3. Lenna
LENNA
I've been having odd dreams.
Every night, I wake gasping, sweat-soaked sheets twisted around my legs, the remnants of something clinging to the edges of my mind like smoke. I sit up in the darkness of my quarters, pressing my palms against my eyes, trying to catch the fragments before they dissolve completely.
Luminous eyes. The color of molten gold, or maybe ember. Watching me through a haze of heat distortion.
Smoke curling through my fingers, warm and alive.
A sense of longing so acute it feels like grief.
Then nothing. Just the cool stone walls of my room and the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor outside.
I shake my head, pushing the hair back from my damp forehead.
It's just my mind processing the stables.
The beasts. That massive creature that watched me with too much intelligence for something supposedly feral.
I saw it for all of five minutes before Malrec showed up and treated me like I was about to set the entire facility on fire through sheer stupidity.
The dreams come again the next night. And the night after that.
Each time, I wake with less clarity than before, just impressions that scatter the moment I try to hold them. Heat. Eyes. The feeling of something missing, something I should recognize but can't quite name.
By the fourth morning, I stop trying to make sense of it. Dreams are dreams. They don't mean anything, especially when you're sleeping in a volcanic estate surrounded by infernal beasts. My subconscious is probably just adjusting to the new environment.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I dress for another day of labor.
The work itself is manageable, if monotonous. I'm assigned to the upper levels mostly—maintenance on corridors, polishing rune-glass in the observation rooms, occasionally assisting in the kitchens when they need extra hands.
It's better than some places I've worked. The demons here don't go out of their way to make things harder than they need to be, and the other humans keep to themselves, which suits me fine.
Nimae is... complicated.
She's friendly in the way someone might be friendly with a stray animal—cordial but distant, offering information when it's practical but never lingering longer than necessary.
I catch her watching me sometimes when she thinks I'm not paying attention, her violet eyes sharp and assessing, like she's waiting for me to do something unexpected.
I don't blame her. I'm waiting for the same thing.
We cross paths in the servant corridors, exchange brief conversations about supply inventories or shift schedules, and then drift apart again. It's not hostile. It's just... empty. Like we're both going through the motions of coexistence without actually connecting.
I've made no friends here. But then again, I didn't come here to make friends.
The one mercy is that I haven't seen Malrec again.
Not since he cornered me in the stables and lectured me like I was a child who didn't understand basic danger assessment.
The memory of his voice—cold and cutting, laced with that particular brand of arrogance that assumes incompetence before asking questions—makes my jaw tighten every time it surfaces.
Asshole.
I prefer it this way. If I never have to interact with him again, it'll be too soon.
My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion, raised voices echoing through the corridor outside the storage rooms I'm inventorying and cleaning. Not quite shouting, but close. The kind of urgent, clipped conversation that signals something has gone wrong.
I pause, cloth in hand, and listen.
"—completely shredded—"
"—should have known better than to—"
"—get someone down there to clean it up before—"
"—it's always bound to happen—"
"—just another human to replace—"
The words cut off as the speakers move past my doorway, but my chest tightens anyway. I know what they're talking about before anyone confirms it.
Someone died in the stables.
I set the cloth down carefully and move to the doorway, peering into the corridor. A cluster of demons stand near the junction ahead, their voices lower now but still tense. One of them gestures sharply, and another shakes their head, horns catching the light from the rune sconces.
A human woman I recognize from the kitchens hurries past, her face pale. She doesn't look at me.
I step back into the storage room and press my shoulders against the wall, breathing through the strange tightness that's spread from my chest into my throat.
Someone died.
It happens. I know it happens. This is an infernal beast facility, not a textile workshop. The risks are built into the job description, not that most of the laborers get a choice. People die in places like this all the time.
But the knowledge doesn't dislodge the feeling twisting beneath my ribs.
It's not fear. Not exactly. It's something stranger—something that feels almost like... concern? No, that's not quite right either.
It feels like longing.
A pull, low in my chest, urging me to move. To go down to the stables. To check on them.
Not the people. The beasts.
The thought lodges in my mind with uncomfortable clarity, and I shove it away immediately. That's ridiculous. I don't know those creatures. I barely saw them. And after Malrec's little performance, I have zero interest in getting anywhere near them again.
Except the pull doesn't fade.
It sits there, quiet but insistent, like a thread tugging gently at something I didn't know existed until now.
I force myself back to the inventory list, gripping the parchment harder than necessary. It's just stress. Or maybe lingering adrenaline from hearing about the death. My mind is trying to create meaning where there isn't any.
I ignore it.
Or at least, I try to.
The next morning, Nimae finds me in the servant corridor and hands me a new assignment slip without preamble.
"You are wanted at the stables," she says simply. "Walkway maintenance, tool cleaning, and empty stall prep."
My stomach flips, but I keep my expression neutral. "Understood."
She studies me for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she nods and walks away, leaving me standing there with the slip in hand.
I should feel apprehensive. Anxious, at the very least. Someone just died down there yesterday.
Instead, that strange pull in my chest loosens slightly, and I can breathe easier.
I don't examine that too closely.
The descent corridors feel different this time. Familiar, maybe, though that doesn't make sense given I've only walked them once before. The air thickens as I go deeper, heat curling around me like something alive, and the scent of sulfur and ash grows stronger with each step.
By the time I reach the main walkway, my skin is damp with sweat, and my pulse has settled into a steady rhythm that doesn't match the unease I should be feeling.
The stables are louder today. More restless. I can hear the scrape of claws against stone, the low rumble of contained power, the occasional sharp crack of something testing its restraints. The atmosphere feels charged, like the air before a storm.
I spot Malrec immediately.
He's standing near one of the central enclosures, speaking with another demon—a broad-shouldered male with horns that curve backward like ram's horns.
They're both focused on the beast inside the enclosure, a hulking creature with plated scales that glint dully in the low light.
It's huffing, shoulders heaving, and its tail lashes against the containment barrier hard enough to make the runes flicker.
Malrec's expression is tight, controlled, but I can see the tension in his posture. His hand rests near the hilt of something at his belt—a weapon, maybe, or a focus for binding magic.
He glances up as I approach the supply station, and his gaze lands on me like a physical weight.
I meet his eyes briefly, just long enough to acknowledge his presence, then turn my attention to gathering the tools I need. Brushes, scrapers, a bucket of cleaning solution that smells vaguely acidic.
I can feel him glaring at me. The heat of his attention presses against the back of my neck, and I grit my teeth, refusing to look up again.
Fine. Let him glare.
I get to work.
The walkway cleaning goes smoothly at first. I move methodically, scrubbing away the layers of ash and grime that accumulate faster than seems possible in a space like this.
The beasts are more active today, their movements drawing my attention even when I try to keep my focus on the stone beneath my hands.
I can hear Malrec and the other demon talking, their voices low and clipped, discussing containment protocols and feeding schedules. Professional. Detached.
But then my eyes drift toward the largest enclosure at the far end of the walkway.
I don't know his name—no one's bothered to tell me the names of any of the beasts—but I remember him from the other day.
That massive, shadowed form. The luminous eyes that glow faintly even in the dim light.
The way he moves, slow and deliberate, like every shift of his body is a calculated decision.
He's agitated.
I can see it in the tension rippling through his frame, the way his head swivels toward Malrec's position and then away again, restless and dissatisfied. His tail—or what I assume is his tail—scrapes against the stone floor of his basin, the sound grating and sharp.
Malrec finishes his conversation with the other demon and strides toward the enclosure. His expression is harder now, less controlled, and I watch as he keys open the containment barrier with a series of precise gestures that make the runes shimmer and recede.
He steps inside.
And the beast explodes.
Not literally—the creature doesn't attack—but the reaction is immediate and violent.
He rears back, his entire body coiling like a spring, and releases a sound that reverberates through the entire stable.
It's not quite a roar. Not quite a growl.
It's something deeper, more primal, and it makes every other beast in the facility fall silent.
Malrec freezes, his hand raised in a placating gesture, but the beast doesn't settle. He thrashes, slamming his weight against the far wall of his enclosure hard enough to make the floor tremble beneath my feet.
"Azhrael," Malrec tries, his voice low and calm. But the sound of his name only makes the beast thrash more.
I drop the scrub brush.
Malrec backs out of the enclosure quickly, his jaw set, and re-engages the barrier.
The runes flare brighter, reinforcing the containment, but Azhrael doesn't calm.
He paces now, tight circles that make his form blur at the edges, and those luminous eyes burn with something that looks almost like fury.
Malrec turns sharply and stalks toward the adjoining workhouse, his shoulders rigid.
I don't think.
I just move.
With Malrec gone, I cross the walkway toward Azhrael's enclosure, my footsteps quiet against the iron, and stop at the railing. The heat is more intense here, radiating from the volcanic basin like a physical force, but I barely notice it.
Azhrael is still pacing, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, and the sound he's making now is lower—almost mournful. It tears at my chest, and I'm acting on pure instinct.
"Hey," I say quietly, my voice barely carrying over the ambient noise of the stables.
He stops.
His massive head swivels toward me, and those eyes—those impossible, luminous eyes—lock onto mine.
The world narrows.
I don't move. Don't speak. I just... stand there, holding his gaze, and something in my chest shifts. That pull I've been ignoring for days flares hot and bright, and suddenly it's not just a vague sense of longing.
It's recognition.
Azhrael takes a step closer to the barrier, then another, his movements slow and deliberate now. The agitation drains from his posture, replaced by something gentler. Watchful.
He stops just short of the containment field, close enough that I can see the faint glow beneath his plated exterior, the way his form seems to breathe with contained heat.
I exhale slowly, and the tension in my shoulders eases.
"There," I murmur. I'm tempted to touch the barrier, to reach for him. It feels almost like second nature to, but I resist. "That's better."
He tilts his head slightly, and I swear he understands.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Malrec's voice cracks through the moment like a lash, and I spin around to find him striding toward me, his expression thunderous.
"I—"
"Step away from that enclosure. Now."
My jaw tightens. "He's calm."
"I don't care." He closes the distance between us in three long strides, crowding into my space the same way he did last time. "You were given explicit instructions not to interact with the beasts."
"I didn't cross into his enclosure. I didn't hurt him." I gesture toward Azhrael, who's still standing close to the barrier, watching us both with eerie stillness. "I just stood here. And he calmed down."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" The words come out sharper than I intend, but I'm done biting my tongue. This demon is rude and harsh, and normally, I can take that. For some reason, though, I can't seem to when it comes to him. "I calmed your beast. You couldn't. A thank you would be appreciated."
His eyes narrow dangerously, and his voice drops to something low and cutting. "You are not to talk to me like that. You're a laborer. You follow orders. My orders. Do you understand?"
The heat in my chest flares into something hotter. "Perfectly."
"Good." He steps back, putting space between us, but his gaze doesn't soften. "Now get back to work. Clean the empty stalls. And stay away from the enclosures."
I hold his stare for one more heartbeat, letting him see exactly how much I hate him in this moment, then turn on my heel and stalk toward the supply station.
Behind me, I hear Azhrael make that low, mournful sound again.
I don't look back.