5. The Fortress #2
There were turrets spearing the sky, balconies jutting from terrifying heights, and a vast courtyard which could marshal armies large enough to shake kingdoms.
Yuvi excused himself and Ravi as soon as we reached the courtyard, bidding us all good luck as he took the heavy chains back from Zaheer.
I have no idea why he would wish such a thing for us, but I have a feeling we’ll need it all the same.
Their hellhound whispering friend must have gone with them, because by the time we came upon a set of tall, deep red-brown wooden doors banded with steel, two times my height and who knows how many times as wide, he’d vanished.
Now, as I look upon the foyer, I can’t help but appreciate the stark contrast to all the obsidian stone, ash and iron outside.
Its gleaming floors reflect the flicker of torches set in sconces shaped like wings, and the ceilings soar high, painted with scenes of fire and shadow, a far cry from the golden murals of Virtus.
Angels and demons dance in them, locked in eternal battle, neither side triumphant.
We reach another tall door and Zaheer opens it with a single push of his shoulder.
We’re ushered inside a room of dark stone polished to a dull shine.
Long banners hang from the walls, each marked with a different sigil; a rose of flame, a hand clutching a mirror, two serpents entwined around a hollow circle, biting at each other’s tails…
seven decorate the wall to my right, the same to the left.
A fire burns low in the hearth at the far end, though the room is already hot enough to cook in.
A red-haired woman waits by the fire.
She isn’t like the demons who brought us here. Her armor is still leather and black, but it’s etched with gold and hugs her body in a way that’s designed to entice men.
“I’m Makina,” she announces, her voice sharp as cracked glass. “You can think of me as the chief of staff around here.”
Her posture is straight, deliberate. She looks like someone who learned long ago that people listen when she speaks. One of the elusive Sisters? I doubt I’ll be so lucky.
“I won’t waste time beating around the bush,” she continues. “You’ve been brought to Vulcaris because the owners of this island thought you were worth the price.”
Her eyes linger on each of us in turn, and a strange part of me, the spark I try to ignore that looks forward to telling my father that another mark has been successfully silenced, wants to prove to her that we will be.
“Worth the risk to our esteemed Overlords in making the journey to collect you,” she adds, nodding to Zaheer.
I have to swallow my gasp. My knowledge of Scelus hierarchy is not what it is for my own continent, but I know what an Overlord is, and I try my best to mask my surprise that Zaheer is one of them; the highest rank a demon can reach without being a member of one of the ruling families.
Though there is nothing noble about the Noble families.
They were chosen just as the High Seraph’s had been by the heavenly council to rule Virtus after the war.
Only, the Nobles are their counterparts.
Their exact opposites, bringing balance to Trutina’s precarious scales.
They’d been hand selected by the princes of Hell, who likely only didn’t pick themselves because they’re sentenced to spend eternity in the underworld, free to move only between the different rings of hell.
Overlords on the other hand…
Their title has to be earned in blood, battle or worse. I glance at Zaheer. They are rare, and even among demons, there is supposedly honor in reaching Overlord status. The closest equivalent in Virtus is… there is no close equivalent. You are either seraphim or you are weak.
“This island is safe, but it does not forgive,” Makina says, drawing my attention away from the Overlord. “You will work, or you will die. The choice is yours.”
What little color the terrified nephilim regained during the hike vanishes from their skin, but it’s something in their empty eyes that possesses me.
Curling my fingers into fists, I’m gripped by the overwhelming urge to protect them.
They don’t belong here.
No. It will not be ‘work or die’ for them.
I know my anger is justified in the same way I know it’s stupid.
I’m out muscled and out weaponed inside this small room alone.
Who knows how many soldiers are nearby that could be here in moments if they needed to be.
If one of their new nephilim toys decided to act out.
I should calm down; fight the wrath like I’ve practiced so many times.
Breathe. In, and out, in, and out.
But they are innocent, they need help. I can help them.
Can you?
Yes. Maybe not right now, but soon.
Silently I vow to get them out of this place before I go after its owners, even if it kills me. I was trained to be my father’s blade by some of the most skilled and disciplined seraphim on the continent. I have to remember that.
My father’s circle is small, minuscule, consisting only of blood. He couldn’t very well send his most powerful offspring after Unrepentable humans and nephilim. It would be a waste. Beneath them. Dangerous even.
Leaving himself one link short in the protective chain of galvanized steel that he wraps himself in would have been very unwise. So, my siblings had trained me themselves in my turret, and better warriors to learn from did not exist.
It doesn’t matter that it’s only because there wasn't a nephilim in Industria allowed to know I existed who could have trained me instead—the burden had fallen on my siblings, the leaders of Trutina’s most elite army, the Legion of Light.
I’m glad for it.
Better for it.
Better the devil you know, I turn to Zaheer. Or perhaps it’s more because when Makina speaks, wearing her too human face, it’s easy to forget how evil and sinful her kind are.
Unlike Makina, or even Yuvi, Zaheer has horns that are a stark reminder every time I look at him that these are demons we are dealing with.
Pure evil.
Sinners who worship at the feet of the princes of Hell and frown upon any acts of kindness or virtue.
“You bought us here to be the slaves of demons or die denying it?” I accuse him.
Really, it should be more shocking that they actually claim to give us the choice in whether we wish to accept becoming slaves or not.
Then again, they likely know it’s not a choice at all.
Go against everything we believe in by agreeing to work for their kind, or take the lesser evil and ask for them to kill us now.
“I can work,” one of the nephilim says from the back of the group.
My jaw drops. They can’t seriously be—
“M-me too,” stutters another closer to me. She looks so weak and drained, she can’t even glamour her wings away. They hang at her back, old, dried blood matted into the dove gray feathers where the bones sink into the skin either side of her spine.
Why had the academy staff agreed to chain them? The owners of the island must have demanded it, but why?
Nephilim are strong, certainly more naturally gifted than humans, but it’s not like any of these here have been trained to turn their bodies’ gifts into weapons.
From what I’ve seen so far, the demons here are not the full-blooded type found in the pits of Hell or on thrones in the Noble family's mansions either. They are cambion. Their demon blood is diluted in the way that our angel blood is.
Nephilim have potential to go toe to toe with a cambion and the fight will be fair, except… the cambion likely have spent their lives in training.
I glance between the six males and five females, and it’s clear that these nephilim have not.
They look dead behind the eyes, not about to fight their way out of this. So why chain them? The demons in the alley made it clear they like to hunt us down in the sky as much as on the street. It doesn’t make sense.
After the first two, a handful more confirm they will work for the demons too, while the ones who don’t speak up are mostly nodding their agreement.
I want to scream.
“What kind of work?” the female who’d been tied next to me on the mast asks.
“You can’t be seriously considering this?” I hiss at her.
“Can’t she?” Makina interjects. “I can promise you now that we are a damn sight kinder than those bastards Virtus’s rulers have running the academy you came from.”
“Kind?” I choke out. They don’t know the meaning of the word. “You had their wings chained!”
Makina pulls a face, and I panic that she noticed my slip up, referring to the academy’s nephilim as them and not us.
I’m too mad to care.
Ignoring her, I speak to the nephilim. “She’s lying. That’s what they do. Lie. You know this! A life working for them would be no life at all. You’ll be chained in some basement attached to a sink!”
Makina’s nostrils flare but she maintains her composure.
The only thing worse than a liar is a good liar.
She shakes her head once. Everything about this woman is sharp.
The way she looks. The way she moves. The way she speaks and dresses and glares at you for daring to speak ill of her kind despite them deserving much worse.
“I’d tell you to mind your tongue,” she warns. “But I know you’ve been through a lot.” She looks at the others with pity in her eyes. “You all have.”
What in the reverse psychology is this?
The academy exists to help, not harm. What could be so bad that it makes a demon feel pity. The other nephilim look almost hopeful. Why are they not putting her straight? Or running for the dock? Has the academy done too good of a job at teaching them manners and etiquette?
You’d be wise to follow their example, Seraphina.
The thought is sobering. If I want them to let me get anywhere near those at the top, I need to calm down.
To remember why I let myself be taken, set aside my loathing of everything about them if I’m to pass good information to my father and get my chance at revenge. If these nephilim can do it, so can I.
Maybe I should apologize—