Bezel didn't know what to do--but that happened often. He was a being driven by nothing, sentenced to float forever freely down a waterless river. A natural consequence of that was the unfeeling of directionless absence.

When it got this bad, he'd looked for her. His faithful current to pull him along. Except that she was gone now, and they wouldn't have been in agreement if she'd stayed.

She had left in a grand huff after their night at Lake Seneca, slamming the car door and departing down the dim streets without another word. He knew that she would come back, but she hadn't yet.

Perhaps for her better that she not. He hadn't found a chance to tell her the truth yet. That Mammon had killed Savalt in a futile attempt to get underneath Bezel's iron-hard skin. And, to rub salt in the wound, that Bezel would complete the task his brother had begun; destroying everything she loved. How could he not?

His soul had been stolen from him. His only weakness was laying vulnerable in the palms of his youngest siblings.

They deserve this.

The thought wasn't his own. He knew that. It must have been one placed there by his brother's viper tongue, but it didn't make much difference.

Bezel couldn't just turn himself blindly to it. They'd taken what was his. There had to be consequences. They wanted a war? They would get one.

Bezel leaned forward, placing his elbows on the surface of his crowded work desk. He placed his chin in his open palms and waited. For? He didn't know exactly. For it all to make sense?

It was nearly like he was being consumed by a cloud of acid. Something he couldn't see, break free of, navigate, or understand. It was nothing, and it was everything. Bezel could see a thousand possibilities unfolding before him. Pathways that would be better traversed by someone else. How could he know which one was right? 

Some might have been overgrown by thorn-choked rose bushes, while others were pocketed with shoe-stabbing pebbles. But between ice-slicked pavement or a warm garden stroll--to Bezel, they all appeared the same. It didn't matter. Not how he got there, not the wake he left trailing behind him. 

The Faun would laugh, he suspected. They would deem their self-fulfilling prophecy fate; that Bezel was only ever going to bring them harm in the end.

Well, maybe that sense of victory could be their comfort. Even under the burn of their hate-filled gaze, he would try to send them all back to Avernus before it became too late. 

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and shut his glimmering yellow cat eyes. There had to be a better way. One, preferably, in which he did not rely on the word of his elder brother. The Second Prince could be trusted even less than the Third. 

It seemed that deceit could be diluted by generation. A trait very evident in his cheap imitation of a nephew. He could dawn a mask of familiarity, but no one could pretend themselves as dulled as Bezel. 

The boy had too much hatred to keep from making stupid mistakes. That, Bezel could recognize, was at least one advantage to not feeling. He would not be so easily goaded, unlike his poisonous bloodline. Emotion led to carelessness. It was their only hand to play, and Belial had ruined the surprise. 

His soul was with the Progeny.

Another upside to having no feeling might have been saving himself the embarrassment of not putting that obvious puzzle together himself. He should have known the moment Mammon told him their had been interference with his soul that they'd taken it to their not-so-secret secret club. It was ego to take what was his and hide it amongst themselves--and ego was one of those resources they most supplied in Elysium. 

Which paled all of his brother's promises. If the Progeny had the key to Bezel's curse, Mammon did not. Nor did he have a way of gaining it--nor even did he have a way of keeping them safe. If a war were to begin, his soul would be shipped off to the front lines with a bone-blade before Bezel stood any chance of finding them. 

He didn't know what army his brother was sending--Belial had managed to swallow that much--but the gate opening from the Deireadh was no accident. Whatever it was, it was a Beast from the furthest depths of Hell. 

Maybe the Progeny stood a chance, likely they didn't. And against Belial, who was Bezel's blood, they could do nothing. When, or if, Mammon crossed, he would finish them in less time than it took for his hair to dry. They would be outmatched in seconds. Abandoned by their Ely patrons, they had no weapons strong enough. Nothing but simple prayer. 

This would be a war no Progeny could ever survive. 

So, what did that leave Bezel with? What options could he scramble together as the new moon began to rise over the city. Should he make his move first? Waltz into the office of one Absalom Edom and demand he hand over their prized possession? No, that wouldn't work. The holier-than-thou Cardinal would rather go willingly into death than betray his angelic idols. Not that Bezel was much of a killer these days anyway.

Then find the key on his own? But Bezel had yet to feel them this lifetime. More meddling from his younger brother, he assumed. With his connection severed, he didn't much believe in his ability to recognize his key, not even if they stood in front of him in a neon-pink jumpsuit. 

Was his best option really to wait? Hope the key survived long enough to be pointed out by Mammon? Then what? Bezel would take them away as the world burned? Steal his soldier from the front lines and beg to be forgiven? He scoffed theatrically to himself. Even dulled of all reason--he knew that he was being unreasonable. 

Bezel placed his palms flat on his desk. He was glad then that he could not feel--because he knew now what he had to do. If he had still held onto any shred of his humanity--the choice might have broken the hollow shell inside of him. 

First, he had to find Mayvalt. 

As if summoned by the shift of his non-existent mood--she knocked. He knew it was her because very few others had the courage to approach his office above the dance floor of Eden. Bezel pushed his oil-black hair out of his glittering eyes and sighed as the office door swung slowly inward. 

She wasn't going to be pleased with what he had to say. She might even throw her blockish platform boots at his head. 

"Mayvalt," he began, "you're back-" 

"Ba'al." She cut. 

He looked at her, following the shape of her in the doorway. He had not greatly noted her absence before, but now she was back. Looking the same as when she had left. He wondered for what; if she was only going to sulk before returning a day later, why had she gone at all? 

Mayvalt slipped into the room. She'd covered herself in black leather, her usual style, and it glimmered beneath the club lights. He recalled a time when she had stayed by his side beneath a sky full of approaching arrows with only a Bo in hand. How she had looked in her Avernian Irons. Hardly more than an infant. 

So, he imagined that he would be glad to see her now in a fanciful suit with fake iron spikes collared around her stiffened shoulders. That her curled mane was free of heavy helmets. That her hooves had been retired into the body of chunky boots unsuited to quick-paced battle.

He knew the path to take if he wished to see her remain that way. The one thorn grown and winding rapidly away from what he ached for most. No, for the only thing he could ever want for again. 

"I suspect you have little respect for me right now," Bezel began.

"Usually." She nodded. Her coffee-brown eyes danced across the empty office. "What? Your nephew isn't hanging around?" 

"No." Bezel muttered. 

Mayvalt hadn't been the only child of his to wander off the dawn before the fight. Belial had also slipped his custody. Not that Bezel had ever felt too deeply inclined to keep watch of him. Whatever mess he got into was better left unspoken.

Though, Bezel had warned him that if he went Heimrian-hunting he would have to face consequences. The warning had left Belial rather pale-cheeked. But had it been an act? Had he gone off to cause trouble after all? Mayvalt looked bothered. 

The way she got when Bezel did one of his careless mistakes or when Fenvolt ate the last of the cocktail cherries five days before the new inventory was due to arrive. 

She nodded slowly, "I only came because-" 

"Wait." Bezel scowled fictionally. "I must say my piece first, or you'll assume I'm only agreeing with you later on to keep the peace." 

"Agreeing with me?" She laughed. "Boss, you can't possibly be on the same page as me right now." 

"I'd greatly prefer to go first." He insisted. 

"You can't prefer, boss!" She countered cooly.

"It's. . . the thought that counts?" 

"Oh, so you're thinking now?" She rolled her tea-dark eyes. "I'll alert the newspapers." 

Bezel fit her with a glare from his golden gaze, and she surrendered with a set of raised palms. He blew a breath from his nose and nodded. "I. . . was wrong." 

"Okay," she murmured. "Go on." 

"I know that Mammon is fully exploiting my weakness. He's been picking at me for months. Anyone can see that-"

"Anyone but you apparently," 

"Fine, I'll take that." Bezel scowled. "It's all because of me. Whispering at my Faun, setting the Progeny against us with this gate business, even using Savalt." 

Mayvalt nodded slowly. Her fingers raised to the golden ring settled against her antler. Her eyes drifted shut, and her lips pressed into a thin line. "Then he killed her, boss? Are you ready to admit it now?" 

"You knew?" 

"Sap, boss. How could I not?" She laughed. A sound not of humor but of disgust. 

Bezel did not sigh or offer any weak softening of his cold exterior. There was no hollow stage act that could placate her. So he nodded and said. "Yes, he killed her to speak to me. And likely to gadge just how much I'd be seeking a cure to my curse."

Mayvalt was still for only as long as it took to suck in one deep breath, and then she was unfurling again. A blossom reemerging after the passing of the dangerous frost. Her inability to hold onto any one emotion was a side effect of centuries of fitting to Bezel's whims. She buried it. Just as she did anything that Bezel could not understand. 

"Sending his son with my face was another mockery." Bezel continued.

"Hm, a real clown mask." She agreed. "Hideous little creature, isn't he?" 

"Are you having fun?" Bezel asked blankly. 

She shrugged. "One of us has to."

"He must have a reason." Bezel muttered. "What's he playing at now?" 

"Sure, this is a totally normal and not at all concerning reaction to finding out your nephew resembles you, boss." Mayvalt muttered.

"My brother has stitched his illusion magic into the boy's skin. I can feel it." Bezel argued. 

Mayvalt sighed. She crossed the office to the glass wall overlooking the Hudson River and opened the curtains that Bezel kept forever shut. She paused at the window and placed her hands on her leather-covered hips. "Alright, so what does Mammon love to do?" 

Bezel shrugged--and Mayvalt rolled her eyes. "You're really not good at riddles, boss." 

"Mayvalt." 

"Fine! I'll just tell you--cause I've been saying it since that kid popped up out of the lake. He's playing you! Setting you up for the fall, boss!" She gestured wildly, swinging her hands across the dimmed office. "The gate, the Faun, your stunt-double. He's painting his villain. And he picked you. He's using your reputation as the bowling ball to his pins." 

"Me?" Bezel asked blankly. "Why?" 

"Are you. . . I mean--you're joking, right?" 

Bezel turned his yellow cat eyes down to the polished gloss of his dress shoes. As if, reflected on their surface, he would finally see what everyone else seemed to. Why did it always lead back to him in the end? Why did they fear him? Hate him? Wish to see him flayed for the punishment of merely existing where he was not wanted? Or was there more? Had he done something again? Over and over and over--a thousand bleeding sins, which he could not see. 

"What's wrong with me?" 

The office filled with the silence he'd always kept chained behind his rib cage. He looked up at her, into her wide brown eyes. She paused and then blew a long sigh into the frozen air. 

"Nothing, boss. You're just. . . you." Mayvalt answered. "No one likes that." 

"The Third Prince of Hell." Bezel agreed. 

That titled had been carried through many battles, claiming many more bodies. The Third Prince had been a usurper in Elysium, a defector of the Demon-Born wars, a traitor of his own, and an eternal thorn in the side of a growing city that did not want him around. 

"I can see how I've managed to find myself quite isolated." 

"You have me." She said.

"I do." Bezel agreed. How much longer before she grew sick of him, too? It didn't matter. When she walked away, he'd not feel her anymore than he did now. "So, I would like to keep you." 

"I'm not a pet." 

"No," Bezel agreed. "You're my best employee." 

"Sap," she blushed. "Can I hang my portrait behind the bar? Employee of the decade?" 

"You can do whatever you like--if we manage to save the city." 

Mayvalt flushed pale and pressed her palms over her trembling lips. "What have you done?" 

"Nothing--yet." He shrugged. "I merely implied to my brother that I would shepard in his demonic army to destroy Heimr." 

"Boss!" She shouted. 

"I said I haven't done anything!" 

"Yet! Oh, Princes. Please help us." She whispered. Bezel did not interrupt her prayer to point out the enemy at hand. "So, that was the deal you made? For maybe finding your soul, you'll raze Heimr?" 

"Mammon said-" 

"Already off to a terrible start." 

"-that our younger brother Mikhal took the cure to my curse hostage. He's beginning something. Another war. Mammon hoped to stop it by extinguishing the smoldering ashes, he hoped to put Heimr out of the game before they could rejoin Elysium's side. How they did in the first war." Bezel explained. 

"So that's it? Find peace by destroying a planet?" Mayvalt muttered. "Yeah, great idea!" 

"Mayvalt, you know that this world can never be ended. It will always be born again. Unlike Avernians who cease to exist, and like Ely who fade away. Spring always returns here." He said. "The true-immortals." 

"So, that makes it okay?" Mayvalt spat.

"I didn't say that." Bezel protested, pressing his fingers against his imaginary headache. "I'm not going to help him with his plan." 

She blinked. Her heart skidded behind her ribs in time to the music down below. "But, boss, your soul. What if Mammon really knows where it is? What if the All King takes it again--but even further away? What if you never find the key again?" 

"So, I should help him?" Bezel tilted his head playfully.

"No!" She snapped.

Bezel sighed and slumped against the surface of his wooden desk. "Trust me, these are all thoughts I've had myself. What if I lose? What if I rot for all eternity? Could there be a way to escape the agony I can not feel? What if, instead, I gamble it all away and find the key. What would I gain? After so long, only so I could feel pain as this world burned? So I could feel shame as they looked at me--knowing what I had done? That did not seem a better option." 

Mayvalt came across the office, perching herself on the edge of the paper-crowded desk beside her insufferable suffering boss. "What are we going to do?" She asked into the too-quiet room. 

"I'm going to stop Belial." He said. "Then, somehow, my brother." 

"How?" Mayvalt asked. "Boss, you've been stuck here for centuries. He can't come to you, not through his own gate. There's no way to shut it either, not against his will--not without killing him. And you can't, boss, not from New York." 

"I know, Mayvalt." Bezel sighed, he thought she'd said 'not' enough times to tie him into one, which did not bode well. "One problem at a time. Let me just focus on saving the city tonight." 

"Great," she muttered, "I'll go dust the cobwebs off my Bo." 

"No," Bezel said. "You can't come with me. You're a weakness to me. One Mammon would have instructed Belial to exploit." 

Despite his efforts, keeping her at an arm's length. Always diminishing the role he'd played to her. Claiming her as a servant and not a side-kick. He knew none of it had fooled his brother. 

"You think they expected this?" Mayvalt asked. "The possibility of you defecting? Even with your key at stake?" 

"It's me, remember. My reputation precedes me, and they would not have picked me without doing their research." Bezel admitted. "Why else would they have hired a body-double to take my place?" 

"Good point." She shrugged. "But I can't let you go alone." 

"Your Bo it's Fae-Iron, isn't it." When he shut his eyes, he could still see it. Blazing white metal against the blood-red sunset. The last battle they had fought, side-by-side, before Bezel abandoned the war.

"Yeah?" Mayvalt agreed cautiously. 

"So, it'll never harm Belial. He is of my blood. Nothing of this world, nothing of Avernus, will ever harm him." Bezel looked down at his fingertips, at the claws there. "I need something from Elysium." 

"Do you. . . have anything?" 

"No." He sighed. "And weak as I am, I could never make a Vestige." 

"Well, luckily that flows both ways. I doubt Belial could make one either." Mayvalt suspected, twisting her fingers up in her pink hair as she thought through their incredibly limited options. "Not much power left between the Ely in Avernus, boss." 

"I could. . . punch him?" 

"You are something from Elysium." She laughed. "Then I'll bring my Bo for whatever sucker army he's raising." 

"May-" 

"C'mon, boss! We just agreed that you're going to be preoccupied duking it out with your nephew all trailer-park-thanksgiving style." 

"That's an offensive stereotype." 

She rolled her eyes and slipped off the desk, adjusting her leather jacket with a spikey-shouldered shrug. "We need an army! I'll ask the Faun." 

"The Faun?" Bezel questioned. "Mayvalt, they've been in the process of fleeing from the mere idea of a war for months. If I dropped a glass, they'd vacate the whole block. They'd hide from an engine backfiring." 

"Okay! I got it. You can stop listing hurtful things." She muttered. "Sap, boss. I know my kind have a certain reputation. . . but this city is our home, too. We have to rise to protect it! Because no one else will." 

Bezel sighed theatrically and nodded. "Spread the word here. Bring whatever troops you manage to stir up to me. We'll make for the Catskill together." 

She pressed her hand to her forehead in a Heimrian salute and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Bezel fell into robotic stillness, staring blankly at the shut door. 

The minutes dragged on. They always did. 

A spark of light caught his eye. The window--Mayvalt hadn't drawn the curtains. He pushed himself from his perch and crossed the office, hovering at the lip of the grand glass. The night was in full swing just beyond the silver barrier over the aperture. 

Carried across the water, the dazzling sky-scraper lights danced, making up for the lack of stars above their stretching towers. Blanketing all of New York was an inky black sheet not yet filled by the golden-bright moon. But Bezel knew that, just as the seconds dwindled by, the rising of the moon was an inevitability that they would soon have to face. Along with the bloodshed that would be illuminated underneath it. Perhaps Bezel should not have wasted so much time. 

For days, he had stayed locked in his office, stuck between losing this world or losing a half of himself. The choice had not been an easy one to make, not even robbed of all emotional attachments. But as the final decision rang out, he was left only hoping that he had not wasted all their time. 

This unfeeling was all too familiar. He'd been here before, watching the moon rise over the promise of death. That had been the last night he'd ever been just Beelzebub. When the being attached to that name could cry of his own free will, or laugh when he pleased. 

Those days, and the wound they'd etched into him, had long since faded. No, this was not the same moon. More than just the eyes watching it had changed. He'd been torn apart, hollowed, and carelessly stitched back together. So how could this moon remain? How could the rain still fall, the sun still rise, the sea still swell. 

There were all just cardboard play pieces being dragged across the background of a stage. His fingers twitched at his sides, reaching for the black curtains to shut away the city across the water. 

Knock. 

His hand froze. He turned his yellow eyes towards the office door. Mayvalt had returned already? He knew her recruitment wouldn't go well, but he didn't think that her kind would be so quick in turning her down.

The door eased slowly inward. 

She looked more bothered than when she had left. Her caramel-toned cheeks were flushed bright pink. Her heart pounded quicker than darting rabbit's paws. Flushed against her back were the neon lights hanging over the floor of Eden. They illuminated her peach hair to a sunset warm, giving the golden cuff set against her curls the likeness of the sun. 

"What's wrong?" He asked. 

A rather useless question. Maybe a more accurate one should have been, what do you currently believe to be most wrong?  

"No volunteers?" 

"Ba'al," she bleated softly, "you have. . . a guest." 

"You've found Belial?" He guessed. 

Having his nephew in his club wasn't the most ideal set up to launch their attack, but at least it would keep him from the gate--while also keeping Bezel from the gate. Foiling  any attempt at turning the army back before their advance could move from the shore. 

She turned, seizing the door handle. The metal hinges screeched, cutting painfully against the silence of the club. Bezel stared over her horned-head, down to the dance floor that had gone still. They'd shut off the music. Why had they shut off the music? Well, he supposed, not even Faun could dance as the reality of imposing doom became clear. 

The door moved inward until Bezel could make sense of the entire frame. Of the two figures lurking in it. Mayvalt flushed as peach as her hair, and the other as dark as a storm cloud. Dressed in simple black, head bowed to face the polish of their shoes. Bezel shook his head, to call it only simple would not have been understanding it to the fullest. It was not meaningless. He knew the red trim of it. Battle blood painted into fabric, and what it meant to his kind.

Bezel did not ever feel inconvenienced by things. He'd lost the ability. Only now, he knew that he would have been. He had far too much to prepare for to deal with another sight seer sent by his younger brother's fan club. 

"Leave, Mayvalt. Go gather what it is you need." He dismissed. 

She nodded stiffly, her eyes darting anxiously to the newcomer before she vanished. The last piece of her remaining were the echoes of her boots clanging against the metal staircase as she headed back to the floor of Eden. The knight turned to watch her leave, his cold eyes following the curve of her clearly visible antlers. He seemed frozen, as if chasing a memory. 

Bezel's lips twitched. "You shouldn't gawk at a lady. It's rather rude." 

He turned, for the first time, to face Bezel. Their eyes met then, in that dim room Bezel had stuffed to the brim with paperwork and dust. They weren't cold, Bezel realized. Only as much as the ocean, anyway. As if merely a side effect of their color. Robin egg blue, and completely paralyzing. 

It was Bezel's turn to feel frozen. His skin coated in a layer of frost. The club was quiet, and much too dark, and he thought that maybe the whole building had lost power. Or he'd simply tumbled out the window into the harbour below--something to explain the wash of nothing overtaking him. 

There was a sensation in the back of his mind of neatly stacked blocks crashing from their grand tower. They sent up a shockwave that Bezel could measure on a screen but not feel in his feet. It was everything all at once--and it was absolutely nothing. 

Thu- . . .mp

For one moment--Bezel remembered the conclusion he'd only just reached. His soul had to be among them. Just as soon as he'd thought it; here one was. Standing before him with a glare of determination in his fire-filled eyes. 

Well, for one moment. Until it began to fade as quickly as it had began. He stared at the knight before him, at their sun-yellow hair and their ice-sharp eyes. Bezel felt nothing. There was no cure waiting for him. There was no relief. Not from this person. 

Bezel curled his fingers into fists at his side. What possible name could he attach to the sense of unfeeling flowing through him? Disappointment? Embarrassment at his own sudden stab of eagerness? How great would it have been to be so immediately released from the most difficult choice he'd made in the last seven decades? 

The knight stepped forward. He hooked the door of the office with his flattened palms and swung it shut, blocking them from the peering eyes far below.

"You're brave." Bezel noted cooly. 

You're nobody. Bezel squeezed his eyes shut, dismissing the pointless thought. This Bishop, stranger or not, had earned Bezel's attention. 

Deacons, the children of the Progeny, often came to his club. They liked to dawn meaningless Heimrian clothing and dance on his floor, laughing at how brave they thought themselves to be. Bishops came, too. Disguised as flawlessly as sore thumbs to gaze greedily at Bezel's untouchable Fauns. 

Never had one attended in their robes. Never had one come with their plucked teeth and stolen horns. Never had one knocked on his door. Never had one mustered the courage to even glance in his direction. 

"As are you." The boy mocked in return.

Never had one spoken back to him. 

So, Bezel laughed. The sound rose up out of him before he could stop it. He pressed his sharpened teeth to his lips, not thinking for even a moment about how naturally he'd executed his performance. Gagging on air he did not need, forcing smiles he did not feel, he'd become so accustomed to all that fanfare. This was merely another act. 

But he wished that it wasn't. 

He wished that all his problems had truly been evaporated. He wished that this extraordinary Bishop who stood before him was any more special than a gray pebble on a mountain trail. 

But how could he be when Bezel felt nothing?

There was a bitter rolling sense of emptiness in his ribs, filling with curling smoke and swirling dust particles. Bezel looked into his sea-blue eyes, admired the freckles scattered across his cheeks, gazed at his sun-beam hair. But it was undeniable. Where his heart should have beat, it only thudded with more vast blankness. 

He might have scoffed at himself. Why would it be any different? 

It was silly of him to assume, that now that he knew the placement of his lost soul, the first knight he ran into after would be his--but not even the endless march of time or empty shell inside of him could dash hope. Well, then, for another reason it was good to feel nothing. His precious desperation shuddered in his blank skull and shattered into glass. This boy--he was nothing to Bezel. Just the same as everyone else.

 "What should I fear? Ossein can't harm me." Bezel shrugged, perfectly suited for the role of an arrogant aristocrat. "Did you have anything else?" 

The Bishop frowned. His fingers twitched, hovering over the daggers on his belt. He shook his head, rustling his soft yellow hair until it dripped into his eyes.

Bezel sighed. "Well, unfortunately, I'm rather busy. I don't have time to stroke your fragile ego or play to your hero complex. So, if you'll just excuse me-" 

"-do you." 

Bezel froze--and then frowned to himself at his obedience. Why should he placate his brother's cultist? How much more did he have to swallow down? How many more thrown stones and blazing accusations would he sit through? At least one more, it seemed. For some unknowable reason, he could not brush away the fitful gaze affixed to the boy's beautiful expression. 

"Do I?" Bezel pressed from behind his sharp teeth.

"Know. . . who I am?" He asked. 

Bezel wished that he did. He wished that the boy with sunshine yellow hair, sky deep eyes, and enough courage to face him was who he so desperately needed--but he felt nothing. And his soul, he knew, would never recognize him. 

"Why? Have you forgotten?" Bezel teased. The Bishop blazed scarlet red and fit a dagger-sharp glare to his dazzling gaze. Bezel smirked and rolled his cat eyes. "No, should I know you? Have we fought before?" 

"Yes." 

Bezel shrugged. "I can't recall, darling. Don't get too hung up on it--I fight a lot of people. I'm sure what we had was very special, I'm sorry I forgot to call." 

In truth, Bezel couldn't name a single tussle he'd been in for thousands of years. But he also knew how in their heads Progeny knights could be. Their fight might have been as simple as crossing paths on the subway. 

Bezel couldn't help but stare. For centuries, he'd prided himself in his ability to play the part. The proper twitch of an eyebrow, the right muscle to contract, and the timing needed to make a smile last for only as long as it was appropriate.

It was a skill that had made him decidedly good at reading others. This boy was a picture book. It was as if he'd never once in his entire life been able to lie. His skin, from his cheeks to his neck, flushed red with anger, his lips dragged backward in disgust, his eyes filled with confusion and then desperation.

He was a mosaic of every human emotion Bezel had been deprived of. 

His red cheeks darkened into maroon beneath Bezel's curious gaze. His blush lit his thousands of freckles into nighttime stars. He scowled as if this was not playing out the way he'd imagined, then grit his teeth and scoffed. The Bishop seemed momentarily caught in thought, as if the ground had vanished beneath his boots. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before opening them with a renewed sense of fire.

"It doesn't matter then." He adapted. "I didn't come to fight. I came to ask for. . . help." 

"Help?" Bezel repeated slowly. The heaviness of his tongue might have seemed like he himself was confused, except that he couldn't feel baffled by anything anymore. 

"There are Beasts coming from the portal you made." The Bishop said, pressing his teeth together in quietly suppressed rage. "If we don't stop it, then this world is going to be trampled."

Of course, they had assumed that he'd done it. He might have felt offended, considering that he'd only tried to do it. "Alright, wait-"

"You must have your own reasons, but destroying earth can't be the end goal. Why would you stay in this world if just to ruin it? So, help me. We can stop the Beasts! If you just shut the gate-" 

"-now just hold on a minute!" Bezel barked. The Bishop fell still, his hands held palms up and his chest rising to keep time with his quickened breaths. "This has been a fascinating insight into what the Progeny put in their propaganda posters, so thanks for that, but I'm a busy man. I have plans tonight. Leave a message with the secretary on your way out."

"What are you so afraid of?" The boy snapped. "You won't even listen to what I have to say!" 

"Afraid? Try exhausted." Which wasn't true either, "If you were speaking anything of value--I might have cleared my agenda. Unfortunately, you are not." Bezel grit back. 

Bezel squeezed his eyes shut and huffed a heavy exhale from his nose. What was he doing? Raising his voice? Arguing with a zealot? He didn't have time for this. The moon was rising, and the world was barrelling towards calamity. 

Could an argument exist that Bezel was slightly as fault? Well, sure, but he was taking action now--so who could really blame him for a moment of weakness? 

"What do you want? To destroy everything? Really?" The Bishop demanded. 

Bezel sighed. When had he ever destroyed anything? The Progeny had always been this way. Finding whatever excuse they could conjure to blame him for everything wrong in their sick world. "I-"

"Well, I don't believe that." The boy snapped, shaking his hay-yellow hair. 

Bezel froze. His tongue turned to ash behind his fangs, his fingers curled into fists at his side. What was that buzzing in his ears?

"Why not?" He asked. "Seems the easier conclusion, doesn't it?" 

"Easiest, yes." The Bishop agreed. "But maybe too easy. You've only ever existed here, in our world. You could have wiped out the Progeny centuries ago. When we first lost our Vestiges. You didn't. I know that you're here for a reason, aren't you?" He turned pink and stared down at his shoes. Was he embarrassed? He was, but why?

"I am." Bezel answered. 

He lacked the power to leave on his own. Yet he had too much power to fade away. All he could do was wait for the brief years of reprieve from his curse. Years which seemed to be growing further apart each reiteration.

"I didn't come here because I have a great many options. This, as crazy as it seems, is the only plan I have left." He sunk his shaking fingers into his soft hair. "I can't believe it but. . . you. . . you're the only person who can help me." 

"Help you save the world?" Bezel muttered coldly. 

"Ideally," he agreed weakly, "is that not enough?"

"Oh no, I make a hobby of breaking my back for those that despise me. Nothing quite like it to pass the time on a somber sunday afternoon." Bezel shrugged. 

The blond narrowed his light eyes back into sharpened blades, "if you do this, you'll be saving yourself, too." 

Bezel tilted his head. "I'm invincible, darling." 

"Not from a Vestige." 

Bezel paused. He ran his fingertips over his oil-dark hair and hummed. "The Progeny don't have one, self admittedly. If they did--they would have already tried to kill me." 

"They don't have it yet." 

"Keep talking." 

"Agree to help me." He countered stiffly. 

Bezel chuckled. He leaned against the cool glass pane overlooking the Hudson and crossed his arms over his unmoving chest. The pieces falling onto the table in front of him hardly made sense. On the dawn of full-world calamity, a single Bishop had sought his assistance in stopping it. 

Bezel had already planned to do so, but the Progeny would never have believed him. They thought he'd done it. If they had a way to claim a Vestige, the simplest conclusion would have been to claim it and kill Bezel. Of course, that plan wouldn't actually shut the gate they most needed closed. But how could this Bishop know that? He blamed Bezel as well. 

So, seperate from the end of the world--he wanted something. Something which the Progeny could not grant him. Something awful enough, he'd sell his soul to the devil. And that, if he had any time to wonder, would have been incredibly intriguing. 

"Well, I did think you crazy. But now I see that you're far from empty handed. So, what's the deal? I help you--you save me from a Vestige?"

"Basically." 

"You're. . . very interesting." Bezel noted. "It's something about you, I think." 

"Thanks," he muttered bluntly. 

"Who are you?" 

The boy flushed silver and pressed his lips together. "So, you really don't know me?" 

"Not in the slightest, dear." Bezel shrugged. "Let's just treat this as a fresh slate. It's only polite to introduce yourself upon first meeting, don't you agree?" 

He frowned, scrunching up his eyebrows as if each of Bezel's words cut him with confusion. 

"I'm. . . Ira Rule." 

Bezel breathed in the name. His tongue worked behind his teeth before he could stop it, "that's a beautiful name, fitting for such a pretty person."

The Bishop--Ira, he'd said, turned six shades of pink and reached for his Ossein blades. Bezel laughed, raising his hands in honest surrender. 

"I'm-" 

"Yeah, I know who you are." Ira growled. "The Third Prince of Hell Beelzebub." 

"Ah, but that old title is such a mouthful." He dismissed with a waived palm. "Those that dislike me tend to just call me Bezel. Bezel Pangeran, actually." 

"Prince." Ira muttered blankly.

Bezel lifted his eyebrows, "you know Indonesian?" 

"Your name is Bezel Prince--why not let them call you Third Prince Beelzebub?" 

"Because it's exhausting," Bezel scowled, "and it's too long to fit on a driver's license." 

Ira pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "This is. . . this is getting out of hand. Are you going to help me or not?" 

"Help with what, darling?" 

"Angels!" Ira cursed, "With shutting your gate!" 

"Which one?" Bezel quipped. "I have seven, you know." 

Ira turned pale in a way that indicated he definitely hadn't known that before stiffening his shoulders beneath his black robes. "The one releasing Beasts into New York! You don't want to see this world ruined, right? So help me!" 

"Right, well, I'd love to help, but unfortunately, that one's not mine, so-" 

"You're lying." Ira growled. 

Bezel flinched--flinched? Why? How could he even--his tongue darted across his sharpened fangs, spitting up venom with no specific shape. How dare he--why did it matter? It didn't matter. 

"I never met Francis." 

Ira blinked. He scowled down the length of his freckle-kissed nose. "What?" 

It was a rather reasonable reply to something entirely unreasonable. 

"You're here, in those robes, to accuse me of this crime because you belong to the Sect of Saint Francis, yeah? He was a general, one of seven, placed in command of an entire army. The Third Army, in fact. This was centuries ago, during the Demon-Born War. Francis had only one job; bring his men to kill me. He never succeeded. He never even came across me once during the entire campaign." Bezel said.

"So?" Ira asked. Likely because Bezel wasn't making a single lick of sense. 

"Well, it's funny. Isn't it? Here you stand, dripping with stolen valor to accuse me of dishonesty." Bezel noted coldly. "Your weapons you stole from corpses, your honor you stole from stories. I wonder from what creature you managed to steal all that courage. How else could you walk into my home and demand I save the world from a problem you believe I began."  

"It had to have been you!" Ira protested. "You're the only one powerful enough to open a gate." 

"Key word; gate." Bezel muttered. "Doors open from two sides, do they not?" 

The Bishop turned snow-pale and pressed his knuckles to his lips. The sound of his thumping heart filled the empty space beyond Bezel's skull. It might have been amusing, or perhaps frustrating, that this was the greatest extent of benefit Bezel had ever been given, and the man still thought he'd caused the issue. 

"You. . . didn't open the rift." He whispered. "Then if we kill you--nothing will change?" 

"Morbid question." Bezel muttered. "But no, you can't shut this particular gate by cutting off my head. Sorry to disappoint."

"Angels, they're going to sacrifice him for nothing." Ira whispered sharply. As if suffocated by the weight of his words. He flattened his palms against his lips and spun on his heels, retreating as quick as the tide. He was disappearing as abruptly as he'd come, Bezel realized. 

"Hey, wait! You can't just leave after making me so curious." Bezel called childishly. He crossed the distance of his office and reached to grab the robed shoulder of the Bishop. Poor decorum, even worse manners. He knew that. He knew Mayvalt would scold him about it later. 

But it was as if he was being pulled forward on strings. He didn't want him to leave. Want? No, he couldn't want. He couldn't be curious, either, but was that not the excuse he'd used? And then his fingertips touched the stiff black cloth over his tensed flesh--and it was rough-spun. Bezel thought for one single second how could anyone ever wear such uncomfortable suits? 

The boy lashed back, quicker than a viper, with his fang-blade. The black wood shimmered as bright as oil. The jagged tooth glanced across Bezel's wrist. If he was anything but a creature of Elysium, he would have lost his hand. He pulled back his unscathed arm and raised it in surrender. 

"Apologies." Bezel said.

Ira held his Ossein blade parallel to his heart, glaring up at Bezel with equally sharp eyes. "I can't kill you, but I will try." 

"Noted." Bezel laughed. "Where are you rushing off to? Decided my help isn't worth much?" 

It didn't matter. It didn't matter, it did-

"You said you can't help me." Ira cut. "I haven't got much time left." 

"I said it's not my gate--not that I couldn't help." Bezel corrected. "I was merely adjusting the record." 

"Enough with the words games! Will you help me or not?" Ira hissed. His wide eyes filling with something vulnerable. Bezel had to avert his careless gaze, worried that the look in them would be enough to break the Bishop into a thousand sharp shards.  

"Alright, don't get all weepy. We just happen to be momentarily aligned, so I suppose we could strike a deal." Bezel muttered stiffly. "I was just on my way to get hopelessly outmatched anyway. Another body might be useful. Buy me a few seconds." 

"Someone stronger than you opened the gate?" Ira surmised, picking apart the slight truths buried in Bezel's teasing.

That was indeed true, but there was no point in admitting that there existed stronger brothers. Bezel shook his head. "Nothing like that, I just need to go put my nephew in place. A few extra hands to sweep up his army couldn't hurt." 

"An army?" Ira repeated, his eyebrows darting upwards. "The Beasts?" 

"The Behemoths you mean? No, of course not." Bezel dismissed. "Those are just stragglers. Whatever my nephew raises will be much, much, worse, I promise." 

"Good, great," Ira muttered, "glad to have your oath on that." 

"Of course, dear." Bezel smirked. 

"The Progeny is on their way there right now." Ira said, glancing over Bezel's shoulder to his opened window, his eyes traced the silver glow of the rising moon. "They can be our army." 

"Going for an evening stoll, are they?" 

"Doesn't matter." Ira grunted. "Just know that if they succeed--they'll claim a Vestige." 

"Ah," Bezel nodded. "So, stop my nephew while we stop the Progeny? Sure, why not?" 

"And close the gate." Ira added. 

"Of course, dear." Bezel lied. It wasn't his fault. He really did mean to stop his nephew, to quell his brother's army, and to protect Heimr. Couldn't that be enough? It had to be. It was all that he could offer. 

"Stop calling me that." Ira growled. 

Bezel shook his head, "apologies, darling." 

"Angels, I wish I could let them summon the Vestige." Ira Rule muttered bitterly. 

"Why can't you?" Bezel asked, raising his oil-dark eyebrows. "Could it be you're hopelessly charmed by my angelic good looks?" 

Ira turned purple and grit his teeth. "None of your business--but it's not that." 

"Maybe a little bit my business." Bezel shrugged.

Ira opened his mouth again, perhaps to start barking, but he fell silent at the sudden knock. Bezel glanced at the metal office door, feeling nothing of course, but perhaps inventing the idea to himself that he could be disappointed by the interruption. 

"Come in." 

She stepped into the room, casting nervous glances at the man with a bone-dagger held in his raised fist. The Bishop cleared his throat awkwardly and tucked the jagged tooth back into his belt, offering something of an apologetic shrug. 

"Mayvalt, this is Ira. Ira, this is Mayvalt. Should we not kill each other--I imagine we'll get along swimmingly." Bezel said.

"Sap," Mayvalt hissed beneath her breath. She eyed him with apprehension. 

"Angels." Ira muttered, returning her hesitancy with a look of withering curiosity. 

"This is the start of a beautiful friendship, I just know it." Bezel said. "So, have you any news, Mayvalt?" 

The Faun nodded, edging into the room at a wide distance from Ira. She crossed to Bezel's desk and perched herself on the paper-full surface. "I asked everyone I know to bring up arms against Belial." 

Barely any time at all had elapsed since she'd left for her task, but Bezel knew the Faun. Rumors were currency to them, and talks of enlistment would have reached the low-streets before the office door could latch shut.

"And?" 

"We have our army, boss." She nodded. Her brown eyes darted to the Bishop and then to the Prince of Hell. 

"And?" Bezel pressed again. 

Mayvalt shrugged. "It's everyone in this room." 

"Oh brothers," Bezel groaned. 

She plastered a smile across her face and leaned forward, extending her palm across the room to the pale Bishop. "I'm Mayvalt, it's nice to meet you--because we're going to die side-by-side." 

The Bishop looked down at her offered handshake, as if thinking. His lips pressed together over his teeth, perhaps suppressing what he really wished to say. He glanced up at her, his eyes moving subconsciously, to the antlers peeking from her frizzy peach curls.

Mayvalt smirked, Bezel began to move forward to soothe over the painfully distant gap between their haphazard alliance. "Right, well, don't take it personal, dear. He nearly took my hand off just a couple-"

Ira Rule moved forward, crossing the room with three swift steps. He clasped his hand to hers and shook it firmly. "Ira Rule." He said sternly. "It's. . . nice to meet you." 

Bezel blinked. Mayvalt jolted, staring down at her hand as if it'd stung her. She laughed and shook it back. 

"Do I get a handshake?" Bezel asked childishly. He was ignored. 

Ira met Mayvalt's eyes with a diamond-strong look of determination, "but we're not going to die. Not if I can help it."

Mayvalt tilted her horn-crowned head. "What? You've got a plan, kid?" 

"No," he laughed, "not at all."