Power was a funny thing. As hard to hold as running water, as tempting as honey, as mesmerizing as summer lightning, and as rare as beating the morning traffic on a weekday. To others. To Bezel it was just there. Blood beneath his skin, running through his still heart. He didn't think much of it. Or much about it. He had almost forgotten how it felt to be full of it. 

He stared down at his fingers, twisting them each and every way to catch the light streaming in through the window. Beneath that silver moon, his skin almost glittered with the invisible waves of stored magic. They were strings, fragile little walls made from the universe. The ability to open gates was purely angelic. As was the ability to shut them. As the centuries had worn on, as he lingered beneath enemy eyes, Bezel had almost begun to believe them--that he was a Prince of Hell, a Greater Demon, but the power laced into the marrow of his bones reminded him that he was not. He squeezed his yellow cat eyes shut, inhaling stiff and unnecessary breaths of the dusty office air to quell the serpent stirring on his insides. From behind his eyelids, the world trudged begrudgingly forward. It dragged Bezel back, too. With claws dipped in venom. 

Knock. 

There could only be one culprit responsible for interrupting him now. He'd finished with the other Faun quite some time ago. He blinked his lazy golden eyes and slumped his shoulders beneath his black dress shirt. "Come in." 

The heavy metal door swung inward, slicing apart the stillness with squealing hinges. Carried in on the fresh breeze was the thump of music, the bittersweet tang of expensive liquor, and the scent of fear. It clung to her skin as tightly as her black leathers did. 

"Nervous?" Bezel asked. 

He placed himself atop his desk, gently sliding his kris aside to make space, and leaned back onto the palms of his hands, sprawled as carelessly as a spoiled housecat. Mayvalt slipped into the office and shut the door behind herself, once again entombing them into merciful silence. She crossed the room to her typical resting place and flung herself down onto the worn couch. Her antlers caught the edge of the wall, tearing a new rip into the frayed wallpaper. 

"Sap, boss!" She cursed. Or, maybe. She could have said 'apps, sauce,' it was hard to hear her voice with her face pressed face down into the cushions. But Bezel applied a few context clues and assumed it was not 'apps, sauce.' 

"Well, clearly you're going through something. Do you want tea? Chocolate?" Bezel offered blankly. 

Mayvalt shoved herself up onto her elbows and swung her legs around to sit properly on the sofa. She groaned again and melted into the back of the couch. "I'm good. I think I'd puke anything I tried to eat right now." 

"Why would you do that?" Bezel asked. 

"No, I mean like I'm scared." Mayvalt corrected. "No, actually. I'm terrified, boss. This is. . . crazy." 

"There's nothing crazy about two demons returning to Hell, darling." Bezel said. 

Mayvalt fit him with a glare. She sharpened her finger down into an accusatory stab and jerked it towards herself. "I was born in Heimr." Then she flicked it towards Bezel. "So were you--and you're an Ely." 

Bezel lifted his shoulders into a soft shrug. "Merely a technicality, love. I was born on Heimr, but my existence did not begin here."

"Right." Mayvalt shuddered, clicking her tongue. "I forgot you were a cuckoo baby."

"Ugh, you make it sound so creepy." Bezel said, lifting up his palms to halt her. 

"Yeah, I'd say being implanted in an unsuspecting Heimrian woman is pretty creepy, boss." She scoffed. "Total Antichrist baby vibes." 

"That is exactly what Christ did?" Bezel muttered. "Anyways, we're getting off topic here. All those pesky details are better kept as a secret between us. You're going to act as guide to that Bishop, don't let him know you're a tourist." 

Mayvalt pressed her face down into her opened palms. "I'm not lying, boss. I've been to Avernus. A couple of times. . . like, a few years ago." 

"A few?" 

"A few shy of fifty years." She winced. "How much could have changed?" 

"Hell ages in dog years, Mayvalt." Bezel said, shaking his head. "You know as well as I do, empires could have risen and fallen since your trip." 

She grimaced, trapping her lip between her teeth. "Okay, alright. Then. . . we need a boost. An informat--someone who's been in Avernus all these years." 

Bezel stared into her wide cow eyes and shook his head. "No--no way. I know what you're thinking. That's a bad call, darling." 

"Oh, come on!" Mayvalt sighed, throwing her hands up into the air. "We need help! The Fif-" 

"Let me stop you right there." Bezel cut in, raising his palms. "My siblings do not help. They deal. They plot. They snivel for scraps of fatherly love. All these centuries, they never even sent me a letter." 

"A. . . letter?" Mayvalt repeated, her tone as exasperated as he had ever heard it. "Like what? 'hi, brother. Sorry about that curse thing. See you at the next blood ritual?' c'mon, boss. They're the Princes of Hell. I don't think they even know what mail is." 

 "I'm a Prince of Hell and I know what mail is." Bezel corrected with a huff.

"Okay, and how many letters did you send?" Mayvalt asked, raising her eyebrow. 

"None!" He scoffed. "I didn't need to, I opened gates. One enough for each of them--well, absent my older siblings who could not fit through. But I have many other siblings, plenty able to use my gates and none of them ever tried. They're not interested in helping." 

Mayvalt sighed, blowing out a knot of frustration from the pit of her chest. "Boss, you can't take that as an indication of their care for you. The last time your siblings stepped over into Heimr, it caused a war. They can't just go to New York because they want to." 

"I know." Bezel agreed. 

"Then what?" Mayvalt asked. "What's upsetting you?" 

"Upsetting me?" Bezel repeated, forcing up a harsh bark of laughter into his words. "I can't--I'm not upset, darling."

Mayvalt nodded. "Good. Then we're going with my plan." 

"No." He scolded. 

"Yes." She pressed. 

"No!" He said again. "That is an absolutely terrible idea!" 

"What's a terrible idea?" The knight called, his side leaned into the edge of the opened door frame. 

Mayvalt flinched, swinging her eyes around to inhale the sight of the hunter. Bezel furrowed his eyebrows up into invented confusion. How had someone managed to sneak up on both of them? Had their argument really gotten that consuming? Maybe it was all the power buzzing through Bezel's skull, drowning out all the noise of the world around him. His golden eyes traced over the Bishop, from his black robes to his glimmering pearl knives. His yellow hair was ruffled, messy and curled on top of his head. Too large to hide behind himself, Bezel could make out the edges of the Vestige secured to a scabbard across his back. 

"Ira Rule." Bezel said in half-hearted way of acknowledgment. The Bishop dipped his chin down in hollow greeting. 

Mayvalt hopped up to her hooves and crossed her arms over her chest. "We should find the Fifth Prince of Hell." 

"We should not do that." Bezel deflected. 

Ira's cold blue eyes traced the edges of Bezel's face before swinging towards Mayvalt. He tilted his head and extended one flat palm in a gesture of goodwill. "Why should we look for another Prince? Just one is proving to be enough of a headache." 

The way his gaze fluttered back to Bezel implied he was not speaking about Mammon. Mayvalt straightened her spine and jutted out her chin. "Information. We're going in blind here, a quick catch-up could really help us from walking off the cliff." 

Ira nodded slowly. "I thought you said Ze'ev live in the Tat--whatever that pit was called. Have for centuries. What information do we need?" 

"That's true. If your friend is down there, like he should be, but any number of variables could have caused a stir in that equation. Plus, say we do find him. What comes next? We'll have to find Mammon. Do you know where he is? Cause I don't." Mayvalt explained, her palms windmilling before her as she spoke. 

Ira hummed in thought before turning to face Bezel. "Okay, now, why shouldn't we do that?" 

Bezel huffed a breath from his nose theatrically and crossed his arms. "My siblings aren't exactly in Hell for good behavior. If you ask for something from them--it will come with a price."

"What sort of price?" Ira asked. Maybe because he was a Heimrian full of Heimrian stories he said. "Like, my soul?" 

"No." Bezel answered quickly. Heimrian souls were off limits. Or, they should have been. Until his had been stolen--but that was a one time act from a warring party. Most Ely, even the fallen, knew the law. 

"Then I'll pay it." Ira said. 

"You don't know what you're agreeing to-" 

"I said anything." Ira cut in, his voice sharper than the edges of his reclaimed Vestige. "I'd do anything and everything to find him. That hasn't changed. It never will. There's greater value to learning about Hell than wandering around lost, wasting time. Mayvalt's right. Say Melchior's in the pit, okay. Settled. But we'll still need to find Mammon. The Fifth Prince could know something." 

"Or my siblings are working together already and we're walking into a trap." Bezel suggested. 

Ira nodded slowly, lifting his finger tips to his frowned lips as he puzzled over the possibility. "If I still remember how you explained it to me, gates are only as strong as their master. To use a gate, your energy needs to be less than the portal or it'll shut you out. So, you can't use your own gate--but power runs up in angel genetics. The younger Princes are less powerful, they could have used his gate." 

"Yes." Bezel agreed, tipping his head in playful curiosity. It was strange to see Ira talk. He did so with the gentle charisma of a spider, weaving a tempting pillowy web. It very much made Bezel seem the exhausted traveling fly. 

"Mammon couldn't cross using his gate. So he sent the general. If he's any sort of strategist, he would have handed his army to the strongest ally in his absence. He chose his son. That means he's not working with the other Princes." Ira concluded, pressing his palms together in a sort of 'case closed' gesture.  

"Or he just doesn't play well with others." Bezel shrugged. 

"Boss," Mayvalt interrupted. "Mammon tried to recruit you, remember? And you're like the most unlikable guy ever. If he went to you, he must have gone to the others." 

Bezel tossed her a soft glare before shaking his head. He ran his fingers through his oil-black hair and sighed. "You two don't get it. You've never met an Ely. They're. . . strange." 

"We've met you, and we agree. Strange doesn't even begin to cover it." Ira said. "But what choice do we have? Maybe if they didn't help him they could help us instead. They must have their reasons for not falling for his plot, right?" 

Bezel stood from his place draped across the surface of his desk and paced towards the window, his knuckles pressed against his sharp teeth. His siblings were wild cards. Factors he couldn't jam into the whirring gadgets of his robotic skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head in thought. When had he last seen his siblings faces? Heard their voices? Touched their hands? It had been centuries. But Mayvalt was right. If any Prince was going to help them--the Fifth Prince was the best place to start. For her  to start, specifically. 

Bezel turned on his heels, creasing his eyebrows down into a portrait of weariness. "Mayvalt, the Fifth Prince-" 

"Yeah." Mayvalt coughed, rubbing her palm against the pink curls sprouting from the back of her head. "Yeah, I know. Don't worry. I'll handle it. We'll go there first and find you later." 

"Wait--what?" Ira balked, lifting his hands. "Find him later? Where is he going?" 

"We talked about this, darling. I can't use my own gate." Bezel said. 

Ira furrowed up his eyebrows for a moment before they popped suddenly upwards, framing his wide eyes. "You can't seriously mean-"

"Unfortunately, I do." He corrected. "Nothing wrong with going for a little swim." 

"It's thirty--maybe more--feet below the surface!" Ira choked. 

"I'm good at holding my breath." Bezel dismissed. 

"It's being watched and blessed by a platoon of the Progeny's best warriors." Ira said. 

"Well, what would be travel without a little discomfort?" Bezel shrugged. 

"Still, you-" 

"Careful now, darling." Bezel interrupted, lifting up his hands in mock appeal. "You wouldn't want the rumor floating around that you're worried about me." 

Ira's mouth popped open beneath his flushed red cheeks. "What? Don't say such pointless things! I just need you for my plan! I can't do that if you're sitting as foam on the surface of the lake after getting melted." 

"Whatever you say, dear." Bezel chuckled. "Don't fret so much. It's holy water--and I'm quite holy myself. I'm going to be fine." 

"I really-" Ira choked off the rest of what he was going to say and swallowed it. He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest--which was somewhat of a relief, Bezel half expected him to try his luck with the Vestige strapped to his back. 

"Now, the night isn't getting any younger--and Hell certainly isn't waiting up for us. So, let's say we do this now." Bezel finished, clapping his palms together to break up the stiffness of the air. 

Ira seemed displeased, but he surrendered with a nod. He pushed off from the door frame, straightening his spine, and dismissed himself back down the metal stairs towards the floor crowd of hushed and startled Faun. Mayvalt dusted her palms off across the thighs of her glossy leather pants and huffed out a breath as sharp as it was brief. 

"That wasn't true, boss." She whispered. 

He rolled his carefree golden eyes towards her, lifting his eyebrows in humble curiosity. "Which part?" 

"That you're going to be fine." She said, her lips curled back into a frown. "That holy water can't hurt you." 

"I'm a devil," he shrugged, "what else do we do but lie?" 

Mayvalt shook her pink curls and scoffed. "I can handle the Prince--and the Bishop. So you do your part, okay? Every bit of it but especially that last step. The part of the plan when you find us again." 

"I swear." Bezel promised. And this time--it wasn't another of his lies. 

Mayvalt blew a breath from her nose and nodded. It seemed she had a whole slew of complaints, but she swallowed them with a resigned grimace and followed the Bishop out of the office. Their departure left the room very suddenly still, absent beating hearts or stirring lungs. 

Bezel picked up his kris from the surface of his desk, trapping the curved handle in his unrelenting grip. It was far from his only belonging in that office--despite his nature, clutter had a way of accumulating after so many decades of residency--but it would be the only item to go with him.

Nothing mattered. Not to him. Not the years he had spent in that office, staring at the ceiling to pass the hours. Not the worn couch Mayvalt always occupied. Not the metal filing cabinet full of employee papers, stamped by each Faun he had ever helped cross over. Not the overview of the Hudson, the one perfectly framed by the window. So he didn't turn to look one last time. When he crossed his office, stepping over the spaces of black marks worn into the wooden floors from Mayvalt's pesky habit of stubbing her leather boots, he did not pause to fret over the stains. When the metal door slammed shut behind him, the lock clicking audibly into place, he did not linger to appreciate the finality of the moment. Because it did not matter. 

He stood on the metal landing, his golden eyes hung over the crowd. His presence was as subtle as six atomic bombs. Heads snapped around, horns catching the neon lights. There were melodramatic gasps, shuddering breaths. Eyes turned to him full of fear, hate, awe, and things he had long since forgotten the name of. He wondered how he appeared to them: as the shepherd? Or as the wolf stalking the edges of the field? The pounding of their hearts indicated the latter. He wasn't entirely inclined to disagree.

Bezel went towards them, stepping with deliberate ease down the staircase. Mayvalt had stationed herself at the bar counter, her bo swinging back and forth beside her leg like a nervously wagging tail. Beside her, but not so close as to get thumped by her weapon, was the Bishop. As Bezel reached the bottom of the stairwell, their eyes met. Which didn't seem significant. There was no one in that club not looking at the Third Prince. Well, except the devil himself. Because he was looking at the Bishop. Ira tipped his chin down into a nod. His eyes went with him, trading in Bezel for the shiny floorboards. 

The Prince moved along the pathway carved out for him. He drifted past Mayvalt and Ira, passing the bar in favor of melding into the floor crowds. Which refused to meld, instead repelling to make a constant space for him to move through. And he did. Bezel crossed the club without bumping into a single soul--a privilege not many were afforded in New York city. He made his way to the opposite wall, the one Mayvalt had stored the tables and chairs against. It was such an ordinary thing. Rust-red brick washed in the occasional splatter of spray paint and neon lighting. Just a wall--to ordinary eyes. Bezel lifted his hand. His fingertips roamed down the cold stone, feeling every groove and chip in the material. His golden eyes drifted shut. 

He sank his imaginary claws inwards, reaching down into the pit of his hollow chest. His fingers dipped into the pool of warmth contained inside of him. He stirred the cup behind his ribs until it overflowed. The swirling energy rose up over his wrists, spreading down into the still valves of his heart. Once the leak began, it became impossible to stop. Waves of silver power coursed through his veins, rushing faster and faster beneath his skin. His body began to heat--as if it was still alive. His heart choked up a thump. Color, a sort of tanned olive tone, rose to fill his skin. Bezel opened his golden eyes. His tongue felt fuzzy behind his fangs as the magic reached out desperately to escape. He glanced down at the silver blade in his grip--no, not that. He dropped the sword, ignoring the pitiful sound of it crying out against the floor with a clang. 

Bezel lifted his wrist to his lips. With teeth as sharp as thorns, he took a bite. His jaws creaked, forcing his fangs down towards the bone. Blood bubbled up, filling his mouth, trickling past his lips. He dropped his arm, tilted his head back, and spit. The red of his cooling blood matched well with the rust-toned wall. It collected there--steaming and writing like living creatures. His blood melted into the wall, sputtering up coughs of smoke. The brick trembled and crumbled until finally it began to evaporate. A jagged arch appeared, a black pit as void as the night sky. 

"Is that it?" 

Bezel might have flinched--or it might have been one last erratic thud of his heart. He turned, looking at the Bishop with raised eyebrows. The knight was leaned forward, his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes stared into the pit--into that void of space. 

"No." Bezel grunted. He lifted his arm, placing his palm on the wall above the tear. His blood ran eagerly down, vanishing into the inky pool carved into the brick. "It's a door with no exit." 

"So, how do you give it an exit?" Ira asked. 

Bezel tossed him a soft scowl. "Working on it, darling." 

Ira nodded. He cast a skeptical glance at the red brick wall beside the portal before cautiously leaning his shoulder into it. He crossed his ankles and stared down at his hands, which fluttered and twisted with nerves. Bezel's golden eyes drifted shut--but it didn't make the Bishop vanish. He could still hear the gentle rise of his chest and smell the scent of lavender on his hair. It did occur to the Third Prince that the Bishop was the only one brave enough to come close--which might have appealed as a sort of kindness, except the Prince was very sure the Bishop was only watching his work to make sure it was done right and fast. 

"Can you speak as you work?" Ira asked. "Or do you need to focus?" 

The Prince bowed his head. His heart stung as the rift reached back, sinking teeth into the beating muscle. Its tongue lapped up the magic inside of him, pulling it out like marrow from a bone. "I. . . can talk." He rasped. 

"Good." The Bishop said. "So, where will this door take us?" 

The rip was a monster. A starved beast, teeth and claws tearing at Bezel to drink all the magic from his blood. Everything the Faun had returned to him--and then some. His lungs shuddered, his stomach throbbed with cramps, his heart winced. Proof that, after so many centuries, he was alive. Proof that he could be killed--drained of everything that made his muscles move and his blood stir. 

"Heneth." He answered. "Faun. . . live there." 

It might have helped to hear his voice, drifting in and out of the foggy space at the front of Bezel's head. It served to say that he hadn't gone too far. Not yet. 

"Okay, got it." The boy murmured. "So, Heneth. And where do we find the Fifth Prince?" 

The wall groaned, begging for just a little more. Bezel leaned into it, surrendering his everything to carve away at that mile deep inch between the worlds. Just a little more--just a little. 

"Trust me," Bezel whispered. His own voice sounded very far away, as if someone else entirely was engaged in conversation with the Bishop. "The Fifth Prince will find you." 

Bezel could feel it when the barrier between the worlds shattered. The heavy crack of ice beneath his boots, sending him plunging into the dark waters. He fell into the rapids, sinking up to his chin. 

Give in, the world whispered, sink.

Bezel could feel the tear, see its mockingly inviting smile. Just one more little push. 

Everything you have. 

The tendrils reached down into the pit of his chest, reaching for the last bit of him. The muscle walls of his heart squeezed down, trying in vain to hold onto the scrap that kept it uselessly beating. 

Just take it, Bezel cursed. What do I need it for? I've been dead for centuries. 

The last sliver of power eased into the vents of his veins, sliding through his skin towards the gash in his wrist. As it left the cold pit of his chest, Bezel slipped beneath the frigid waters. His lungs began to harden, stiffening. His skin cooled, growing pale again. A corpse stuck on its feet--and that was all he was. Would be, at least when that last trickle left him. He would die--in a much more permanent way. 

I've heard that it's beautiful. Mayvalt had said that. He hoped to prove her right.

Just a little more. The whispers begged so sweetly how could he refuse? 

Bezel's spine twitched. The skin between his shoulders burned, filling with a weight he couldn't explain. No, wait. He could explain. He could remember. It was them. Forgotten, buried beneath his skin with the aid of his last thread of magic. Magic he was about to willingly hand over. Bezel's head thumped dizzily. Warning bells rose up, blaring into his distant ears. 

I can't! 

His golden eyes snapped open. 

I can't!

He ripped back with so much force he stumbled on fawn-strong legs. The wall screamed out in agony as he denied it its power. The bond broke, shattering into a thousand glass pieces. The force of it bucked back into his chest, shuddering his heart. He could feel the remainder of his power race back into the cage at the center of his ribs. The heavy feeling choking his spine vanished. Bezel fell to his knees, heaving for breaths he didn't need. He gasped--and so did the Bishop. Bezel forced his eyes upwards. The black hole before him had filled with a foggy white center, a clouded window into another world. He frowned.

Oh, brother, Bezel sighed to himself. That's different. 

"Boss!" Mayvalt hissed. Her boots thumped across the club floor. She pitched herself down onto her knees beside him and placed her palm across his shoulders, her eyes wide and fright-filled. "Sap! Are you okay? Princes, I thought you were about to pass out or-r-or di-" 

"Hush, love." He dismissed, shrugging off her comforting touch. "I'm merely giving the moment the proper dramatic flair. I'm fine. See?" 

Bezel gestured with his chin towards the brick wall before them. The Bishop was leaned forward on the toes of his shoes, his arms crossed and lips frowned. 

"Is that it?" Ira asked. 

"Oh, sap." Mayvalt whimpered. She climbed to her feet and edged towards the rift. "What's wrong with it?" 

"Wrong with it?" Ira sputtered. "It's wrong?" 

"It's. . . fine." The Prince shrugged. 

"Fine? Boss, why does it look so. . . unclear?" She asked. Her fingertips reached for the surface before freezing a few centimeters from the swirling white fog contained inside. "Is the door open or not?" 

"It's open!" Bezel insisted. "I mean, well, I think?" 

"You think?" Mayvalt gasped. 

Behind her, the Faun shared in her anxiety. Their voices rose up, their hooves stomped the club floor. 

Ira threw his hands up, "angels, will someone explain!" 

"The door shouldn't be that unfocused." Mayvalt said, turning to look at the Bishop. "It's like it's not finished." 

"So, can't we just finish it?" Ira asked, his eyes turning with accusation towards the Greater Demon knelt on the club floor. 

"Hey, watch it!" Mayvalt snarled. "Boss would have if he could have. You're asking him to die for you, bone-snatcher."

"Mayvalt, it's fine." Bezel dismissed, waving her off with a flicker of his wrist. He forced strength back into his legs and climbed to his feet. He hoped he wasn't swaying. 

Ira turned peach pink and snapped his gaze down to the surface of his shoes. "I didn't mean it like that." 

"All is forgiven." Bezel offered. He crossed to the stacked tower of chairs and plucked one for himself. He promptly collapsed into the seat and laid his head in his palms. "The gate is open." 

"You're sure, boss?" Mayvalt asked, turning her cow-wide eyes towards him. 

"Almost completely." Bezel shrugged. "Typically, a gate is kept open by leaching the key holder's magic but I made this gate with a fixed amount. It'll close on its own once it runs out."

"So it's a temp-gate?" Ira asked. "And that's why it looks. . . weird?"

"Possibly?" Bezel suggested. 

"Is there anything you are certain of?" Ira muttered. 

"I'm certain this is our only shot." Bezel said. 

"And I'm sure that if you step through an unfinished gate, you'll be shattered into a thousand particles and spread across the nothing between realms." Mayvalt contributed rather unhelpfully. Bezel tossed her a golden glare and she shrugged. 

"Okay, alright." Ira said in way of surrender. "There's the gate beneath Lake-" 

"No way!" Mayvalt interrupted. "Say we did have the funds to rent two hundred scuba suits, that lake is a vat of holy water. No one here could survive it." 

"Then what?" The Bishop spat, his cheeks flushed red to match the wild drum of his pounding heart. "We give up? No! There has to be something!" 

"There's a gate right in front of us." Bezel interrupted, his tone as cool as spring water and as calm as a puddle. "I don't know why we're scrambling for a back up plan." 

"Boss." Mayvalt scoffed, pressing her palms to her forehead. "That gate isn't-"

"It is." He corrected. "That's the gate. The only gate. It's all the power I had left. That is what remains from all these Faun's sacrifice. It is enough, because it has to be." 

He forced himself up from his seat, crossing to stand before the swirling white pool carved into the rust-red brick wall. Mayvalt crossed her arms and pressed her knuckles to her teeth. Ira bowed his head and shut his eyes. His fingers drifted towards the jagged fang tooth on his belt. 

"I can't go myself." Bezel said. "Someone has to be first." 

"Who?" Ira asked in a whimper. 

"I suppose whoever it is in this building who trusts me the most." Bezel answered. He knew those words were lost on the crowd to his back, and to the allies at his side. He turned his golden eyes down towards the floor and amended himself. "Or whoever needs this to work." 

Ira Rule nodded, clenching his jaw. "Okay. I'll-" 

"No." Mayvalt cut off. "Not you, kid." 

His eyes flashed towards her, full of venom. "Why not me?" 

"You're Heimrian!" Mayvalt pointed. "Your passage would put strain on a stable gate in the best of circumstances. Going first would only shorten the time the rest of us have to get through it safely. You should be last." 

"What?" Ira scoffed. He turned towards Bezel, lifting his palms in a defensive gesture. "Tell her she's wrong!" 

"I. . . can't." Bezel winced. "Mayvalt is rarely wrong." 

"Fine." He snapped. "Then you should go."

Mayvalt turned white and pressed her palms to her chest. "M-me?" 

"You're the leader!" Ira hissed beneath his breath. "If you go, they'll follow." 

"Exactly." Mayvalt nodded. "Which is why I can't." 

"What?" Ira snarled, his blue eyes contained hurricanes. 

"They need to make this choice on their own." Mayvalt said, lifting up her chin in steady defiance. "I can't peer pressure them into something they can never take back." 

"Angels." Ira snapped, his tone was one ill-suited for the ears of his patrons. "This is unbelievable! We're so close and now none of you will-" 

"Okay, kids." Bezel interrupted. "Let's behave ourselves." 

Ira swallowed as if to choke down the remainder of his rant. He broke off from Mayvalt, stomping across the club towards the bar at the head of it. Bezel thought he was about to reach for a bottle but he merely tossed himself down into a seat and fell into silence. Bezel stooped down, recollected his kris, and patted Mayvalt once on the shoulder before following the sulking Bishop to the bar. 

"I'm not going to apologize." Ira said as soon as Bezel arrived. 

"I wasn't going to ask you to." Bezel shrugged. He pulled out the stool beside the Heimrian and slipped into position atop it. "I know to you it may sound strange, but Mayvalt has protected the Faun here for many centuries." 

Ira glanced up at Bezel through the curtain of his yellow bangs. He scoffed and shook his head, a glare etched into the lines around his eyes. "I get it." Those words came out as heavy as soil, as reluctant as pine sap. "But I don't like it." 

"Fine." Bezel agreed. 

Ira's fingers dipped down to his belt. He pulled loose one of his Ossein dagger and rolled it between his palms, his eyes traced the jagged edge of the tooth with a longing so deep Bezel knew he would never be able to imitate or understand it. 

"I hope you're not planning to use that to speed up this process." Bezel said. 

"What?" Ira balked. "No, of course not." 

Bezel nodded, and the silence crept in. As thick as moss where it grew between them. His golden eyes followed the soft movements of Ira's pale fingers, how he fiddled with the black wood hilt and traced the bone of the blade. Uncomfortable silence didn't exist in the Third Prince's world. There was no reason to shatter what they had fallen into. And yet he did, with sloppy imitation and terse tone. He pulled upon a question Jethro Pine had asked him in the chambers beneath the grand Cathedral.

"Does it have a name?" 

Ira's flowery movements grew to a sudden and frosted halt. His fist tightened around the knife before he slipped it back into his belt halter. "No." He grit out between his clenched jaws. "No knight would ever name their Ossein blade." 

"Why not?" Bezel asked to satisfy his invented curiosity. 

"Bones have names already. Ones we will never learn." Ira answered. 

Bezel let those words be the last. Ira's voice became just another step in Bezel's endless history. The moments passed slowly. A heavy turn of the hours, the dripping descent into the early morning. The choice lingered, unspoken in that space. Bezel lost track of the seconds they all spent there. He only noted the minute when a single voice shattered the stillness. 

"I'll go." 

Ira flinched, lifting his head from where he'd slumped it across his arms. Bezel followed his gaze towards the center of the abandoned club floor, where the Faun stood. Arms crossed, sleek spire horns glittering, eyes narrowed. 

"I trust the Third Prince." Luvelt called. The Faun turned, leveling their gaze at Bezel. "Don't make me regret that." 

Bezel nodded his head and stood from the stool he'd stolen at the Bishop's side. He could recall a time, many months ago, when he had seen that very Faun cowered on the floor. He'd wondered back then how long they would remain in that curled position, too scared to take a step. It seemed he had his answer. 

Luvelt spun on their heels, marching across the smooth club floors without a single trace of doubt. They paused at the foggy white portal, turning towards Mayvalt. Luvelt reached out with slim fingers, squeezing Mayvalt's leather-clad shoulder. "Thank you, Phrionnsa. Keep the Prince in line for us."

Mayvalt nodded, a slight smile pressed into the lines of her pink lips. "You got it." 

Luvelt faced forward, brown eyes filled with the soft pearl glow emanating from the gate. They inhaled once--and stepped through. The pillow soft mist enveloped them, shadow and all. Luvelt vanished, disappearing into the beyond behind the brick wall of Eden. For a moment, there was only silence. Another heavy pause full of stilled tongues, held lungs, and thudding hearts. And then it broke--shattering faster than Bezel could wrap his mind around. The Faun began to move, falling into a line which fed directly into the gate. One at a time, stepping through little by little, but finally moving forward.

Ira Rule laughed. Bezel turned to look at him, head tilted in mock curiosity. He didn't know what was amusing in that moment--but once his golden eyes fell upon Ira, he knew that he didn't either. The Bishop pressed his face into his palms. The Third Prince turned away. If Ira had just been a little faster, maybe Bezel wouldn't have seen the saltwater collecting in the corner of his eyes.