Andrealphus walked with elegant, gliding steps, his long tail feathers sweeping the ground like he owned every inch of Hell he touched. He glanced back at you with a smile that was far too pleased.

“Come along, my dear daughter. No need for all that sniveling. You’re safe now. I am your rightful guardian—wholesome, proper, and far better suited to guide a young Goetia lady than those degenerates ever were. Even if you are… grown.”

You didn’t answer. The word “guardian” felt like a sick joke. You were a grown woman, yet he spoke to you like a wayward child who needed correcting, wandered too far and needed scolding. Every word made you want to scream.

The journey felt both endless and entirely to quick. When you finally arrived at the grand gates, your stomach twisted violently, it was Stolas's palace, but the palace you remembered—full of warm candlelight, scattered books, soft velvet drapes, and the faint smell of tea and old paper—was gone.

Andrealphus had already begun “improving” it.

The once-vibrant gardens were now rigid geometric patterns of frost-covered topiary. Ice sculptures of elegant peacocks and sharp geometric symbols lined the walkway. The warm golden lighting had been replaced with cold, harsh blue-white crystals that cast long, unforgiving shadows.

Everything felt sterile. Clinical. Void of love. The air itself was colder, as if the palace had been drained of every ounce of Stolas and replaced with Andrealphus’s icy perfection.

The rich reds and deep purples of the drapes were gone, swapped for stark whites, blues and silvers. Even the air felt colder, sterile. There was no warmth left—no lingering scent of old books and starlight, no soft glow from enchanted candles.

It felt like a beautiful tomb.

Andrealphus placed a guiding hand on your lower back, steering you deeper inside. “Much better already, don’t you think? A proper Goetic household should reflect dignity, not… whatever sentimental nonsense Stolas allowed.”

You heard laughter echoing from the main sitting room before you saw her.

Stella’s sharp, cackling voice cut through the air, she was seated on the newly acquired white couches, glass of something sparkling in hand, looking utterly delighted.

“Oh, the look on his stupid feathered face!” Stella crowed, flapping a hand dramatically. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Finally rid of that embarrassing weakling.”

Andrealphus smirked. “Indeed. All that mooning over an imp. Disgraceful. At least now the Goetia family won’t be dragged through any more mud. And with his little plaything out of the way… well, we can finally set things right.”

Your knees nearly buckled, Stolas.

They were laughing about Stolas like he was nothing more than a mildly amusing inconvenience. The sob tore out of you before you could stop it.

Both heads turned toward you. Stella’s eyes lit up with vicious glee. Andrealphus simply looked mildly annoyed at the interruption.

“Hmmmm” Stella sneered. “Still crying over your precious prince, are we?”

The laughter that erupted from both of them was loud and mocking.

Stella leaned forward, grinning like a shark. “Listen to her! Still pining after a pathetic phleban. How utterly embarrassssssssing. We are trying to give you a proper life and you are so ungrateful”

Stella snapped her fingers aggressively and a young imp servant re-filled her glass.

“Did you see the look on his face when he arrived?” Stella’s voice rang out, gleeful and vicious. “All that pathetic trembling. ‘I confess!’ As if anyone cared what that pathetic man had to say.”

Andrealphus chuckled, the sound elegant and cold. “Truly, sister. The way he simpered over both of them right until the end. Embarrassing for the entire Goetia family. Good riddance. At least now our House can rise to its proper place.”

Andrealphus moved to join Stella lowering himslef into a chair with fulid grace, his smile widening when he saw the horror on your face.

“Stolas…” you whispered, voice cracking. “He’s really… gone.”

Stella burst into fresh laughter, covering her beak delicately. “Oh listen to her! Still calling him by name like they were friends. How adorable.”

Andrealphus waved a hand dismissively. “She’ll learn. Won’t you, my dear? Now that you’re away from those degenerates, you’ll become a true Goetic vision.”

You swallowed hard, tears threatening your eyes as you refused to let them fall. Your eyes darted around the cold room until you spotted an ornate phone on a side table—one of Stolas’s old ones, though even it looked polished and stripped of personality.

“Please,” you said, voice small and desperate. “Can I… can I use the phone? I just need to call Blitz. I need to know if he’s okay. Please.”

The laughter stopped.

Andrealphus’s expression shifted instantly from false benevolence to icy fury. In one fluid motion he crossed the distance and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek.

The crack echoed through the sterile hall.

Your head snapped to the side, pain blooming hot across your face.

“How dare you,” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “Asking for that filthy imp the moment you step foot in your new home? Have you no shame?”

Stella clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh brother, she’s even more pathetic than Stolas was! Begging to speak to her little plaything already.”

You clutched your burning cheek, tears spilling over. “He’s not—I I just—”

“Silence,” Andrealphus cut you off sharply. “That chapter of your life is over. No more crawling around with imps and disgraced princes. You will harness your true nature. You will speak properly, carry yourself properly, and become everything Stolas failed to be. Elegant. Controlled. Worthy of the Goetia name.”

He straightened, smoothing his feathers as if the slap had been nothing more than correcting a misbehaving child.

“I will not have you behave like that sniveling fool—mooning over lesser demons, letting sentimentality ruin your potential. Under my guidance, you will be perfect. A shining example of what I can achieve when not tainted by weakness and… inappropriate attachments.”

“Hear, hear," Stella smirked, raising her glass. "Maybe we’ll even find you a proper match someday. Someone with actual status instead of whatever gutter trash you’ve been rolling around with.”

You stood there trembling, cheek throbbing, the cold of the palace sinking deeper into your bones. The man who now legally owned you as your “wholesome guardian” smiled at you again—all teeth and ice.

“Oh, sister, what a wonderful idea,” he purred, clapping his hands together once with elegant precision. “Truly inspired. A proper match for the newly recovered Marchioness Apparent. Yes… once she has learned some poise and control, we’ll find her someone suitable. Someone with real status.”

You stood frozen, the cold of the renovated palace pressed in from all sides, making the ache in your chest feel even heavier. Stolas was—Blitz was gone—dragged away screaming. And now these two were already planning your future like you were livestock at auction.

Andrealphus tilted your chin up with one cold finger so you were forced to meet his eyes.

“Perhaps even King Paimon himself could approve the match. Wouldn’t that be delightful? His endorsement would silence any lingering whispers about your… unfortunate past associations.”

Stella let out a sharp, tinkling laugh that echoed off the icy walls. “Paimon? Oh, he’d love that. The old buzzard was always so dismissive of Stolas. At least this one might actually listen.” She waved a hand dismissively.

“Stolas was such a disappointment. Always crying, always making scenes, always lowering himself. I tried to tell him — repeatedly — what a real Goetia marriage should look like. Duty. Power. Status. Not whatever sentimental garbage he wallowed in.”

You felt sick. The way they spoke about Stolas—like he was nothing more than an embarrassing footnote—made fresh tears prick at your eyes. He had never been cruel to Stella. You knew that. This wasn’t about old wounds. This was about elevating themselves through you.

“And you,” Stella continued, turning her sharp gaze on you with cruel sweetness, “will do so much better than he ever did. No more letting silly feelings get in the way of your duty. You’ll be elegant. Controlled. The perfect little Marchioness. And when we find you a match—someone powerful, someone with actual influence—you’ll thank us.”

Andrealphus’s smile never wavered, though his eyes remained cold as the ice sculptures lining the halls. “She will. Won’t you, daughter? This is your fresh start. No more weakness. You’ll learn quickly, or we’ll simply have to be… firmer with your education.”

Stella smirked, swirling the liquid in her glass. “Imagine it. King Paimon approving the match himself. You’ll be attending proper functions, strengthening alliances, and making the family look good for once.”

The two of them shared another laugh — light, elegant, and utterly heartless.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper, still raw from crying. “I don’t… I don’t want any of that. I just want to know if Blitz—”

Andrealphus’s expression hardened again. He didn’t slap you this time, but the look he gave you was sharper than any blow.

“That name will not be spoken in this house again,” he said quietly, danger threading through the false warmth. “Those days are over. You belong to me. And you will learn your place, or you’ll end up just like Stolas — pitied, disgraced, and ultimately discarded—You’ll thank us one day. When you’re looking down on the filth you once wallowed in.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Andrealphus turned away. “That will be all for now. Go. We have important matters to discuss.”

Your legs moved on autopilot as you stumbled out of the grand sitting room, the cruel laughter of Andrealphus and Stella following you down the freezing corridor.

The palace felt even more wrong the further you wandered. Eventually your feet carried you toward the one place that still smelled faintly of life—the kitchens.

The heavy door creaked open. Warmth hit you first—actual warmth, from ovens and simmering pots—along with the familiar clatter of pans and the low murmur of imp voices.

The staff hadn’t been replaced. These were the same imps who had served Stolas for years.

Your eyes found her the older imp woman with the severe grey bun pulled tight at the nape of her neck. The same one who had panicked and firmly shooed you out of the kitchen, when you’d tried to help like a normal person.

She turned at the sound of the door. For a split second her eyes widened in recognition.

“Most Honorable Ladyship,” she bowed deeply, stiff and formal, voice respectful but laced with the weariness of someone who had seen too much of Stella’s cruelty.

The sight of her bowing—this kind Imp who ran everything like clockwork—cracked something deep inside you. Tears welled up instantly, hot and overwhelming.

“Please… don’t,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Don’t do that. Not today. Please.”

She straightened slowly, studying your tear-streaked face and the faint red mark still visible on your cheek. Without a word, she pulled out a low wooden stool from under the counter and gestured for you to sit. The other kitchen staff glanced over but kept working quietly, giving you space.

The older imp moved with quiet efficiency, filling a kettle and setting it on the stove. Soon the comforting smell of tea—one of Stolas’s favorite blends, you realized with a fresh pang—filled the small warm space.

She placed a delicate teacup beside you and patted your hand sympathetically, her calloused fingers rough but gentle.

“There now,” she murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “Sit. They don’t come down here.”

You wrapped your hands around the teacup, the staff moved around you with quiet efficiency, occasionally the older woman patted your shoulder or refilled your tea without asking.

The other staff kept glancing at you with sympathetic eyes but said little—they knew better than to speak too freely these days.

The swinging door suddenly burst open. A imp rushed in, panting, carrying an empty silver ice bucket.

“Quickly! They want more champagne upstairs—chilled properly this time!” he gasped, slamming the bucket onto the counter. “Lady Stella’s already complaining it’s not cold enough, and Lord Andrealphus is tapping his fingers like he’s about to freeze one of us.”

Your eyes widened slightly as you recognized the ornate ice bucket. It was the same one Stolas used during your last stay here—the one he’d filled, while he'd made you fall apart under the stars in the observatory.

The older imp woman clicked her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head as she watched the younger imp carefully arrange the ice around the bottle.

“Tsk. Stolas was, you know for all his faults he,” she muttered under her breath, low enough that only those closest could hear. “He never demanded champagne every hour like some—”

She caught your eye mid-sentence and stopped herself, pressing her lips together tightly.

You gave a dry, tired smile, your voice coming out hoarse but laced with bitter sarcasm.

“Yeah… heaven forbid you don’t keep the ice FUCKERS upstairs properly inebriated.”

The older imp woman let out a short, surprised huff that was almost a laugh. A couple of the other staff nearby exchanged small, nervous grins before quickly returning to their tasks.

She turned back to the stove where several pots were simmering. The rich, gamey smell of something roasting filled the air. You leaned forward slightly, peering at the pan.

“Vole,” the older woman said with clear distaste, poking at the small creatures with a long fork. “Lord Andrealphus requested it specifically. Says it’s ‘refined.’”

You wrinkled your nose. The thought of the elegant, cruel peacock upstairs demanding the tiny roasted rodents made your stomach turn even more than the cold palace already had.

The older imp woman glanced toward the door to make sure no one important was listening, then gave you a conspiratorial look. She reached into the lower cabinet and pulled out a plump chicken breasts.

With quick, practiced movements she began shaping and trimming the chicken, molding it carefully until the pieces bore a suspicious resemblance to the small roasted voles already on the tray.

“Won’t know the difference once it’s sauced and plated up nice,” she muttered, a sharp glint in her eye. “Looks close enough. And between you and me… they’re too busy preening their own feathers to notice anyway.”

She slid the reshaped chicken onto the tray beside the actual voles, then gave the whole thing a generous drizzle of rich sauce to hide any imperfections.

You couldn’t help the small, dry snort that escaped you.

She glanced at you again, eyes sharp but kind. “And you can always pretend it’s one of them up there. Just imagine biting the bitches head off. Might make the whole meal go down a little easier.”

A few of the younger imps nearby nearly dropped their knives, biting back laughter.

“Careful" One of them whispered

The older woman snorted softly and patted there hand, before she gave the fake “vole” tray one last critical look, then slid it into the oven.

“There. Good enough for royalty,” she said with heavy sarcasm, rolling her eyes. “Now go on, get that bucket upstairs before they throw another fit. And you—” she turned back to you, voice softening, “—you stay as long as you need. Lovey."

You nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat. For a little while longer, you let yourself hide in the warmth and quiet defiance of the kitchen, surrounded by a part of Stolas’s palace that still held some of his warmth.

Later that evening, you were summoned to dinner in the newly redecorated formal dining hall. The long table gleamed under harsh crystalline lights, every surface cold and unforgiving.

Andrealphus sat at the head, feathers pristine and posture impeccable. Stella lounged to his right, already on her second glass of champagne from the ice bucket the frantic imp had delivered earlier.

You took your assigned seat in stiff silence, the heavy silverware and icy blue table settings making the whole room feel more like a stage than a place to eat. A domed silver platter was set before each of you. When the lid was lifted, the smell of roasted meat and rich sauce filled the air.

Your “vole” looked perfect—expertly shaped, garnished, and sauced exactly as Andrealphus preferred. None of them would ever know it was plain chicken.

Andrealphus sliced into his portion with elegant precision, taking a delicate bite before nodding in approval.

“At least you little createns are learning to meet basic standards.” he said coolly, dismissing the staff with a wave.

Stella poked at hers with her fork, lips curling in mild disdain. “It’s still a little common for my taste, but I suppose it will do. Anything is better than the slop Stolas used to let them serve.”

You stared down at your own plate. The meat was tender under your knife. As you cut a small piece, the older imp woman’s dry voice echoed in your mind

“You can always pretend it’s one of them up there.”

The thought slipped in before you could stop it, you imagined the perfectly shaped “vole” was Stella instead—her sharp tongue silenced, her cruel laughter finally still.

Then Andrealphus, so proud and icy, reduced to something small and roasted on a plate. For one dark, fleeting moment, the image brought a twisted flicker of satisfaction.

You lifted the fork slowly toward your mouth.

But then you stopped. You shook your head softly, almost imperceptibly, forcing the image away. No. You'd done enough damage, wouldn’t let yourself become like them—finding joy in imagining others suffering.

You lowered the fork for a moment, breathing through the wave of grief and anger that threatened to swallow you whole.

Andrealphus noticed your hesitation and raised an elegant eyebrow.

“Is something wrong with your meal?” His tone was deceptively mild, but you could hear the warning beneath it. “I expect proper manners at my table. Even from someone still learning basic refinement.”

You forced yourself to take the bite. The chicken tasted rich and savory, nothing like the exotic delicacy they believed it to be. You swallowed it down with difficulty.

“No,” you replied quietly, voice steadier than you felt. “It’s… fine.”

Stella laughed lightly, dabbing at her beak with a silk napkin. “She’s still so sullen. Really, brother, you’d think we’d rescued her from some slum instead of giving her the life she was born for. All this moping over that pathetic prince and his little imp whore. It’s embarrassing.”

Andrealphus took another elegant bite, chewing thoughtfully before speaking.

“Indeed. But she will learn. I've already recieved expressions of interest. Some of them were quite eager.”

Your stomach twisted. You kept your eyes on your plate, cutting another piece of the disguised chicken. The older imp’s sarcastic words rang in your ears again. You pictured Stella’s face on the meat for half a second before shaking your head once more, rejecting the cruelty.

No. I’m not like them.

You took the bite and chewed mechanically.

Stella leaned forward, eyes glittering with amusement. “Already? In one day? Well, that's certainly good news.”

Andrealphus smirked faintly. “Quite. And once our Marchioness Apparent here stops clinging to her sentimental weaknesses, she’ll make an excellent wife. Poised. Controlled. A credit to the family instead of a stain.”

You gripped your fork a little tighter, but you didn’t speak. Instead, you focused on the food in front of you—the secret act of quiet rebellion from the kitchen staff. Every bite was a small, hidden defiance, while the two demons across the table praised their own superiority and planned your future like you were property.

Andrealphus raised his glass of champagne, smiling thinly in your direction.

“To new beginnings,” he said smoothly. “And to leaving weakness behind.”

Stella clinked her glass against his with a bright, vicious little laugh.

You lifted your own glass in silence, the warm memory of the kitchen feeling further and further away with every passing second.

After dinner, Andrealphus stood gracefully and snapped his fingers. Two icy constructs grabbed your arms.

“Enough of this nonsense. You’ve had a very trying day. Time to rest.”

You struggled as they dragged you up the grand staircase, but your body felt heavy with grief. They shoved you roughly into Stolas’s old bedroom—the one place that still looked mostly untouched by Andrealphus’s cold renovations.

The door slammed shut and with a sharp click.

You stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. The room still carried faint traces of Stolas—the large four-poster bed, the shelves of his fascinating books. But even here the warmth was fading fast.

Memories crashed over you without mercy.

Stolas cradling your face late at night, his gentle voice painting pictures of stars the warmth of his chest as you slept. Blitz’s rough laugh as he teased you.

The three of you tangled together under the sheets, Stolas's gentle ministrations and Blitz's crude aggressive commentary, Blitz’s arm slung lazily over your waist in sleep while Stolas’s fingers traced idle patterns on your skin.

The desperate huddle in the courtroom, their quiet voices trying to comfort you even as everything fell apart.

You stumbled toward the massive wardrobe on shaking legs. The doors creaked open under your hands.

Inside hung rows of Stolas’s clothing—elegant robes, flowing capes, and dozens of silk shirts in deep reds, midnight blues, and soft violets. Your fingers trembled as they brushed over the smooth fabric. Slowly, you pulled one shirt closer and pressed your face into it.

The scent hit you like a punch to the chest.

It still smelled like him—faint starlight, old paper, warm feathers, and that subtle floral cologne he always wore. Your knees gave out.

You sank to the floor, clutching the silk shirt tightly to your face, breathing him in again and again as if you could somehow bring him back through memory alone.

The dam finally broke.

Great, wracking sobs tore out of you—ugly, painful sounds that echoed in the too-cold room. You curled in on yourself, pressing the shirt harder against your mouth to muffle the cries, but it didn’t help. Tears soaked the fabric as your shoulders shook violently.

“Stolas…” you whispered brokenly into the silk. “Blitz… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

You stayed there on the floor of the wardrobe, surrounded by the last pieces you had left, crying until your throat felt raw and your eyes burned. The palace outside your door was cold and cruel, filled with laughter that celebrated their deaths.

But in this small, dark space, wrapped in Stolas’s scent and the ghost of Blitz’s comfort, you let yourself fall apart completely.

The bedroom door creaked open, a voice called out quietly, confused and hopeful.

“…Dad?”