The Fifth Prince of Hell is in Heneth. That much was at least true. A victory Mayvalt might have rubbed his nose violently into if their circumstances had been a touch brighter. Instead, for better or worse, she limped along quietly a few paces behind Ira. Her head was bowed as all he could see when he strained a glance over his shoulder was her pink hair. The demon escorting her did so with one meaty hand clasped firmly over her shoulder, like a disappointed father walking his own daughter into the teacher's office. And Ira had to accept that silence--it very well seemed to be the only win he was going to get that week. He shook his head until the bruises marking his throat twinged. He was a glass half full kind of demon killer, after all. So, Monday wasn't going as planned? They had been defeated, stripped of their weapons, and captured. There was still Tuesday--or, well, was it already Tuesday? The warm golden sunlight rising over the mountains seemed to indicate some degree of time passage. Anyways--that wasn't the point. The point was that the armed escort of mountain-sized demons might have been their problem, but it was also a solution. The brother pair half dragged half shoved Ira and Mayvalt deeper and deeper into the winding curved stone alleyways of Heneth, taking them a route it could have taken Ira days to figure out himself. So, not all bad? It was a convenient funnel right to the Fifth Prince. 

Ira's stomach twisted painfully. Was the Fifth Prince really going to put his eyes in a pickle jar? He wished he could ask Mayvalt. Or, not Mayvalt. Maybe someone better informed than Mayvalt. One of the locals? Yeah, right. Like that was happening. The only townies they had run into since popping from the portal were the soldiers they had lost horrifically to. 

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled from his chattering teeth, attempting very unsuccessfully to soothe his jittery nerves. 

I am Ira Rule, he thought. It'll be okay. 

His lungs expanded outwards, filling with light summery air. 

I am Ira Rule. 

And shrunk, shoving his breath up through his crumpled throat. 

I am-

As if in protest of his perfectly manufactured optimism, the hand crushing his forearm bones into dust gave a painfully tight squeeze. "Oi, Blue-Eyes." The guard called Zebulon gruffed over Ira's wince. "Is it true that Heimrians eat sheep? Crack their bones an' suck 'em dry? I heard they do." 

For one single moment, Ira almost agreed. Until he remembered that sheep meant He-Goats and that, according to the ram's horns shimmering in his blond hair, he was one of them. So he said nothing, his eyes trained on the scoffed tops of his once polished shoes. 

"'ucky 'en 'at the Prince gets to 'im first." The walrus-tusked second demon added, mumbling over the yellow bone protruding from his sickeningly human mouth. 

"Lucky you think, Sardis?" Zebulon chuckled. Ira hated the way he sounded, like a child laughing maniacally as he pulled the fluttering wings from the shiny back of a helpless beetle. "I suppose that depends on what the Prince has planned for them."

"'lanned?" Sardis repeated, cocking his head doggishly. His thick tusks pushed Mayvalt's sides, knocking her stumbling black boots off course. Sardis squeezed her shoulder harder, dragging her up to her full height again. 

"I think I'd rather take my chances on Heimr." Zebulon said. 

Ira finally managed to catch Mayvalt's eyes--and wished he hadn't. He quickly snapped his head back around, locking his blue eyes on his black shoes. Where, when he squinted, he could almost see his own reflection. He focused on that grainy mirror. Anything to wash out the sight of her pupils, pin-prick small and flushed with fear. 

The sun rose over Heneth, washing the gray stone town in orange light. Ira's ears twitched, following the first signs of stirring. Wooden doors creaking, front steps grumbling as inhabitants shuffled out into the dawn. Ira risked a glance as he was shoved past one small mushroom-shaped hut. The wooden door was popped open a sliver of an inch--wide brown eyes were all Ira could see of whoever lived there. And only for a second before the front door was slammed shut. He twisted his neck left, towards the hut on the opposite side of him. A He-Goat girl had emerged, her head bowed so only her fuzzy brown antlers could be seen. Silver bangles hung from her curled Ossein horns, bangles with small silver chains that threaded through her rack like spider's webbing. The rings stuck out against the simple style of her clothes. A mud-brown single fabric dress which hung down to the tops of her hooves. The girl glanced at the parade, frozen as ice. Behind her, a figure emerged from her small hut. A demon--or, one that wasn't a He-Goat by the looks of it. A man as tall as an oak, with skin as white as snow and eyes as pitch black as night. He slung his arm around the girl's thin shoulders. She flinched--pinned under his touch. 

"Two more for you, Zeb?" The demon cackled. When his lips parted, Ira caught sight of his jagged, razor sharp fangs. 

Zebulon huffed from his nose and stiffened his spine. "For the Prince, Dalvit. Do not say things to sour my mood." 

"Blagh!" The lanky ghost mocked. "The Prince." 

"Blagh." Zebulon agreed. 

The demon stroked one claw-tipped finger along the He-Goat girl's ornately decorated headdress. "Travel well, companion." 

"Travel well." Zebulon agreed, dragging Ira past the He-Goat frozen on her front porch. Ira couldn't bring himself to look at her. Her eyes were the same as Mayvalt's. And there was nothing he could do--for either of them. Or, he realized, for himself. 

As He-Goats began to creep down into the streets, skirting widely to avoid Ira and Mayvalt, Ira began to notice their escorts. Demons without horns hung nearby. Or, perhaps that was incorrect. Brazenly walking the cobblestone road were demons, and trailing swiftly and silently behind them were the He-Goats. Always with their eyes locked on their hooves, and always with decorations in their antlers. Small chains woven between the branches of a buck's rack, bracelets clasped around the base of a goat's horns. Ira tried not to glance at the golden cuff Mayvalt wore at the base of her left antler. He had never asked her what it meant--he wondered if it mattered. If he had to guess by the white staining her cheeks, he figured it probably did. 

Ira squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for each breath. His legs fell into obedient and mindless form, taking him wherever the demon behind him pushed him. 

I am Ira Rule. 

I am Ira Rule. 

I am- 

"Open the gates!" The shout startled Ira's eyes open. He couldn't recall when they had stopped moving, only that he was planted as faithfully as a desert-dwelling cactus--only feeling twice as prickly--at the end of the cobblestone road. The path ahead was severed, bluntly and abruptly turning into a seven-foot tall brick wall. 

He craned his neck as far back as his sore muscles allowed him, running his eyes up the vine choked walls to see over the top. Grand spires grew over the edge of the gate, spanning up into the clouds as Mount Mojaere had. The jagged fang towers had been built with a material eerily similar to the Vestige strapped across his demon-captor's back. A black glass that reflected the world around it. Hell's most hellish funhouse mirror. Camouflaged in plain sight. If Ira had been a bird, he would have flown right into the sides of the castle thinking it nothing but shimmering sky.

Zebulon shifted on his tub-sized boots and turned his thick neck to glance at his brother, who very unhelpfully shrugged. Zebulon snarled in frustration, and dropped Ira's arms to march forward towards the flat iron doors stamped into the front of the gray brick wall. The Bishop sucked in a breath of relief and promptly collapsed to his knees. His arms had gone numb at some point. They fell into his lap, tingling with sleeping nerves. Zebulon curled his meaty fingers into a fist and slammed them into the face of the iron doors. The echo was strong enough to dent Ira's skull--he groaned, wishing he had the strength to cover his ears with his dead arms. Behind him, Mayvalt whimpered. Apparently in agreement. 

"Open the gates!" Zebulon roared. He pounded his fist and kicked his thick brown boots at the brick wall. "Open the gates!" 

The demon roared and hollered and kicked until he was breathless. He sagged over, bracing his palms on the gray stones making up the border wall. 

""eave a message?" Sardis shrugged. 

"We aren't leaving a message, you moron!" Zebulon snarled. "That useless Pri-" 

Squeee. . . 

The iron hinges squealed like pigs in slaughter as the front gates were drawn in. Zebulon leapt back from the wall and straightened his spine, his beefy arms crossed over his chest in some sort of lame cool guy pose. Ira held his breath and waited, his eyes held so wide they stung. The gates expanded fully back, revealing the bottom half of the Fifth Prince's gothic castle and the courtyard beyond. 

Stamped into the center of an otherwise grandmotherly town, was a hellish mockery unlike anything Ira had ever imagined. The castle had been constructed in near perfect reflection of a cathedral. With a grand base from which towering spines grew, stretching to reach up towards the Heavens. All of it cast in black obsidian. The obscene scene was centered in a field of perfectly green grass, disturbed only by red bushes, purple flowers, and fruit-laden trees. The divide between Hellish palace and orchard stuck out in Ira's mind like the finishing touches on some twisted joke. He inhaled through his nose and blew out from his mouth, blinking until it somehow began to make sense. But just as Ira had wrapped his mind around the volcanic glass castle, the demons came flooding from the gate opened in the wall. 

They came out in pairs, marching a neat line that split to envelope Ira and his entourage--captors and companion included. They were all adorned in identical cloaks of shimmering midnight fabric which hung past the demons' feet, swishing across the cobblestone with each step. They reminded Ira of monks, walking with their heads bowed so low their faces were only visible to worms and blades of grass. The creatures beneath the black robes were smaller in height and width than the two demon brothers--but numerous. Ira's eyes fluttered down the line of them, counting fifteen locked into place, forming a living net around the four guests.

From the mouth of the opened doorway, one more demon exited. Their delayed entrance and the way they refused to meld into the body-wall wasn't the only thing different about this demon. Their cultish black cloak had been altered from the rest. The body of the uniform was the same as all the other lackies but the demon's hood had been embroidered with glistened silver wire. Curled vine hooks that fit perfectly into the silver loops knit along the edges of a plain black veil. The sheet was draped across the demon's face so that they could stand with their head held tall and remain hidden. And they did exactly that, spine rigid and posture imposing. It was that demon who spoke first. 

"Why have you come to the home of our Lord?" The voice was female. Young, maybe a little older than Mayvalt--in human years, anyway. 

"Rule breakers." Zebulon chuffed. "Or gifts for your Lord--I suppose it depends what mood the Prince is in today." 

Ira didn't know which was a worse position to be in--so he remained still and silent. The hooded woman demon nodded and lifted her palms. At her wordless command, the net tightened. Two cloaked demons neared Ira's sides. They knelt as gracefully as trotting horses, placing warm palms on his shoulders. His muscles tensed--but his body made no effort to remove them. Not that he could. Not that he could even stand until the demons lifted him to his feet. 

"Oi!" Zebulon snapped, stepping suddenly forward. "Hands off our sheep! We'll claim the reward ourselves." 

The head demoness snarled. A growl that seemed to send shivers even through Zebulon. "No one may step a single toe inside our Lord's palace. You know the rules." 

 He swallowed hard and took a hearty step back from the wall. "Our reward-" 

"Will be delivered by midlowsun." The head demoness scoffed as if she had given this talk many times over. She snapped her fingers and at her beckon, Ira was dragged forward on his cement heavy legs. Behind him, Mayvalt was pried away from a gently whimpering Sardis. She gave herself willingly, shivering as they collected her arms in their clasped fingers. 

"W-wait!" Ira sputtered, anchoring his black oxfords against the cobblestone street. The demons to each of his sides stumbled to a stop, hooded heads swinging to the head demoness as if awaiting her instruction. 

"You have something to say?" The head demoness asked. Her tone one of stunned disbelief. 

"I do." Ira nodded. He hoped he sounded brave. "I want my weapons back." 

For a moment, no one spoke. And then the head demoness laughed, doubling over with her arms pressed into the flowing gowns over her stomach. "Princes, that surprised me. You are aware you are a prisoner, no?" 

Ira grit his teeth together and lifted his chin. "They're mine." 

"You are amusing." The demoness noted airily. "Fine, as you wish. Who am I to deny such an honest request?" 

"Wait-" Zebulon snarled.

"Return whatever items you have taken from the boy." The head demoness ordered. 

Zebulon huffed, his jaw snapped tightly shut in disgust. "They're mine!" 

"And they can just as easily be made mine." The head demoness shrugged. "I shall remove them from your possession myself--and I may also take a finger or two for my own personal collection." 

Zebulon growled, tensing where he stood. For a moment, he seemed to consider his odds. His black pupils rolled across the mass of cloaked demons--but whether it be for the sake of his health or his future paychecks he surrendered with another huff. He slipped the leather harness from his shoulder, dumping the Vestige onto the cobblestone street. The volcanic blade hit the stones with a thud that echoed deep into the fleshy tubing of Ira's pounding heart. Sardis whined but followed suit. He emptied his pockets, dropping Ira's Ossein daggers and Mayvalt's fae-iron bo at his boots. The head demoness nodded. At her approval, attendants swooped in to collect to returned weapons. 

"Now, I will hold onto your items." The head demoness announced. "After all, you are prisoners." 

Ira shrugged his thin shoulders at the reluctant allowance of the two demons clinging to his arms. "Fair enough." 

"No more complaints?" The head demoness asked in a tone slightly too care-free to be anything but mockery. 

"Well, no one here is getting a glowing review." Ira muttered. 

The head demoness chuckled from beneath her black veil and clapped her palms together. Her wordless command marked the end of Ira and Mayvalt's time with the two bullish brothers. The cloaked demons jerked forward, escorting--or dragging, more like--the two into the courtyard beyond the brick wall. The hooded figures filtered in behind them, slamming the iron sheet door into place with a thud that Ira could feel echo in the pit of his stomach. He craned his neck, catching Mayvalt's eye. She just shrugged, offering a weak half-smile as a silent apology. He had to stop looking to her for answers. Somehow, it was never comforting.

"Tugvolt, Wyvelt, the weapons." The head demoness ordered, holding out her palms. Two of the robed demons lurched forward, scrambling to pass over the collection they had taken from the brothers. The head demoness accepted the Vestige first, slinging it over her back. The leather strap of the scabbard pressed into her cloak, dragged down by the weight of the blade. The pressure patted down her robes, revealing the outline of her sleek shoulders. She was smaller than Ira had first assumed her to be. It was like seeing a pomeranian in the bath, slicked down to it's skin. She took hold of Mayvalt's carved staff next, holding it in the cruz of her elbow. And finally, Ira's sister daggers. The Ossein knives settled into her open palms, where they stayed. 

Her head remained bowed. Her gaze, Ira knew, was trained on the pearlescent bone making his weapons. When she did finally lift her head, her blackened hood swiveled to land on Ira. From behind her mask, he could feel the heat of her glare. "You will explain yourself to our Lord. Now, come. The Prince is eager to greet the new guests." 

The head demoness swung around on her heels, sweeping the grass with the hem of her black robe. The escorts clinging to Ira's arms followed suit, limping him along the dirt path carved into the soft green lawn. The fruit trees they passed smelled of citrus and sweets. From the emerald branches, soft yellow fruit hung down in the shape of tear drops. Ira's eyes may have lingered for a touch too long. He blinked them from his mind at the painful tightening of his stomach. 

He wasn't the only one with eyes set on the fruit. Fluttering between rows of strange orchard trees, were small He-Goats. Children, Ira realized with a jolt. Had he ever seen a young one before? He couldn't roll his mind far enough back. They were almost completely human, their horns in small nubs so small they disappeared beneath their curls and tangles. The littles ones had been dressed in plain white gowns. They seemed ghostly, vanishing in and out of the trees. Their giggles all that proved they were still somewhere in the farm. 

Mayvalt's cheeks were a shade whiter than their gowns, her eyes as dark as Zebulon's had been. She pressed her lips into a grimace, meeting Ira's eye with a look of worry he couldn't quite decipher. And quickly, he ran out of time to. The head demoness whistled sharply. Ahead of them, the castle doors creaked outwards. Two more robed guards entered Ira's vision, walking briskly out of the castle to meet them in the wide doorway. From behind them, Ira could see only darkness inside the volcanic glass cathedral. As if they had been cut from the very shadow inside, existing from the nothing. The guards bowed to the head demoness. 

"Blind them." She said simply. 

Ira's legs were moving before his mind could catch up, stumbling back against the demons holding his arms. Mayvalt whimpered--a sound half between a human cry and a sheepish bleat. The two guards stood from their bow and moved forward, one breezed Ira on the way to Mayvalt. And the other came at Ira, who strained against his captors to no avail. The harder he struggled, the stronger they steeled against his pressing, holding him in place as the guard reached for him. The guard gripped the back of Ira's yellow hair, snapping his head back to force his gaze up at the distant sky. The bruises carved into his throat throbbed, his joints popped, and his scalp ached. But that wasn't all he noticed. The sunrise had crept into the middle of the sky, burning away the strangely orange night to turn it a pale blue. There were even clouds. Soft white fog in the shapes of dolphins, Montana, and a three-legged rabbit. And it made Ira terribly homesick. That was the last thing he saw before the hood was yanked over his head and tightened across the purple skin of his neck. 

| 𓃦 |

Time was nearly impossible to keep with his sight taken from him. For his first few steps into the slick-floored palace, he tried. He counted his steps and noted the twists--like he had seen an actress do in some drama about kidnapping--until they became uncountable. The guards moved them relentlessly. Ira was sure they had been dragged into each room in the castle at least seven times. Sweat began to collect at the edges of his hair, his breath began to tighten in his lungs. If his useless wandering had been made vertical, he would have no doubt reached the peak of Mount Mojaere. They walked him in no obvious pattern. Sometimes, he was turned around the second he had felt the closeness of a doorway. Other times, they stood silently in the space of a hall for minutes before spinning him and sending him back off. He had even lost track of Mayvalt's footsteps. Wondering if she had been split away from him miles ago. Just as the jabbing, dragging, prodding, and spinning felt hopelessly endless--it did end. 

Ira was shoved roughly forward. His shoes snagged on the edge of a carpet and he was falling. His arms had been dropped--but not quite soon enough to allow him proper time to catch his collapse. His chest took the brunt of the blow, and then his cheek against the warm wool of the very rug that had tripped him in the first place. He sucked in a breath against the bruised flesh of his torso, curling inwards to guard his collection of skin-deep wounds. His time in Hell had been brief but impactful--was there any skin left on his not stained blue? He wondered if he would even survive long enough to find Melchior. 

"Stay in here," a male barked from somewhere above Ira's crumpled body. "Drink tea and wait for our Lord's audience. You are guests, after all." 

A door slammed. Seconds later a lock snapped into place. Ira's fingers went to the cloth bound over his trachea, tearing into the silk strings they had fastened his hood with. He ripped the hood from his head, gagging for breath as if it had been constructed of solid wood instead of soft fabric. From his place laid flat, he could see very little of the waiting room. Only the furry white rug he laid on, a purple velvet settee, and a obnoxiously yellow coffee table in the shape of a kidney bean. Somehow, they had deposited Ira back in time. In the seedy lounge of a sixties dance club. 

"Sap, why are you on the floor?" 

Ira whirled around, finding himself very pleasantly at eye level with a familiar pair of black skinny jeans. He craned his neck, taking in the full sight of Mayvalt with her hands balanced on her hips. Around her neck was a small silken scrap--a blindfold, Ira realized. Not that there was a hood large enough to fit over her antlers. His heart sank to his shoes, accompanied by fingers darting to his curled yellow hair. 

"The horns!" He hissed. "Do you think they realized when they put the hood on?" 

Mayvalt blew a tight breath from her lips and waltzed into the dim room, her leather boots trampling the white fur rug. "How would they know? Visible or not--they put a hood over it." 

"Still-" 

"Six Princes, I was walking for ages." She groaned, stretching out her spine until it popped. "Did you get the grand tour, too?" 

Ira nodded wordlessly. 

She plopped down on the settee, propping her boots on the kidney bean table. She slumped down, groaning as she sunk into the hideous purple furniture. 

Ira pushed himself up to his shoes, crossing the room to cram in beside her on the purple loveseat. "So, how do we get out? I lost count at two-hundred and ten. But if we combined what we both remember maybe I can approximate a way backwards to the gate-" 

"Count?" Mayvalt sputtered, snapping suddenly upright. "Sap, I was supposed to remember all that?" 

Ira dropped his forehead into his open palms, wincing. "How else did you think you'd get back out?"

"Why would we leave?" She asked, leaning forward to place her palms on her knees. "We're right where we intended to be, aren't we? I mean--they're literally bringing the Fifth Prince to us." 

"No." Ira corrected sharply. "They're handing us over to the Prince--and I for one, have no intention of discovering his intention. Angels, I can't believe I'm agreeing with the Third Prince right now--but we messed up. We're in over our heads. We need to escape and regroup." 

Mayvalt pitched one of her dyed pink eyebrows into a perfect bridge over her coffee-brown eyes. "Everything is going to plan. We've nearly found the Fifth Prince--but now you want to change plans. To one that sounds impossible. I mean, escaping this fortress and somehow finding boss in the pit. Nuh uh. The odds aren't great there, Ira." 

"Better than having my eyes plucked out!" Ira snapped. 

"You really think I'll let that happen?" Mayvalt huffed, somehow with enough bravery to sound offended. 

"Do you have a way to guarantee it won't?" Ira groaned. 

Mayvalt puffed her lips up into a silent pout. 

"Oh, wow." Ira scoffed. "Thanks, brave knight." 

"Hey!" She huffed, slapping her palm across his trembling shoulder. "I've got your back. Let's just keep our horns on and smile."

"If he's anything like his brother, I don't see how I'll manage." Ira muttered bitterly. 

Mayvalt's eyebrows shot up. She snapped her spine rigid and slapped her open palms across her thighs. "Sap! That reminds me. There was something I was going to warn you about. The Fifth Prince is actually-"

The shuttering of the door lock drew Mayvalt's lips down into a tight seal. Ira wanted to pry her tongue from her mouth--that last bit sounded sort of important to his survival. The Fifth Prince was what? A monster? A trickster? 

He didn't have time for guesses. The door creaked inward, filling with the small frame of a young He-Goat girl. She tiptoed softly into the room, her head bowed to display her full rack of velvet-covered antlers. From which no jewelry dangled. In fact her entire presence was minimal. Her midnight toned skin was covered by the soft white fabrics of a traditional peplos, which hung from her small shoulders and curled around her glossy black hooves. The gown was sizes too large, only held to her body with golden cuffs that curled around her biceps and around her hips. Her hair had been twisted into a rope braid thicker than Ira's volcanic glass sword and long enough that it hung past her waist. In her arms, she held a platter decorated with silver cups and a steaming teapot. 

Mayvalt blew a breath from her nose, shaking her head. "They did offer tea." 

Ira leaned forward on the settee, squinting his eyes to peer through the horns on the girl's head. When he squeezed them hard enough, he could almost make the velvet appendages invisible against the black halls outside of the waiting room. Behind the servant girl were at least two black-robed demons guards. They stood with their faces lowered and shoulders bowed. Ira leaned further in his seat, attempting to curve his vision past the edge of the doorframe, but before he could manage the door was slammed shut. He slumped back in disappointment--unsure of why he was so dissapointed. What had he been expecting? A glowing red exit sign? 

The servant girl knelt silently before the hideous yellow table, placing the tray on the curved surface. Her slender fingers worked seamlessly, pouring amber liquid evenly into two silver cups. Ira's stomach clenched down. His head rang with warning bells and alarms. When Mayvalt's hand reached for the cup, he stilled it with his own. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and forced her arm down to her side. There was something wrong. Something he just couldn't place yet. 

"Don't drink it." He whispered. 

The servant girl lifted her face, her glimmering eyes wide at Ira's display of open disregard. 

"Why not?" Mayvalt scoffed. At her dismissal, the servant girl's gaze swung to Mayvalt instead. Her hands hovered on the tea pot, as if confused on how to proceed. 

"Angels." Ira spat. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to take candy from strangers?" 

"No, sorry." Mayvalt snapped back. "That was missing from my orphan's education." 

The servant girl set the teapot on the tray and folded down onto her knees in paused waiting. 

"Well it wasn't missing from mine." Ira retorted. "We won't be taking any, thanks." 

"Don't be rude!" Mayvalt huffed. "Of course we wi--ouch! Did you just pinch me?" 

"Why won't you listen?" Ira asked. 

"Why do you think you command me?" She asked back. Mayvalt yanked her leather-clad arm from Ira's grip and snagged one of the filled silver cups. Before Ira could knock it from her grasp, she tossed it into her open mouth and swallowed. 

"No!" Ira shouted. "Why would you do that?" 

"It's fine!" Mayvalt laughed. "Yarroot. Lovely for this time of year."

"Yeah," Ira scoffed forcefully. "I'm sure they're just giving us tea for the sake of friendship."

The He-Goat girl groaned and rolled her brown eyes. "Look, I'm fine. Sometimes tea is just tea." 

"If tea was just tea--why would they give it to us?" Ira asked. 

"Diplomacy?" She shrugged. 

Mayvalt turned her eyes on him, nodding her chin expectantly. Ira's eyes traced the edges of her lips, half expecting white foam to fill her mouth or for them to turn blue instead. When nothing happened, he swallowed dryly and reached for a silver cup. The liquid was warm and soothing against the bruises pressed into his throat. It settled into his stomach like cotton, filling his skin with a comforting buzzing. Ira stared down into the emptied glass, his cheeks flushing with pink. 

"It's just tea." Mayvalt said. 

"It can't be just-" 

"Sap, you're relentless." Mayvalt cursed, throwing her hands up into the air. "No matter what we say or do, we're wrong." 

"What are you-" 

"Fauns!" Mayvalt said. She flung herself up from her place on the settee, pacing the small room like a caged cougar. "You're incapable of seeing us as anything but the enemy." 

Ira's mouth popped open. His eyes darted to the small He-Goat servant knelt on the floor. She ducked her head lower, pinning her gaze to the floor. "Mayvalt, careful." 

"Careful?" She huffed. "Of blowing your cover? Oh, come on. Your cover was blown the second those demons saw your Ossein daggers, bone-snatcher. She's harmless." 

"Angels." Ira cursed, leaping to his feet. "What is your problem?" 

"My problem is that we're surrounded by imprisoned Faun and you're so stubborn all you care about is completing the mission!" She screamed, throwing her open palms outward. "Sap, Ira! Open those pretty blue eyes for one single second! Did you even notice the Fauns in town? How terrified they were? Did you even care that an entire population of people was being kept locked away at night with demons--doing Princes knows what to them! This entire castle is full of them! Fauns scampering around too scared to lift their heads, but you don't care. You're already trying to change the plan to get your way." 

Ira's mouth popped open--where it stayed for just a second too long before he snapped his teeth together. "So, that's it. The truth from you--finally. I thought it was strange how calm you were playing it, but you don't want to leave. Not until you rescue every He-Goat in town." 

Mayvalt lifted her chin defiantly. "Oh, go on. Say it. I know you want to." 

Ira shrugged casually. "Fine. I will, and I do. It's a wa-" 

"-waste of time, blah blah." Mayvalt grumbled. 

"The world is literally ending." Ira groaned, shoving his fingers into his curled yellow hair. 

"Your world." Mayvalt hissed. "I'm a demon, remember? I belong here with all the other monsters." 

"At least monsters have teeth." Ira mumbled under his breath. 

Mayvalt whirled around, her coffee-brown eyes latching onto his lightly freckled face. "Meaning?" 

"They're cowards." Ira shrugged. "I thought it was obvious." 

Mayvalt surged across the small room. Ira met her halfway, his hands grasping at his empty belt by instinct. Her eyes darted down towards the hollow movement. "So quick to go for the kill, aren't you." 

Ira's heart twisted behind his ribs. His fingertips curled, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms. "I wouldn't have-" but he would have. Only hours ago, he had felt ashamed to cause her fear by the presence of his knives and now he was grasping at the remnants of them. Ira pressed his palms to the sides of his head, trying to contain the buzzing ripping at the insides of his ears. He inhaled through his nose, and exhaled from his lips. He had to calm down. The anger, always so quick to rise inside of him, would consume him. 

I am Ira Rule. He whispered in the corners of his mind. I am Ira- 

She's braver than me. The voice replied. 

I am Ira Rule. He begged. 

What good has being Ira Rule ever done me? The little whisper said. She's stronger than me. She could save this whole town and I couldn't even save one boy. I wish I was her. I wish I had her heart. I could take it. You could take her heart, Ira. Harvesting her kind is what you were born to do. 

"Stop!" Ira whimpered, squeezing his flat palms against his ears until they ached and stung. 

"Stop?" Mayvalt squawked. "I didn't even touch you. Sap, Heimrians are so weak. So full of hatred. Why did the gift of eternity have to go to such destructive creatures? It's not fair." 

It's not fair. Ira agreed. It's not fair that she's so much better than me. 

"It's not fair!" Mayvalt shouted, slamming her boot against the soft white rug. And then it became clear, snapping into sudden crystal clarity. Ira's legs twitched, sending him faltering back. His head filled with fuzz and then turned painfully blank. 

"You're jealous of me." He said. His voice echoed in his silent skull. 

Mayvalt's cheeks flushed with ruby red. "Original! This again. I told you the Prince is just-" 

"Not of the Prince." Ira whispered. His fingers twitched, grasping at the ends of his yellow hair in an effort to keep from touching the fake horns on his skull. "Of the fact both of us were born in a place that only wanted one of us." 

Mayvalt turned stone stiff. "No! No I'm not! I-" Her fingers flew to her mouth, pressing into the trembling skin of her tulip pink lips. "Sap, what was in that tea." 

"Nothing." Ira nodded. "It was just tea." 

"I-I don't know what came over me." Mayvalt whimpered, pressing her palms into her pink curls. "Sap, I felt like I could have k-killed you. What happened?" 

Ira's tongue turned cotton dry in his mouth. "Envy." He whispered. 

His blue eyes flickered down, to the servant girl knelt on the carpet. To the antlers which sprouted from her raven black hair. When Ira's gaze traced the edges of them, they seemed nearly two-dimensional. She lifted her head, revealing the grin split across the features of her young face. 

"You were consumed by. . . envy." Ira said. 

The servant girl laughed, doubling over onto herself. Mayvalt's eyes widened, her body turned ice-still. The child stood on her hooves. As her legs unfolded, they lengthed. Her thin shoulders expanded, her soft cheeks melted into razor sharp bones. Her antlers disappeared, her glossy black hooves melded into sandals. She filled the full form of her white peplos, towering over even the tops of Mayvalt's horns. Her skin was of an ebony twice as deep as night, matching the abyss of her pupils. 

"Oh my," she smirked, "is the game really over so soon? What a shame. We were only just beginning." 

"Astaroth." Mayvalt growled between her clenched teeth. 

The Fifth Prince of Hell laughed from her smirked lips. "Shall we get on with the real fun now?"