#naj;threads

The plan was simple: approach the vendor from behind, threaten their life and take the whole box of tickets they kept under the counter while they peed their pants. He needed something to carry them, anyway.

Not his usual style, he’d rather charm them into giving him the tickets willingly with a silly little smiles on their faces that betrayed their sudden need to have him all over them. But did he have time for that? Azagi already had some. Valerie was determined to win. He needed to be swift.

The demon observed one of those sellers with narrowed eyes full of thoughts, pointy horns glinting with mischief above his head. He was in a good mood, otherwise he wouldn’t indulge in such silly games. But Raven seemed to be having a good time as well and no one had attempted to steal her from him so far. Quite the achievement.

She was getting older by the day, she was human after all. Mortal.

Naj didn’t mind it in the way she thought, she was still as gorgeous and tempting as the first day. No, she was more attractive now, even when she demanded naive things from him like actual love. Ugh. He was growing frantic because, simply put, he would lose his mind if he lost her. Not something he would ever admit out loud, although it seemed as if everyone else could see it except her.

Sure, he had gone a little too far sometimes, and maybe that’s why she couldn’t fathom the fact that he didn’t want to lose her… But some bickering here and there didn’t mean anything.

Even now, as he watched her sleep in his arms, his mind was a rampage of dreadful thoughts and reckless ideas, half of them relying on myth and the other on the sort of people who wanted to see him perish, those who would rather let Raven rot in a grave than grant him even a few more years with her.

They didn’t understand.

The demon sighed as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His dark eyes always held a sharp edge, a dangerous glint, but they seemed to soften every time they fell on her. Especially when she was in a vulnerable state like this, still trusting him–barely–after all they had been through.

Slowly he slid off the bed and quietly walked his way out of the room, taking one last peek at her as he mulled over his next move toward the impossible. A late night drink could definitely help.

Whispers. Groans. The suspenseful hush that loomed before blood spilled. Najelon loved that sound, because it usually preceded the announcement of his victory. When boredom struck —or irritation spiked— he turned up at The Slaughter Ring. Not just for sport, it served as a reminder that the playful incubus wth a devil-may-care smile could crush a throat just as fast as he could charm it.

Not that he’d been in the mood for games every since Raven had come home with another man’s delight clinging to her skin. He’dd felt it like a shift in the air. And her expression, that mix of guilt, fear and satisfaction so familiar now, had only confirmed it.

A nose cracked under the brutal weight of his fist, rage powering the hook that drove his opponent into the ring’s floor. Poor bastard couldn’t take one more blow, they were instantly knocked out. The demon stared down at them as he was declared winner, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t even listening.

Thoughts of his pet going out of her way just to let a random vampire drink from her neck —not even a wrist, but somewhere as intimate as her neck— clouded his senses.

All he could see was red, the same that dripped from his knuckled as he stepped out of the ring. Someone shoved him a towel to wipe himself, he didn’t bother to look who. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly. But it was someone else’s turn to fight. For now.

“Can’t say I’m surprised to see my number–one stalker here.” Najelon’s eyes bored into her, old and precise from a cautious distance. His low voice cut the thick air like a knife.

They’d traded looks already—glares on his part—and he’d try to ignore her, but being trapped in an enchanted room with rising salt water between them and the exit, had shoved indifference out the hatch. He’d never willingly work with Cait. The thought alone felt like torture. Still, she had a mind; useful, dangerous. The bitch. And they needed to act quickly.

“If I find out you had anything to do with this I’ll fucking kill you,” he promised, the smirk revealing sharp teeth that glinted in the dim light. “For good this time.”

Salt stung the air; his nose wrinkled with disgust. He stayed back from the crimson water, feeling his strength ebb even from here. If they took too long to solve the riddle a find a way out, he wouldn’t be able to hold even his glamor.

Round one was over in the blink of an eye. It had been too easy, and all he cared about afterward was the outcome of Raven’s fight. Fortune seemed to be smiling at both of them that night, nonetheless. Her opponent—another bloodsucking prick, ugh—didn’t even try. Good. And for the next fight… Baekyong knew better than piss him off.

He could focus on his own affairs, on the little prince stepping into the arena already injured and completely traumatized. The royal fight had become the main event, holding everyone’s attention hostage until one of them fell. Some people were outraged, but most enjoyed seeing them exposed and vulnerable. Naj was no different. It was a pity that Azagi was missing the show, but she was certainly enjoying her time taking care of Najelon’s prisoners, right?

“Family reunion gone wrong, little Prince?” he asked mockingly, sharp teeth glinting under bright lights that made it hard to see beyong the ring. “You seemed as surprised as the rest of us to know there was a third sibling.” A chuckle escaped him. No matter the occasion, taunting his opponent came naturally to him, but in this case Naj was genuinely amused.

The demon was slowly circling the merman, lightweight steps that didn’t make sense for a man his size. He’d let the merman make the first move just like he did with the werewolf. It was easier to win when they dug their own graves.

The storage room should have been empty.

The Ghouliard was brimming with inhibited patrons spending away their kochba without second though; the invisible touch of pixie in their drinks certainly worked them up, just like their host calculated. Every member of the staff was running up and down hands–full, and Elian had been suddenly sent to fetch another crate of spirit bottles, despite having stocked fully before the start of the night shift.

Dust gathered in forgotten corners. Shelves groaned beneath assorted containers and supplies. Somewhere overhead, pipes rattled softly as water traveled through the walls. It was the sort of mundane silence people didn’t notice while they were busy. Until the light flickered.

Once. Twice. Then steadied. Nothing happened. For several seconds, everything remained perfectly normal.

Then a shadow moved. Not Elian’s. Something shifted across the farthest wall, stretching unnaturally between the shelves. The lights flickered again, dimming long enough for darkness to engulf the whole room. For a single heartbeat, a distorted silhouette stood in the middle, its shadow projected on the wall in front of Elian. Tall. Horned. Its proportions all wrong; limbs too long, fingers ending in claws, a tail curling behind it like a serpent preparing to strike. Something was behind the merman.

Then the light returned and the figure vanished. Instead, a familiar shape leaned against one of the shelves as though he’d been standing there the entire time. Naj tilted his head as a slow smile spread across his face. His crimson gaze drifted over the room before settling on Elian.

“I was hoping you’d scream.”

Some decisions aren’t made because they’re good. Even for someone who kept a neatly organized archive of all the contracts he’d made over centuries of scheming and soul–collection, sometimes recklessness won over logic. Especially when the circumstances involved a certain human pushing forty–five.

“Still decorating like a mausoleum keeper,” a gravelly voice echoed in the shadows surrounding Marius, breaking the cryptic silence otherwise interrupted only by the occasional clack of bones against stone. “Or is grave–digger more suitable for you?”

He didn’t reveal his face yet. Despite the arrogance of his unannounced visit, Najelon’s instincts advised everything contrary to what he would attempt. Red eyes narrowed at familiar symbols; shelves crowded with ancient grimoires, glass jars containing preserved organs and blackened herbs. The air smelled of damp stone and sweet rot. Everything was just like he remembered it, unfortunately. Including that gut–wrenching magic that oozed from every pore of the necromancer’s skin.

Najelon couldn’t afford to show a shred of weakness.

Smoke and embers flooded the room as the demon did a quick inspection for anything dangerous—other than the bane of his existence. Once pleased, he materialized at a cautious distance from Marius, crimson eyes emerging from a dark corner with nothing but a shit–eating grin.

“You know…” he murmured in a mocking tone, although it sounded more grounded now that he was corporeal. “It’s quite easy for a demon to trespass, even a little fae wouldn’t have any trouble.”

Ever since a specific chain of events in Najelon’s past, he made habit of keeping track of every notable sorcerer in Calamity. It was both a form of self–protection and a strategic move. Wendell was a name that gained more and more traction in the darker corners of the state, reaching even the depths of the Dominion. Naj lurked the shadows in search of him, but by the time he tried to reach out, the man died.

How fucking convenient.

Moving forward, he wouldn’t have known about his progeny if it weren’t for the damned Council. To his own surprise, the daughter owned that one shop that always stole a quiet smirk or a huffed breath from him. The name was entirely on the nose.

Nothing promised he’d find anything of interest inside, but if the Wendell descendant was a powerful sorcerer too, he’d rather stay n her good books—even if he had to manipulate his way in. He stepped inside the establishment with his usual confidence, horns on display and a glint in his eyes that betrayed his ever scheming mind.

“Good morning,” he greeted like any other good civilian. “I was looking for protective rings.”