13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Julian
I wake up before Ophelia, but I can feel her in my arms. I don't sleep in Hell. I never need to, but when I'm away for too long, I start to have more human needs. Yeah, I'm still immortal, but weakness and exhaustion are the first mortal things that hit.
I look down at Ophelia. She's a goddess. And she is all mine. She shifts, and her eyes open—those beautiful crystal-blue eyes staring into my very soul. She’s bathed in the soft morning light, tangled in her sheets, looking at me like I am something worth staying for.
"Good morning," she says, smiling right at me.
A real smile. The kind she hasn’t been able to give since it was taken from her.
"Good morning, darling," I respond, my voice low, still rough with sleep.
I let my fingers drift over her back, tracing slow, lazy patterns against her bare skin. She sighs, content, shifting just enough to press herself closer, her warmth seeping into me.
"I could get used to this," she murmurs, voice drowsy, soft, honest.
I smirk. "Waking up next to me?"
"Mmm." She hums, her fingers trailing over my chest, absentminded, thoughtful. "The peace. The warmth. The way you look at me."
My smirk fades, replaced by something quieter, something deeper.
"How do I look at you?" I ask.
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t know—but because she does.
"Like you see me," she finally says, voice barely above a whisper.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "That’s because I do."
Her throat moves as she swallow. "I’ve never really had that before."
I tip her chin up, forcing her gaze to hold mine. "You have it now."
I'm used to the occasional fling. More like daily, but that's beside the point. A one-night stand. But this is more. I know it. Immediately. I'm in love with her.
She leans in first, kissing me slow, lingering. Like she’s learning me, choosing me.
I cup her cheek, deepening it just enough to let her know I’m choosing her too.
"Okay. I need to know," she says, her tone deadly serious.
"Know what?" I ask, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"What is it that you actually do?"
"I'm a demon. You know that," I say, already confused.
"Yeah, yeah, I get that," she waves a hand dismissively. "But like… do demons have jobs? Or are you just some kind of supernatural trust fund kid?"
I blink. "First of all, rude. Second, yes, I have a job. I torment souls, broker shady contracts, and generally make life—well, afterlife—more difficult. You know, customer service."
She squints at me. "So you're basically a demonic corporate middle manager?"
I nod solemnly. "With occasional smiting privileges."
She looks at me, genuinely distraught. "That's so depressing. You're literally immortal, and you still have a nine-to-five?"
"More like an always-on-call, morally questionable startup," I say, deadpan. "Our CEO is the Devil, and the employee benefits are… well, fire."
She groans, rubbing her temples. "Julian, I was hoping for mysterious and powerful villain, not overworked tech bro from Hell."
I smirk. "Not mutually exclusive."
She huffs but doesn’t drop it. "Okay, fine. So what exactly do you do? Like, do you just go around making deals? Taking souls?"
Her tone is lighter, teasing—but there’s something thoughtful in her eyes.
I lean back against the couch. "Yeah. I make deals. When the time comes, I collect," I respond, cryptically.
She doesn’t like that answer.
"And if they can’t?" she presses, tilting her head.
I exhale, stretching my legs out in front of me. "They can. They do. That’s how deals work, Ophelia."
She studies me, unconvinced. "And what exactly are they paying with?"
I hesitate—just for a fraction of a second. But it’s enough.
Her eyes narrow. "It’s not their own soul, is it?"
Smart girl.
I tilt my head slightly. "Depends on the deal."
She frowns. "But if it was their own, you’d just say that."
I shrug. "People assume they’re the ones paying. I don’t correct them."
She goes quiet for a moment, tapping her fingers against her knee like she’s working through a problem.
"So… someone else pays," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "That’s messed up."
I smile. "That’s business."
She shakes her head, still thinking. But she doesn’t push further. Not yet. And I let her sit with it. Because I know this isn’t the last time she’ll ask.
We are in a good spot when I hear his voice.
Evander: Julian. We need to speak. Now.
It isn’t a request. The air around me tightens, a pull deep in my chest—unseen, but unmistakable. His voice cuts through the space between realms, dragging me toward something I already know won’t be pleasant.
He does not sound happy.
I inhale slowly, exhaling through my nose, steeling myself before I stand.
Ophelia watches me, brow furrowing. “What?”
I shake my head, forcing a smirk that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I have something to take care of.”
She tilts her head, suspicion flickering across her face. “That sounded serious. Work emergency?”
“Something like that.” I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension out of them before she can notice. "Nothing you need to worry about."
I give her one last kiss and get out of bed.
I feel her eyes on me before I even turn.
I smirk. “Like what you see?”
She blinks, then rolls her eyes. “I was just—never mind.”
“No need to be shy,” I say, stretching deliberately. “Appreciation is welcome. Encouraged, even.”
She throws a pillow at me.
I laugh, catching it effortlessly. “Adorable.”
Her glare sharpens. “Shouldn’t you be off doing… whatever mysterious and totally-not-suspicious thing you need to do?”
I chuck the pillow back onto the bed, finally reaching for my clothes. “Much as I’d love to stay here and be objectified, duty calls.”
I take one last look at Ophelia before closing my eyes.
When I open them, I’m standing in my parents’ living room—and of course, they’re not alone.
My father and mother sit near the fireplace, calm and composed. Across from them, sprawled on the opposite sofa like they live here, are my aunt and uncle. Naturally. Looking far too entertained for my liking.
This is going to be fun.
"You called?" I say, already bracing for it.
"We’re worried," my mother says, tone even but laced with something heavier. "You haven’t been home in days."
"Yeah, sorry, I was just—"
"Busy?" My uncle drawls, raising an eyebrow. "Swept up in the throes of passion? Entangled in fate? Possibly doing something catastrophically stupid?"
My aunt hums. "I vote for the last one."
"She’s not wrong," my father mutters.
"Wow," I say dryly. "Nice to know I was missed."
"You were," my mother says, actually serious, which makes me feel like an asshole. "We just don’t like what you’re walking into."
"Owen said you’ve been with the girl," my father says.
"She’s not just ‘the girl,’" I snap. "She’s my soulmate."
My aunt tilts her head at me, studying me. "You don’t seem worried," she murmurs.
"Because I’m not."
"That’s… interesting," my uncle muses. "Because everyone else is."
"I don’t see the issue," I say.
"You’re not looking hard enough," my father replies, voice level but sharp.
My aunt reaches out, brushing her fingers over my forearm. I don’t pull away, but I don’t like the way she’s looking at me now.
"It’s solidifying," she murmurs.
My uncle whistles low. "Oof. That’s going to be a mess later."
"Julian," my father says, pulling my attention back to him. "You know what happens when the bond grows too strong without full commitment. You know what it could do to her."
"She’ll be fine."
My mother presses a hand to her forehead. "Julian, you’re linking yourself to someone who doesn’t know what that means. You haven’t told her."
My father watches me for a long moment, unreadable. "I guess we’ll see."
A voice cuts through the room before I even see him. "So, you haven’t told her yet."
I already know who it is before I turn. Owen. And, of course, he’s not alone.
My brothers and cousins. They materialize out of thin air like a personal nightmare, all staring at me like I’m the idiot in the room.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "What, no grand entrance? No fanfare?"
Owen steps forward, arms crossed. "Figured I’d save you the embarrassment. You’re doing a great job making yourself look like an ass all on your own."
"Fantastic. I so missed our heartfelt sibling moments."
Owen ignores me, eyes narrowing. "You haven’t told her about the deal. The one you made with her father. " Silence. "And," he continues, tone razor-sharp, "I’m guessing you also haven’t told her about the process of claiming a mate."
My Aunt Selene decides to chime in now. "Wait. You haven’t told her either of those things?"
"She’s been through enough," I snap. "I was giving her time to cope. Remember how you all said I had to let her make the choice?"
"Yes," my father says, voice even. "But not while going into it blind, boy. She has to know what she’s choosing."
"You need to tell her the truth," my mother, Liora, adds softly. "All of it. And she has to decide knowing that."
"Well, this is awkward," Adrian mutters, hands in his pockets.
I exhale sharply, already done with this. "Are you all just materializing for fun now?"
"More like showing up to watch you dig your own grave," Lucas says, smirking.
"Fantastic," I mutter. "Did you all schedule this intervention, or was it just a collective urge to piss me off?"
Owen steps forward, arms crossed. "No, just a collective urge to witness your downfall."
I shoot him a glare. "You’re all so helpful."
Damian shrugs. "Look, man, we’re just trying to figure out how much of a disaster this is going to be when she finally finds out."
"You know," Caleb cuts in, rubbing his chin. "The deal you made. The small, tiny detail where her entire existence was collateral."
"Yeah, Julian, when you put it like that—" Lucas whistles. "It actually sounds worse than I thought. And I already thought it was bad."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "She’s been through enough. I was giving her time to process—"
"Right. Because getting attached before she knows anything is definitely a solid plan," Owen drawls.
"She has to make the choice knowing everything," my father reminds me, his tone like steel.
"Right," Caleb chimes in. "So how much longer were you planning to let her think she has a normal life before it all burns down?"
"You don’t understand—" I start.
Adrian claps me on the shoulder. "Oh, no, Julian. We understand perfectly. You’re screwed."
It begins as a whisper beneath the surface. A low, bone-deep hum vibrating through the estate, rattling the foundation as if something ancient is stirring in the depths. The temperature plummets—not like a mere draft slipping through cracks, but as though warmth itself has been ripped from existence. The air turns thick, pressing against my skin, curling around my throat, leaving behind an unnatural stillness that doesn’t just fill the space—it strangles it.
The ground lurches. Not a tremor. Not a warning.
A Hellquake.
The first impact slams through the floor like a shockwave, jagged fractures splitting across the obsidian marble, crawling up the walls in chaotic veins of destruction. The entire estate groans in protest, the ceiling trembling, the air itself vibrating as though it’s trying to pull away from whatever is coming.
The world tilts.
Gravity wavers. The very laws that bind Hell together tremble beneath an unseen force, the space within the estate twisting—not just the physical structure, but something deeper, something more fundamental. A pulse of power surges upward from the core of Hell itself, warping reality like a tidal wave breaking against the fragile dam of existence.
The lights die.
Screens flicker once. Every automated system glitches, surges, and collapses into an unnatural, suffocating dark.
Not just the absence of light.
Something worse.
A void. A presence so vast it doesn’t just erase light—it consumes it. The silence that follows is not empty. It is waiting.
With no warning, the shadows ignite. Not with fire. Not with light. With something else.
Darkness bleeds from the floor, twisting, writhing, coiling up from the marble in shifting tendrils of living void. It stretches upward, spiraling into towering columns that breathe, pulsing with an energy that does not belong to this world—or any world.
And from that abyss, they manifest.
The Infernal Council.
They do not arrive—they are simply here, as if they were never absent to begin with. Their presence does not fill the room—it consumes it.
They are not men. Not demons.
They are something else.
Their robes are woven from a darkness so deep it refuses to reflect light, shifting like liquid shadow, like something that has never been bound to a single form. The hems never touch the ground. They leave no trace of their passing—because they are not bound by the laws of movement as we know them.
And beneath their hoods—
Nothing. Not absence. Something worse.
A bottomless abyss where faces should be, a void so vast it feels like it could swallow the very concept of sight itself. Shapes coil and twist in the darkness—sometimes eyes, too many, blinking in and out of existence like flickers of dying stars. Other times, just an endless black, consuming everything it touches.
But the worst part?
I know they are looking at me.
Not just watching. Measuring. Judging. Deciding.
Even my father—Evander Duvain, whose name alone bends lesser demons to their knees—does not speak. My mother does not move. My aunt and uncle, so rarely disturbed, so rarely impressed, do nothing. No one breathes.
Not because they can’t. But because they do not dare.
One of them steps forward. The space around them distorts, warping inward, the fabric of the room twisting to accommodate something that should not exist. Reality itself bends to make room for them, or risk breaking entirely.
"Julian Duvain."
Not a greeting.
A sentence.
I roll my shoulders back, crossing my arms over my chest, forcing a casual stance I do not feel. "Wasn’t expecting guests."
"You were not given a choice." Their voices do not echo. They do not need to. They exist everywhere at once—woven into the very fabric of reality, a sound that does not vibrate through the air, but through existence itself.
The leader of the Infernal Council steps forward, and the very air tightens. Space itself warps around them, undecided—caught between making room for their presence or collapsing beneath it.
Their voice, layered and ancient, fills the room.
“Do you understand fate, Julian Duvain?”
The question lands like a hammer, but I don’t flinch. I roll my shoulders back, keeping my expression neutral.
"Fate?" I echo, tone edged. "Destiny. The thing mortals blame when they fuck up?"
A ripple moves through them—not quite a reaction, but an acknowledgment of my ignorance.
“No.” The answer comes in unison, voices woven into something too vast to be singular. “Not destiny. Not choice. Not control.”
One of them lifts a hand. And something appears, a single, thin threat. It does not sway with the breeze of movement, it does not bend. It hums, not audibly nor visibly, but at a level of awareness that was never meant to be perceivable.
"Fate is not just a concept," they continue, turning the thread in their grip. "It is the fabric of existence itself, woven in a Loom beyond gods, beyond demons, beyond time."
The thread pulses—so faint, I almost miss it. The room presses inward, thick with something older than eternity.
"No one interferes with it."
Their fingers tighten around the thread, stilling it completely.
"Not angels." "Not gods." "Not the damned."
No hesitation. No doubt. This is truth.
And yet—
"Ophelia Arden was born to."
Born to what?
"What the hell does that mean?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
A long, unnatural silence follows.
Selene, normally unreadable, stills.
Theron exhales a slow, disbelieving breath. "No way."
Selene doesn’t blink. When she speaks, it’s not with sarcasm, not with her usual amusement—it’s breathless. Stunned.
“Holy shit… she’s the Weaver, isn’t she?”
The leader inclines their head. "She was. Like her mother before her, she was chosen to maintain the Loom of Fate, to guide the threads that determine the course of existence."
The air thickens, heavy with something suffocating.
"Until it was taken."
A slow, creeping cold slides down my spine.
Theron lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "That actually makes a terrifying amount of sense."
I shake my head once. "Taken?" My voice is razor-edged now. "Taken by who?"
I already know.
The Council does not move. They do not need to.
Because the answer is already here, sitting inside my ribs like a death sentence.
It was me.
And my father realizes it first.
Evander’s voice cuts through the thick silence. "Why is everything changing?"
The answer doesn’t come from the Council.
It comes from my mother.
"Because when you made the deal, Julian…" She pauses, just for a breath. "You transferred the gift to Melanie."
The words settle like a death knell.
A slow ripple of understanding moves through the room.
Owen, sharp as ever, lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. But here’s the problem." His eyes meet mine, his expression unreadable. "Melanie only cares about herself."
I exhale, something bitter curling in my chest. My voice, when it comes, is low and venomous.
"So I put the Weaver’s gift—the hands of fate—" I let out a slow, humorless laugh. "In a self-indulgent bitch."
"You said her mother had the gift before," Adrian says, his voice sharper than usual. "Explain."
The Infernal Council does not turn, does not shift, but something in the air coils tighter, as if the very fabric of reality is bracing itself.
"She did," the leader confirms, their voice stretched thin, ancient, absolute.
Adrian doesn’t react outwardly, but I see the slight flex of his jaw, the way his arms fold tighter across his chest. None of us rattle easily. But something about this unsettles me.
"Like all Weavers before her, Calliope Arden was meant to oversee the Loom, to guide the threads of fate, to preserve the balance of existence itself."
Calliope Arden.
Ophelia’s mother.
A woman who, until now, had been nothing more than a name. But suddenly—she is everything.
"When she died," the leader continues, their voice layered, woven with something beyond time, "the gift should have passed to her daughter."
A slow, creeping sense of wrongness twists in my gut.
"Should have?" I say, voice low.
Damian clears his throat, sharply. "But it didn’t."
"No," the Council confirms.
Nothing more. Nothing needed.
"Calliope Arden’s gift was passed to her daughter, but fate was intercepted. A hand reached where it should not have."
They don’t move. They don’t need to, because the accusation is already here, they’re looking at me. And I know what they’re going to say, but knowing it’s coming and hearing it are two different things.
"When you made your deal, Julian," the leader says, "you did not only take Ophelia’s emotions. You severed her connection to fate itself. You stripped the Weaver of her thread, and in doing so, you unbalanced the Loom."
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Owen drags a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. "So let me get this straight—she was supposed to control fate. Her mother dies, and she inherits the gift. But Julian swoops in, makes a deal, and—" He snaps his fingers. "Oops. It goes to Melanie instead."
Theron lets out a low whistle. "That actually explains way too much."
Selene murmurs, half to herself, "And explains why everything has felt… wrong. Why Hell itself is shifting."
I clench my jaw. "That still doesn’t explain why it’s happening now."
The Council regards me for a long, heavy moment before they speak.
"Because the Loom is trying to correct itself."
The temperature drops further, the fabric of reality pulls tight, an unseen force pressing against my chest. The lights flicker—not like a power surge. Not like a failure.
Something else. A pull.
A shift.
The air hums, crackling with something neither living nor dead. The cold isn’t just physical—it’s hollow, absent, like warmth itself has been stripped from the room.
The next flicker comes harder, brighter—blinding.
Shadows stretch unnaturally across the walls, curling toward something unseen—
A voice. Soft. Steady. Unshakable. "I was murdered."
The light vanishes, sucked inward, and in its place—
She stands.
Just beyond the reach of the flickering glow, golden hair cascading in wild waves, as if even fate itself could never keep hold of her. Her eyes—Ophelia’s eyes—lock onto mine. Bright and endless, filled with something that has already seen too much.
She is not quite here, yet not quite elsewhere. She’s lingering in that space between existence and memory.
Her dress flows as if caught in an unseen current, shifting around her like she’s never been bound to something as small as a body, as limited as time.
The Infernal Council does not move.
No one breathes.
Because Calliope Arden has returned to tell her story.
She is not angry. She is not afraid.
She just looks at me.
And in that expression—I see it.
She knows.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.
"Every Weaver before me carried the name Lysandra." Her voice is steady, unshaken. "Every daughter. Every generation. We have always shaped the Loom, guided the threads. Until now."
The room holds its breath.
I feel the shift in the air—not just from her words, but from the stillness of the Council, from the way my mother and father are no longer just listening, but understanding.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep my voice level. "You knew?" The edge in my tone is sharp, but Calliope doesn’t flinch.
"I learned at sixteen, just as Ophelia should have." Her expression doesn’t change. "But I never got the chance to tell her. I never got the chance to prepare her."
My grip tightens. "Because someone made sure you didn’t."
A beat.
Calliope doesn’t look away. "Because he made sure I didn’t."
I study her carefully. The way she says it—he—it lands like a stone in my gut.
"You know who killed you." My voice is measured, cold. "You know who took the gift from you."
Calliope meets my eyes.
And for the first time, I see Ophelia in her.
The same cutting clarity. The same unwavering resolve.
"Yes."
My stomach twists.
"It was Cassius." The words hit like a blade to the ribs.
A sharp inhale—Evander. A flicker of something unreadable—Liora.
But I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Because this isn’t possible.
Calliope tilts her head slightly, studying me the way one might examine a fraying thread. "You didn’t know," she realizes, voice softer now. "You thought you were making a deal with a desperate man."
I force myself to blink. To exhale. To think.
"How?" The question is sharp, low, dangerous.
Calliope doesn’t hesitate.
"Poison." Quiet. Absolute. "Slow. Painless, at first. It wasn’t meant to be cruel—it was meant to be clean. Efficient. A cup of wine, laced with something ancient, something meant to sever my ties to the Loom before death could pass it on."
She pauses, gaze distant. "I felt it the moment it touched my lips. Not the pain—the loss. Like something had been ripped from my soul before my body ever failed."
She shakes her head once. "By the time I collapsed, he was already gone. He didn’t even stay to watch me die."
Something inside me snaps. My fists curl, my teeth clench, something hot and venomous climbing up my throat.
"That son of a bitch—he used me." The words are a growl, sharp and dangerous. "He knew I would take the deal if I thought I was relieving a burden. That’s why he framed it that way. He never meant to free her—he meant to strip her of everything."
Owen drags a hand down his face. "Jesus. So let me get this straight—when you made the deal, Julian, you unknowingly handed the hands of fate to Melanie instead of Ophelia."
The realization rolls through the room like an unspoken curse.
Liora, silent until now, lifts her gaze to me. "Because that’s how fate works. When a Weaver dies, their gift does not vanish—it transfers. And when you made your deal, the Loom did not disappear."
She lets the words settle before delivering the final blow.
"You gave it to Melanie."
The room stills.
Owen barks out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah. And here’s the problem—Melanie only cares about herself."
I exhale slowly.
My laugh is quiet. Cold. Dangerous.
"So I put the Weaver’s gift—the hands of fate—" I shake my head, a smirk curling at the edge of my mouth. "In a self-indulgent, power-hungry narcissist."
Theron lets out a slow breath. "That actually explains why everything’s gone to shit."
Selene, usually the last to be rattled, runs a hand through her hair, looking up at the ceiling like she’s asking the universe for patience.
"Holy fuck. No wonder the Loom is unraveling."
I take another breath, pushing down the urge to rip Cassius apart limb by limb.
Because this?
This isn’t just a mistake.
This is a fucking catastrophe.