Chapter 29
Home Sweet Home
K aan
The portal to Kara Cehennem tears reality apart with vicious satisfaction, depositing me onto obsidian steps that gleam with polished malice in the eternal twilight.
My father's palace rises before me—a monument to architectural hubris carved from crystallized screams. Gothic spires claw at a sky that hasn't seen proper sunlight since the realm's creation, while gargoyles perch on every corner with expressions that suggest they're deeply disappointed in humanity's recent performance.
The air tastes of sulfur and old blood, familiar as a childhood lullaby I've spent centuries trying to forget. Each breath brings back memories I'd rather leave buried—the scent of fear, the metallic tang of spilled innocence, the particular aroma that clings to places where hope goes to die.
"Young master," a voice says from the shadows, and I turn to see Vakif materializing from the darkness like a particularly unwelcome tax assessment.
My father's head steward looks exactly as he did two centuries ago—death warmed over.
His pale eyes hold the same mixture of servility and barely contained contempt that I remember from my youth.
"Vakif," I reply with deadly pleasantness. "Still perfecting your impression of death warmed over, I see. Have you considered actually dying? It might be an improvement."
A flicker of amusement crosses his gaunt features, but he ignores the barb entirely. "Your father awaits in the dining hall, my lord. He's... eager to see you."
"I'm sure he is," I mutter, following him through corridors that haven't changed since my youth.
Still lined with tapestries depicting various creative applications of suffering, still designed to remind visitors that they walk through the domain of something that finds genuine pleasure in pain.
My boots echo against polished stone that probably costs more than most kingdoms' annual budgets, each step taking me deeper into the heart of my childhood nightmares.
The walls are decorated with portraits of my father's greatest victories—most of which involve the creative destruction of things that once annoyed him.
Here's the Fall of Altin Kale, rendered in oils that seem to scream when you look too closely.
There's the Siege of Isik Limani, where he turned an entire city's population into decorative wind chimes.
Very tasteful, if you appreciate mass murder as interior design.
"Tell me, Vakif," I say conversationally as we walk, "does he still insist on the elaborate place settings? The ones with seventeen different forks for various methods of intimidation?"
"His lordship maintains all the traditional courtesies," Vakif replies diplomatically, which means yes, and probably worse than I remember.
"Wonderful. Nothing says 'family reunion' like dining utensils designed by someone with a pathological fear of simplicity."
We approach the massive doors to the dining hall—carved from what appears to be crystallized tears and decorated with scenes that would make professional torturers weep with envy.
The handles are shaped like writhing serpents, because apparently my father's interior designer has never met a metaphor too heavy-handed to embrace with enthusiasm.
The dining room reveals itself in all its malevolent splendor as the doors swing open.
The space is vast enough to house a small city, dominated by a table that could seat an army and probably has.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling like frozen waterfalls of light, casting prismatic patterns across walls decorated with portraits of conquest and creative violence.
The air thrums with barely contained power, as if the very atmosphere is holding its breath in anticipation.
And there, at the head of the table like a spider in the center of his carefully woven web, sits Erlik himself.
Time has been criminally kind to the bastard.
If demons aged like mortals, my father would be in his fifties—devastatingly handsome with the kind of perfection that speaks of divine lineage and infernal purpose.
Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and his jawline was clearly forged in the fires of vanity itself.
Dark hair, silver-streaked at the temples, frames a face that belongs on ancient coins commemorating the fall of empires.
His eyes are black as the void between stars, and when he moves, shadows don't follow—they dance attendance like devoted courtiers.
He's dressed in midnight silk that costs more than most kingdoms' treasuries, every line tailored to perfection.
A thin scar runs from his left temple to his jaw—the only imperfection on an otherwise flawless facade, and somehow it only makes him more terrifying, more predatory.
This is what the devil would look like if he cared about fashion and had unlimited resources for personal grooming.
Around the table, various demons and nobles arrange themselves like an audience awaiting the evening's entertainment. I recognize most of them—the usual collection of sycophants, sociopaths, and creatures whose idea of small talk involves comparing methods of creative torture.
"Kaan," he says, rising from his chair with the fluid grace of something that has never experienced a moment of uncertainty in its existence.
His voice carries genuine warmth, paternal affection that makes my skin crawl with revulsion.
"My dear boy. How wonderful to see you again. Though you look... unwell."
The casual warmth, the way he speaks as if we're old friends meeting for lunch instead of a son confronting the creature who orchestrated his mother's murder, sends rage exploding through my system.
The poison in my veins responds eagerly, silver tracery flaring brighter as toxicity mingles with fury.
"Hello, Father," I reply, settling into the chair across from him with theatrical grace.
"You look well. Immortal evil apparently has excellent anti-aging properties.
Very inspiring. Have you considered writing a beauty guide?
'How to Stay Young Through Systematic Destruction of Everything Pure and Good. '"
His laugh is rich and warm and utterly revolting in its genuineness.
"And you look like someone who's been slowly dying of a curse for the better part of two centuries.
Very dramatic. Though I have to say, the silver veins are quite fetching—very avant-garde.
Death becomes you, my boy. You should consider making it a permanent look. "
"Yes, well, Altan's little gift keeps giving," I say, flexing my fingers so the silver veins catch the light.
"Though I have to say, his timing was impeccable.
Most brothers just give awkward speeches at wedding receptions.
He gave me a slow-acting poison designed to drive me insane. Much more memorable."
"Ah, yes, dear Altan," Erlik says with something approaching fondness. "Such creativity in his final moments. Even as you were tearing him apart, he managed to curse your bloodline with his dying breath. Very spiteful, very inspired. I was almost proud."
"I do try to maintain my standards," he continues with mock modesty, gesturing to the assembled demons. "You remember Lord Bael, Lady Lilith, Count Andromalius... though I suppose proper introductions can wait. We have so much to catch up on."
The demons nod politely, their eyes gleaming with the kind of anticipation that suggests they're expecting blood as dessert.
Lady Lilith, a stunning succubus with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice, examines her nails with the boredom of someone who's witnessed too many family reunions that ended in creative violence.
"How fucking charming," I observe, noting the way they watch me like predators sizing up potential prey. "Nothing says 'quality family time' like an audience of professional killers and recreational sadists."
Servants begin appearing with the first course—something that might charitably be called soup if you ignore the way it moves and the fact that it seems to be judging my table manners. I prod it with my spoon, watching it recoil as if it were personally offended.
"The chef has outdone himself tonight," Erlik says, taking a delicate spoonful of his own portion. "It's a delicacy from the deeper realms. Only mildly sentient."
"Delicious," I reply, still poking at the substance that's now actively trying to escape my bowl. "Though I have to ask—is it supposed to be filing a formal complaint? Because I'm getting some very legal vibes from my dinner."
"The consciousness fades once you begin eating," he assures me. "Very humane, really."
"Humane," I repeat thoughtfully. "Yes, that's definitely the word I'd use to describe consuming something that's actively composing what appears to be a strongly worded letter about my dining etiquette."
The conversation flows with artificial pleasantries layered over centuries of accumulated hatred.
More courses arrive, each more elaborate and disturbing than the last. Something that might be fish if you squint and ignore the extra eyes.
Vegetables that whisper when you cut them.
A roast that I'm fairly certain is still trying to escape.
"Oh, and I burned down an orphanage last week," Erlik mentions with casual indifference. "Thirty-seven children. Quite efficient, really—one match, multiple screams. It was a pure joy.”
The casual mention of murdered children cuts through my distracted thoughts like a blade. I look up sharply from my writhing dinner. "How efficient of you. Did you keep recordings? I'm sure they'd make lovely dinner music for future gatherings."