Chapter 27
Alora
Alora swung the Harbinger’s bedchamber door open and froze.
Calla was sprawled across a table like an offering at a feast, her bare twilight skin glistening under candlelight as hands touched, stroked, and worshipped her.
A pair of demons knelt at her sides, their tongues tracing the curve of her breasts, while another with long white hair had his face buried between her thighs.
Hadeon.
The sounds he made were positively feral, nearly drowning out the moans of another group on the bed. Silk sheets tangled around skin exposing far too much.
The chamber smelled of spice and sin, the air shimmering with heat.
Alora shrieked, stumbling back and crashing into the door. “Oh—oh dear gods!”
Every head turned. The room froze mid-motion.
Calla blinked first, then sighed through a faint, breathless laugh. “Well,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from her damp cheek, “how unexpected.”
Hadeon, ever the soldier, immediately stood at attention, lips glistening. Alora tried not to stare at the large bulge in his pants. He moved to hide Calla from view and bowed.
“My queen,” he said stiffly, voice an octave higher than usual, “Forgive us for this unfortunate…”
“Display,” Calla supplied smoothly, sitting up and reaching for a discarded black robe. “We had not anticipated a social call.”
“Of course,” Alora managed, mortified. “Forgive me. I-I’ll come back at another time!”
She slammed the door shut, leaning against it, her face burning.
“I did advise against it,” Deimos said mildly, rolling out a canvas with a set of small sharp tools beside his jars. “Perhaps next time you’ll listen, your majesty.”
She scowled at him.
But the doors opened again, and she lurched back as demons strolled out partially dressed, giggling and kissing each other as they went out the main doors.
Hadeon came next, armor back in place, expression composed. His red eyes narrowed sharply when he glanced at Deimos, putting two and two together.
The spy grinned and puffed away in a cloud of smoke.
Hadeon bowed his head. “I will see myself out, my queen.”
Then quiet fell back into place.
Alora timidly peeked past the door into the bedchamber.
Calla stood by the vestibule, pouring two goblets of wine. She chuckled. “It’s all right, please come in. Let us speak as ladies do, without the burden of titles if you wish.”
Well, she was never one for station anyway.
Alora bit her lip and hesitantly went in. “I-I’m sorry,” she cringed. “I shouldn’t have intruded in like that.”
Calla smiled. “It’s simply pleasure. We’ve all seen worse things than skin in this place.”
Not merely pleasure. Alora would have described it as a carnal ritual.
“Sit,” Calla said, gesturing toward a cushioned divan, noticeably untouched. “Have a drink with me. I am sure you have questions.”
“Seven help me, I thought you were under attack,” Alora muttered, her cheeks still hot.
Calla laughed indulgently. “In a manner of speaking, I was.”
Alora sank into the seat, trying not to make eye contact. “Is it a custom among demons? To be with so many?”
“Of course.” Calla handed her a drink and lounged in the chair across from her with feline ease.
“Demons are polygamous by nature. Desire is our magic. We feed on our partners the way the fae feed on nature’s magic.
We take as many lovers as we wish. No vows, no jealousy, no ownership.
It is rare that a male should attract his own harem, and if so, he is highly valued due to his power in magic and battle—” Calla grinned. “Or prowess.”
Immediately, Alora pictured Rune surrounded by demonesses, throwing themselves at him as if he were the source of divine ecstasy. She flushed at the implication of what that may mean but her brows knitted when she glanced at her ring.
“Then there’s no such thing as marriage here?”
Calla’s smile turned sly. “Marriage is a mortal custom. We have something older. Rarer.”
“What’s rarer than what I walked in on?”
Calla grinned, delighted. “Choice. There are more male demons than females, so we choose who we share our beds with. But a rare few choose to bear his offspring and share eternity with him.” Her fingers played with the lacing of her robe, glancing at the door.
“All males desire to be chosen above all others. She may have a favorite from time to time, but to be selected as an eternal mate is a significant honor. It has led to many Vahl’Tor challenges. ”
Alora processed this, fascinated by the customs of demons. “How does a female choose?”
“When she considers a male worthy, she will offer him a pomegranate to eat from her hands. They enjoy that part,” Calla smirked softy, “Then she takes him to bed where she marks him as hers, imprinting with her essence and her bite.”
Alora blinked, surprised by this.
“It’s what you might call a true union,” Calla said, sensing her next question. They become bound in magic and spirit. Until he dies—or she kills him if he fails to please her in any way.” Calla’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “Which, in regard to what demons consider love, are sometimes the same thing.”
“And the males? They simply… wait around for her to decide?”
“Oh, they do more than wait.” Calla gestured toward another corner of her room, where chests were piled with a glittering heap of treasures: jewels, silks, weapons, rare stones. “Males court by leaving offerings. Each one trying to outshine the other.”
Her eyes widened. “Those are from your suitors?”
Calla sipped her drink. “Those are from Hadeon.”
Alora smiled, despite herself, immediately guessing he was Calla’s favored lover. “Have males challenged him for the right to your bed?”
A slow smile curved her lips as she reached for a bowl of fruit. “Of course.”
“And he won?”
The Harbinger gave her a sly look as she bit into a golden apple. “He’s alive, is he not?”
“But you haven’t chosen him as your eternal mate yet.”
Calla shrugged, but something flickered in her gaze. “Why end the game when the hunt is so sweet?”
Alora laughed softly, thinking wryly of her own union but then her smile wavered. “What if the male grows impatient and attempts to force her … to lay with him?”
Calla’s expression darkened, her voice losing all trace of mirth.
“None would dare. Female demons are stronger than males, Alora. We are swift to dismember any who would even consider such a thing. The courts are strict in that regard. The Greed Court may test its limits, but even those wretches know better. To be chosen is a privilege, not a right. Harems are plentiful and there is no shortage of indulgence. If a male cannot find pleasure willingly given, it is because he is too despicable to deserve it. And he is better off being tossed into the Abyss.”
Alora hesitated, unsettled but strangely comforted. At least now she understood why Rune had never forced her into his bed. Even in his realm, choice still mattered.
Regardless of calling her mine and his prize, he had not taken what she didn’t give. And yet he gave freely.
The gardens.
The library.
The wardrobe of extravagant gowns and jewels.
And a bowl of fruit that always replenished itself each morning.
She gasped. “Rune has been leaving pomegranates in my chambers every day since I arrived. I thought it was from the kitchen!”
Calla’s laughter filled the room, rich and cruelly amused. “Oh, sire has been courting you, my queen.”
Alora scowled. “It holds no meaning when I know nothing of its significance.”
“Exactly,” Calla purred, utterly entertained. “And Rune is aware of that. He merely hopes it won’t take long before you feed it to him yourself.”
Alora’s fingers curled in her lap. “He will be waiting a long time.”
“Good, do not yield so easily,” Calla said and drank the last of her wine.
“But why pomegranates?”
Calla’s gaze drifted toward the hearth, her expression turning almost wistful.
“In the Netherworld, there grows a great tree within the deepest pit of the Seven Hells, forever burning with white flame. It is called the Anar Tree. From its uppermost branches bloom fruits the color of rubies, their nectar so sweet it is said to taste of divinity itself. Their scent can drive mortals mad with longing.”
She glanced at her pile of gifts wryly.
“But death takes most who try to claim Anar fruit. One cross seven levels full of hellish beasts to reach this tree veiled in white fire that shines like the sun. Few males dare the descent, and fewer return. Yet those who do are always chosen—for they have proved they are willing to burn for their mate.” A sigh slipped from Calla’s lips, touched with something almost mournful.
“Fortunately for them, there is no such tree in the Mortal Realm. Pomegranates are the closest in likeness, though their taste holds no comparison. It has become... tradition. A symbol, rather than the trial it once was.”
Alora wasn’t sure whether to swoon or shudder. The thought that they were willing to burn alive for a single taste of devotion was both beautiful and horrifying.
Calla set the goblet down, studying her with a knowing smile. “But that is not what you came to discuss, is it?”
Pressure tightened in Alora’s chest. She hesitated, fingers tugging on the rim of her sleeves.
“No,” she admitted softly, watching the tendrils of light on her wrist. “I came to ask… what am I? How did I do that?”
Calla regarded her quietly, all playfulness gone. “That,” she said at last, “was perhaps the most extraordinary thing I have ever witnessed. The power you released…” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Was nothing short of divine.”
The air thinned, leaving goosebumps on Alora’s skin. “But where did it come from? My mother was a simple fae. Her magic was gentle and simple, she wove spells through song and made flowers dance. She was a nymph, for Sevens’ sake. I don’t understand any of this.”
“Hm.” Calla straightened, crossing a leg over the other thoughtfully. “Tell me, Alora. Why did your father marry your mother?”
She frowned. “To form an alliance with the Midlands, I suppose. The fae had migrated here from Arthal during my grandsire’s reign. The union was political—”
“Yes, but why her?” Calla arched a brow. “Why not the Thornbearer? Why not a noblewoman of greater standing?”
Alora’s confusion deepened, realizing she had not questioned that before. “I-I don’t know. My mother was kind, beautiful… perhaps he had fallen in love with her.”
The Harbinger’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes were solemn. “Kings rarely marry for love.”
That was true.
And then Calla stated something else. “Your mother was no ordinary fae.”
“What are you saying?” Alora whispered.
The Harbinger leaned back, her red eyes glimmering like rubies. “The world is not as divided as mortals like to believe. Bloodlines cross. Powers blend. And sometimes… something impossible is born.”
Alora shook her head. “You’re speaking in riddles.”
Calla smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then I’ll be forthright. The kind of magic you expelled was not passed down by no simple fae or mortal. It comes from a place far older. The kind that exists in another plane.”
Her words struck like thunder. “Are you telling me…my mother was a Primordial?”
Calla tilted her head, studying her deeply. “No. The Primordials were sealed eons ago.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief.
“Then where did this power come from? Regardless of my mother’s lineage, she wasn’t powerful.”
“Or made to appear that way,” Calla said, studying her carefully. “For those with magic, it’s not difficult to disguise what you are. Even more so if you weren’t aware of it in the first place.”
The words settled uneasily in Alora’s chest.
Lady Zinnia’s face rose unbidden in her mind. The yearly examinations. The careful lessons. The odd questions every year on her birthday. The way magic had always been forbidden.
Never spill your blood, her godmother had said, more than once.
Alora swallowed. She had never understood why.
“You ask what you are,” Calla said. “A question that is best answered by the Thornbearer who knew of your power and somehow kept it subdued. But I will tell you this much—” She nodded toward the horned kitten, who had stilled mid-grooming, golden eyes locked on them— “the appearance of creatures like him are a rare omen.”
Alora looked down at him, her chest tightening. “Nexus? Rune called him my familiar.”
Calla’s smile turned enigmatic. “In the old tongue, the name Nexus means binding together. When a creature like him binds itself to a soul, it’s because it recognizes what sleeps inside. And something in you recognized him as well.”
The room fell quiet but for the fire in the hearth. She flinched when the burning wood popped, casting a swirl of embers.
“Why were the Primordials sealed away?” Alora asked.
The Harbinger’s gaze flickered to the flames, her clawed hand absentmindedly wandering to a jagged scar on her chest. “They became something that the realms could not bear.”
Alora’s throat ached and something cold sank in her stomach. She whispered, “Then what sleeps inside me?”
Calla’s faint smile was both soft and terrible. “Hope, perhaps, or destruction.”
The words lingered in the air like a curse. Alora’s heartbeat thudded in her ears, the room closing in around her.
“I will give you some advice,” Calla said, straightening. “Stop dreading what you are. Don’t fear the magic or what it may mean. Command it. Wield it. Become what your enemies should fear instead.”
A breath escaped Alora’s trembling lips. She had spent her whole life being told to soften, to dim, to behave. But Calla’s words gave her permission to breathe again. She was so tired of helplessness, of fear. Now, at last, she had the means to never be powerless again.
She looked down at her glowing hands, energy coursing wild and unbridled beneath her skin. And in that light, she saw both salvation and ruin. What if she became more than the world could bear, too?
The firelight flickered, shadows lengthening over the walls as though drawn by her thoughts.
Before Alora could speak, a curl of black smoke rose in the corner of the chamber, twisting into a familiar shape.
Deimos stepped out of the haze, his expression stern. “You’re needed in the throne room,” he told Calla. “There’s been an occurrence.”
Calla rose immediately, shadows wrapping around her bare skin and hardening into black leather, her weapons gleaming into existence at her sides. “What occurrence?”
“An intruder found his way here.” His gaze flicked toward Alora, sharp and knowing. “The one you call Caelum.”