Chapter Thirty-Two
Structurally, Cal Anore is an exact reflection of Illa Ysari.
With the same gatehouse, veranda-like walkways, circular throne room, the differences lie in a few small details—and a single major one.
It isn’t empty.
It isn’t abandoned, or desolate, or left to wither with time.
Cal Anore thrives.
It’s filled to the brim with thousands of dark fae and humans, hundreds of undead, and dozens of demons.
Druka isn’t the only demon who’s escaped the hells.
I draw a deep breath, trying to slow my thoughts and heart.
An influx of demons in the living realm is bound to cause issues—and not simple issues either. It’s going to cause fantastical issues that destroy lives and skew the balance of the realms.
How many are there?
Dozens? Hundreds?
The sinking notion in my stomach grows. They’ve all deserted their Houses, which means House Patriarchs hunt them—easy enough to do in the hells… but how does that work when they’re realms apart?
Are they even still Housed?
As much as I want to know, launching a series of questions at Druka after centuries of not seeing her, after the way we were separated… I’m not going to do that.
More than what I consider a comfortable number of leathery wings catch my eye and yet no one else gives them a second glance. Imps and succubi, and incubi, and fiends work, learn, and laugh alongside people.
Robes drape on the shambling skeletal shoulders of undead as they go about their work.
And like the demons, they’re paid no mind.
They fulfill the same roles as the old magic constructs in Illa Ysari—and more.
Servants, guards, groundskeepers, merchants, blacksmiths, grocers…
No one is at all bothered by the eyeless faces and sun-bleached bone beneath hoods.
They’re not the undead constructs I’ve seen in the hells. These are not the bloodied and grotesque creations that loosely suggest they might have once been mortal. They move about freely, acting of their own accord, nearly convincing me of sentience.
As I walk beside Ryc, my hand tucked upon his arm, I find myself lost in the world around me.
Necromancers, bloodmancers, and scryers garbed in crimson, black, or gray pass, showing little interest in our direction.
Those with demon marks aren’t afraid to wear them openly—they’re not hidden beneath clothes or armor.
So many faces, all beautiful and of striking skin tones…
Deep sables, soft violets, hints of juniper green, inky blues and pale pearlescent shades similar to my own… Upon closer inspection, Cenviri’s pale skin carries a hint of cobalt—it grows more evident as we pass through the shadows between hanging magelight chandeliers.
It’s a kaleidoscopic contrast to the spectrum of peaches, ivories, browns, and coppers I’ve seen throughout Eldoterra.
And silver hair is common.
I’ll no longer stand out in this crowd. Not with the shimmering lilacs, shining golds, and crystalline blues—colors and shades I’ve never seen. Even Cyran’s lavender hair isn’t as rare here, giving me reason to wonder if somewhere in his lineage there’s dark fae.
The hall becomes lined with merchant booths on both sides and our pace slows. People and undead pitch their wares, food, textiles, and materials. People and demons stop to browse.
They haggle.
They trade and barter and buy.
Is this what Illa Ysari used to be like?
Is this what it will become once again?
Will nyraphim fill the halls like these demons?
It’s almost too much, seeing this. Senses overloaded and little heart filled to bursting all at the same time. This capitol isn’t packed with the quarreling, killing, or coup-attempting damned I’ve been led to believe reside here.
It’s possible they were freed from that life when Netharis died.
And if that’s the case, all of this stands as a testament to Cenviri’s ability to unite the living, the damned, and the undead.
This… sets the bar high.
I don’t know if Ryc and I can achieve the same degree of unity. Gods, it’s doubtful with the High Council.
“Il-akiv,” the breathy surprised call draws my attention downward.
A slender sprite of an imp stares up at me with wide, downturned dark eyes. She clutches a small open box of freshly baked bread between her gray scaled and taloned hands.
My nails curl into my palms.
Leave it to an imp to recognize me.
With hasty fingers and a stifled groan, I raise my hood, tucking my hair away as I lift my cowl. At least this way, I can make it appear she’s addressing a nameless figure in Cenviri’s company.
“No hide, god-killer!” the imp cries in Malbolge, her short legs scurrying as she struggles to keep pace. Even full grown, the demon barely reaches the height of my thighs. “We need!” she screeches.
The noise causes a few heads to turn.
Her scaled and barbed tail swings wildly behind her, crashing into knees and ankles as she scuttles along. A few surprised yelps and muttered curses draw more eyes in my direction.
The imp ignores them all.
And I’m left struggling to ignore her.
“What does she need?” Ryc asks quietly as he peers past me at the stumbling creature.
She weaves around and between legs, but manages to give Ryc a scathing glare.
“Not you, lightborne,” she sneers, baring a mouth filled with pointed teeth. “Isha speak to il-akiv.”
“Ignore her,” I warn through our bond. I dare not speak else my voice be recognized too. “She wants my attention. I will not give it.”
The imp skitters ahead and I heave a sigh of relief.
It’s short lived.
“She lives! She came! She fights!” The imp’s voice carries through the hall as she shrieks in Malbolge. “The god-killer fights for her kind! Fights for the damned!”
The damn creature is heralding me.
My grip on Ryc’s arm grows tighter.
Murmurs rise around us—whispered and muttered questions as every demon within earshot turns in my direction and settles their eyes upon Ryc and me. The imp continues to shout, her shrill voice growing farther away, repeating the same lines for all to hear.
Cenviri peers over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine briefly. The tiniest hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips as he turns his gaze forward. But he remains silent.
He could stop this. Order her quiet.
But he doesn’t.
And why becomes clear in a matter of seconds.
Cenviri wants these demons to know I walk among them. He wants them to see he’s managed to find and bring the very demon who killed Netharis into his House. He’s using me to leverage his standing among the demons hiding in Cal Anore.
A mistake.
On both our parts.
The hells is a vast place, filled with millions of demons. But Netharis’ House, Netharis’ children, have always been easily recognized.
Netharis’ murderer?
I’ve been raised to a level of reverence reserved for the gods themselves. Of fucking course they would recognize me—even here in mortal form without my telltale wings.
All it would take for Cenviri to lose his standing among these hellspawn is for me to speak. A few words from me, a simple order… and demons would turn against his House to earn my favor.
Cenviri should count his blessings.
I’ve never wanted dominion over demons.
Thus, I remain silent.
Like him.
My need for him is greater than the want to prove a point. If I speak, if I command these demons now, I’ll be no better than Netharis. It’s that fear which stills my tongue.
“Do these demons know you?” Ryc asks, unafraid to meet lingering stares.
“The Vestaris they know doesn’t exist in this realm,” I reply.
For she is a terror.
She is a cold and heartless creature who would fail to thrive among the living. For her, surviving among demons meant becoming one. I’ve shown Ryc enough of her today. Let her lay in the past where she belongs.
Reaching the end of the hall, we enter yet another tower—one we haven’t ventured through in Illa Ysari. We’re led up a sloping, spiral staircase to the third floor.
The hall curls along with the perimeter wall of the tower, arched windows giving glimpses into the Cerwiden night every few steps. Cenviri approaches the only door posted with shirtless guards—their reddish-clay skin littered with dark Malbolge runes.
The guards curl a fist over their hearts, dipping their chins in greeting. In silence they push the doors open, their muscles flexing with the effort.
“Shadows keep you safe,” they offer in unison, in Malbolge no less, as we pass.
As the door closes behind Eve and Cyran, we’re shut in a room that loosely resembles a library.
Shelves filled with books, bones, and glass jars of materials for all nature of bindings—herbs, dried fingers, knotted rolls of black thread, teeth, and vials of blood in red, black, and silver—line three of the walls.
Cenviri turns, a smile on his face.
And I rob him of his chance to speak. “The next time you want to parade me as a trophy to bolster your appearance, I won’t remain silent,” I near hiss the warning in Malbolge.
His smile grows.
“I’ll never be able to lead demons, il-akiv,” he says in common tongue with a shrug. “Because I am not one of them. Desperation has brought them here, and I know better than to turn away strength.”
Turning demons away means they appeal to other Houses, those threatening his dominant status. For once I would love for political machinations not to factor into actions.
“The hells,” he says as he ventures across the room toward the scroll and parchment covered table, “has been consumed by chaos, even with Vaelyn in power. The archdemons want to fight Vaelyn, but they fear losing. They openly oppose House deserters, but quietly refuse to send demon hunters.”
He seats himself in the head seat, folding his hands upon the table, and gestures for us to join him with a nod of his head.
His First General—what was the fae’s name?
Zirzol—crosses the room to stand near the wall of gently swaying white curtains. There isn’t much of a breeze, but judging by the song of crickets and the scent of night-blooming jasmine, like the halls, this room features an open veranda beyond.