Baalzebul, and so he had not. He would die trying to cross, fall into his trap near Nargus, or be torn to pieces by his own fiend half if he ever managed to make it to his vaults. 

He would fall, with or without Antilia’s involvement. Nothing he did would change his fate.

“I see. Thank you, Lord Asmodeus. I shall take my leave now,” he said, and bowed, turning to leave. Still, before he did, he found himself stilling. There was something of a distant cast to Asmodeus’ eyes as he looked out of the window. Mephisto recalled only ever seeing something like it once, after Bensozia’s demise. He paused. “... Is everything well, my king?”

Asmodeus turned, and smiled. That distant case to his gaze, however, remained.

“Yes, brother,” he replied. “Everything will be well.”

***

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