Chapter Seven
Vaelyn was right.
I’ve been summoned to the throne room.
Based on previous summons, it’s likely to be forced to listen to the Layer Lords sling accusations against Netharis’ ability to rule the hells and Netharis roar his will in response. I’ll be criticized and judged and prescribed an appropriate punishment for my actions.
Which weren’t even my actions.
Keeping both my tongue and my innate under control are crucial. I need to endure. I need the time to figure out how to escape. If I earn myself decades in obsidian, there’s no promise of re-emerging—and if I do, I’ll be changed.
Again.
If what Vaelyn says is true, the Layer Lords will antagonize me. They’ll want another outburst. Anything to prove Netharis isn’t as capable as he should be, despite him being a literal god.
This can go one of two ways.
I can accept whatever punishment Netharis decides and quietly continue my search for escape, or I can rally the Layer Lords and hope they’re strong enough to overthrow the god of death.
The latter option doesn’t feel as attainable as the first.
And even if by some sliver of a chance they’re successful, the aftermath would be catastrophic. The hells needs a ruler. Vaelyn would need to step in, and there’s no guarantee I’d be able to leave.
No.
I need to keep quiet today.
As I move along the corridor, tall, black, arched doors at the end of the hall loom like a sword overhead on a burning rope. I keep my eyes downcast, avoiding the faces and stares of the demons lining the wide hall, but I feel their stares all the same.
They stand, wearing their best attire, if anything at all, wanting to attract eyes. They want Netharis’ attentions or the stares of the Layer Lords, perhaps even Vaelyn himself. Anything to inflate their status, increase their political power.
Like scavengers lying in wait for death to claim their prey, they congregate ready to hear all about my pending punishment. Netharis could send them away with a simple wave of his hand, but he won’t.
I’m going to be made an example for other demons.
Yet, again.
Unfurling my hands for the hundredth time as I walk, the sharp pain of my talons cutting into my palms slowly fades. With a quick downward glance, I find my palms dotted with black blood.
The doors burst open, slamming against the wall, and my eyes snap wide. Vaelyn emerges from the room, the rage on his face unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him. He stands in the hall, his gaze sweeping over the demons with disdain.
“Leave. Now,” he thunders.
In flashes of hellfire and swirls of smoke and shadow the hall empties in seconds.
“Vae?” I slow to a stop, staring warily at my brother.
At the mention of his name, Vaelyn’s expression shifts, becoming softer. He glances over his shoulder, and my eyes follow. Behind him, Netharis sits on his throne, the nine Layer Lords seated on either side.
“Ves…” he says in a low whisper, turning to face me. “I tried. I did everything I possibly could. I offered to marry Kassil myself. I offered to take responsibility of the veil, of you. I offered to sit in a box for a century. He would have none of it. I’m sorry.”
“What? Marry?” I breathe, dragging my eyes from the throne to my brother’s. “What do you mean, Vae?”
“Kassil has made a proposal, one Netharis has accepted,” Vaelyn answers quietly, not wanting to be overheard giving me this warning. “You’ll be married to Kassil in a few days’ time.”
My lifeless heart splinters.
“Come,” he says, offering me his arm. “They’re waiting.”
I step backward. “No.”
“Ves, please. Don’t do this,” Vaelyn pleads, the desperation in his voice clear. “Not now.”
Netharis stands from his seat, and with the tiniest gesture of his left hand, my feet begin moving of their own accord.
Compulsion.
Reduced to a puppet on a string.
Against my will, I take Vaelyn’s arm and we enter the throne room together. The bastard leapt right to the use of compulsion, meaning his patience is already paper thin. Vaelyn bartering on my behalf likely hasn’t helped matters.
The heir of the hells shouldn’t show empathy toward anyone. This is not the first time Vaelyn has stood in my defense and earned himself Netharis’ ire.
Pairs of blood-red and black eyes watch me with heightened scrutiny, set in stoic faces as I approach.
An assembly of demons wearing human or fae glamours, appearing entirely mortal, save for their red or black wings peering over their shoulders.
There’s one pair of eyes I avoid, the only pair I know are gleaming with amusement.
I can feel his stare on my skin, and I hate it.
I don’t want to entertain either side of this fiasco.
They can all burn in hellfire for all I care.
Raising my chin, I straighten my shoulders before willing all the strength I can muster into my legs. I may not be able to fight the compulsion magic, but I can make it not worth the effort for Netharis to sustain.
“You look well, moonflower,” Kassil’s voice floats through the throne room, and my eyes dart in his direction.
A bright mockery dances behind his eyes as our gazes meet.
He gives me a playful smirk and the sharp pain in my palms returns.
Upon first glance, he’s handsome enough.
He could pass for fae if not for the imposing black horns protruding above his brow.
His attractiveness is all a part of the demonic deception, a lure to draw in prey.
I’ve always been prey to Kassil.
Tearing my eyes away from the black ones I used to adore, I find Netharis still watching me as he swirls a viscous, red liquid in his wine glass.
He flashes a chilling smile as the doors swing shut behind Vaelyn and me.
Closed, I’m left sealed in a room with nearly a dozen demons I could safely say I hate.
“Please, Kassil, you ruined your chance,” Miiphirys, the Lord of Lust, chortles as he drags his eyes from Kassil to me. “Vestaris has been fair game for the last few decades.” His dark eyes roam over my body freely.
“She hides from the court because of you, Miiphirys,” Xarzenos, the Lord of Gluttony, laughs, flashing a mouth filled with sharpened and metallic teeth.
“You confuse me for Kassil,” Miiphirys counters, arching a brow. “I’m not the one who wouldn’t let her have—”
“Enough,” Netharis’ voice rattles the room and the Layer Lords fall silent. He turns his attention to me. “Sit,” he commands.
A high-backed chair appears in the center of the room a few feet away. Vaelyn escorts me, leading me to the seat clearly intended for me. He releases my arm as we reach it before continuing forward. He doesn’t have a seat. His place is on Netharis’ right, just behind the throne.
Once upon a time, I stood on Netharis’ left.
It’s been centuries since I’ve stood there.
“I’ll stand for this conversation, thank you, my liege,” I say, my tone icy with indignation.
Netharis’ nostrils flare, a spark of anger flashing through his eyes. Yet the placid expression upon his face remains unaffected. Netharis has always been better at masking his emotions. To anyone else his small tells would have been missed.
Laughing, Netharis seats himself. “If any of you can break Vestaris, I will make the effort worth your time.” He glances about his lords and they chuckle, a deep, wicked sound that knots my stomach. “I hold high hopes for none of you.”
Netharis directs his gaze back to me, his eyes sweeping over me with a blend of disdain and disappointment. The kind of glare I’m no stranger to when it comes to dealing with my father.
“You will sit,” he sighs tiredly and snaps his fingers.
I blink and find myself seated in the chair, unable to move. Clenching my teeth hard, my grip on the arms tighten, and my knuckles turn white.
The god of death leans back in his obsidian carved throne. “Let me begin this by saying your recent behavior has given me cause for concern.”
Kassil’s face turns from me to my father, as do a few of the other Lords.
“Yet for centuries, Vaelyn has convinced me you’re fine,” he continues.
My eyes dart to Vaelyn’s, but he stares through me as if I don’t exist.
“I am fine,” I counter with the biggest lie of my existence.
“You are not,” he laughs with a shake of his head and a sharp exhale. “You’re anything but fine, Vestaris.”
“We’re concerned about your mental acuity,” Arzak, the Lord of Violence speaks, drawing my attention to him.
My sanity?
They’re going to argue on the premise of my sanity?
After locking me away in an obsidian box for fifty years?
I blink in astonishment. A few times.
“Netharis has advised us you’ve attempted to leave the hells,” Vargellen, the Lord of Greed says, his tone condescending.
“I was pulled from the veil. I did not leave of my own volition. I’ve not broken the order,” I argue, straining against the compulsion which keeps me firmly planted in the chair.
“Your withdrawal from the courts and now your resignation as Death Bringer argues otherwise,” he counters and my jaw drops.
Withdrawal?
Resignation?
Lies.
Netharis has fed them lies.
And of course they’re going to openly support the god of death. It doesn’t matter how much they want to take the hells for themselves. Unless they’re unified, not a single one of them stands a chance. Dread sinks into my bones as the cold knot in my stomach grows.
It’s my word against a god’s.
Netharis’ lies will stand unchallenged, unchecked.
I’m fucked.
My innate rolls within me, but it too feels chained and muzzled. I almost begin to laugh. Netharis anticipated me fighting back or losing control.
“Your outburst the other night…” Netharis emphasizes the word with a lifted brow, “has proven you need more care and attention than I can provide. What I’ve chosen is for your own safety.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Netharis continues.
“As per expectation and precedent, I’m giving you the opportunity to make the choice for yourself.”
Nothing with Netharis is ever a choice.
It’s always the illusion of choice.