Ira was really, really glad to be moving. For the first time since departing from New York--no, for the first time since last summer--he felt he had a purpose and a direction in which to chase it. He had a way to find Melchior. It was an actual thing. As tangible as the dried clay in his hair, on his shirt, and coating his skin. There was a next step and to Ira that was a priceless thing. Apparently, to everyone else--or really, to the Third Prince he was meant to continue his quest with--it was just rain on a Tuesday afternoon. Since Ira was about to leap out of his skin and the Prince seemed more occupied with making small talk on their way out of the Fifth Prince's twisted citadel. 

As the He-Goat militia, headed by Astaroth, made for the front gates he cast his golden eyes back and forth between the piles of rubbish, remarking about the random tchotchkes and odd ends amongst the mess. Each comment resulted in a barely suppressed flinch from Astaroth and no returned commentary, but if he cared he was only talking to himself he didn't show it. 

Ira tumbled out onto the front lawn as if the castle had been on fire, his lungs greedily sucking in crisp morning air and the scent of fruit trees. He tipped his head back to feel the sun's warmth on his cheeks, enjoying it like he had been long deprived. Maybe he had been. Time didn't seem real under the Prince's domain, the eerie orange glow in the crowded halls had a way of turning seconds into minutes and days into hours. 

"Open the gate!" Astaroth barked, her hand flickered out as if she was chasing off pesky insects. A handful of the nearest He-Goats dragged their hoods more firmly over their bowed heads and rushed forward to the fortress walls. The pained screech of metal on stone came only a second later. 

Ira picked up his step--angels, he was nearly skipping. He forced himself to slow as he reached the wall, coming to an antsy stop to allow the trailing party time to catch up. The remaining guards fanned out across the opened wall, leaving the Fifth Prince hovering just inside it's border casting disdainful looks at the town beyond, Mayvalt to her left casting disdainful looks at her unholiness, and the Third Prince not really looking at anything. 

"Here," the Fifth Prince said suddenly. She held out her fingers, a small leather pouch clutched between the tips of her claws. The Third Prince stepped forward, extending a flattened palm that she happily dropped the sack into. It rattled on landing, indicating something small and metallic inside. The business man quirked one confused eyebrow. Astaroth huffed as if bored and shrugged. "Currency." 

"Oh, great." Ira muttered sourly. "So even Hell has capitalism--no, wait. Yeah, that makes sense actually." 

Mayvalt snorted at his attempt at humoring the heavy moment and slipped away from the Princes. She popped one shoulder up against the opened iron door, crossed her arms over her chest and sighed lazily. 

The Third Prince rolled the leather purse back and forth between his hands, eyes studying the worn hide. "Why?" 

"As the little Heimrian said." The Fifth Prince glanced at Ira. "You will need money for your travels." 

He scoffed in mock disbelief and locked gazes with his blood sister. "Why are you helping us? What cost comes attached to this little aid?" 

Astaroth tilted her head back, humming in thought. Her glossy black eyes locked onto the full blue sky overhead. Her pupils were so clear, Ira could see the clouds swimming in them. Then she dropped her eyes and shrugged pointlessly. "Belzebuth, I do not like you." 

"Thanks." The Prince said dryly. 

"But." She added reluctantly. "Although I disagree with your stubborn need to meddle, I may perhaps agree that it may become necessary. Your Faun asked for what I know of Mammon."

Mayvalt perked up momentarily before slumping again, ankles--or, hooves--crossed. 

"Belzebuth, I know nothing." She laughed hauntingly. "No one has heard from him since his failed attack on Heimr." 

"Wait--what?" Ira flinched. "He's gone? Like he gave up-" 

"No." Astaroth hissed urgently. "No. Do not make that mistake, Heimrian. Mammon is not the type to take his lashes or lick his wounds. No--if he has gone quiet it is because he is preparing." 

"Preparing?" Mayvalt whimpered. "What for?" 

"I would choke on my pride and pray to the All-King to never find out." Astaroth swore, her words icy and permanent. "I am a bystander. I believe as greater beings, that is our duty. To stay silent and observant. So, Belzebuth, any help you think I have offered is only in pursuit of that goal. You may be selfish, stubborn, and troublesome but Mammon is even more so. The ripples of your wake in Heimr will be nothing but puddles to whatever interference Mammon is planning for the realm." 

"The Third Prince is the lesser of two evils." Ira surmised. "He's only kinda sorta disrupting a section of New York but Mammon wants to conquer the whole realm so he's got to go." 

Astaroth spread her open palms. "That sounds about right." 

"Straight forward enough." Ira surrendered. 

"Mhm," said the Only Slight Disruption before he turned on his heels and tossed the coin pouch through the air. Ira gasped in a breath and snatched it from the air, eyes widened at the suddenness of the action. "You carry it."

"Angels," Ira cursed before obeying. He used the string woven into the lip of the purse to tie it around one of his belt loops. The pouch rustled against his leg as he began bouncing, rocking on his heels to ease the urge he felt to blow this particular popsicle stand. He was sure all the Half-Bloods, He-Goats, and Princes in Heneth could hear the hammering of his heart or the churning static under his thin flesh but he didn't care. 

"You want so little to do with me, brother?" Astaroth cooed, playfully wounded. She pressed her flattened palm to the breastbone in her chest and puffed up her pouted lips. 

"Ira's already proved himself rash enough to engage in unwise devil deals-"

"Hey!" 

"-but I won't be so easily fooled. If you come calling to collect later-" 

"Again, hey." Ira muttered sourly. 

"I'll remember which palm I placed the coin in, brother." She smiled dangerously. "Not to fret. I do mean what I say. I wish things had not turned out so between us, Bel. If you had returned to Avernus with us, as you should have, then perhaps we would be sharing tea in more than sharp-tongued negotiation."

The Third Prince's expressions didn't change or waiver. He nodded once, silently, before he walked across the cobblestone path to where Mayvalt had perched herself. She stiffened as he came near, her eyes going wide and her limbs untangling to hold stiff at her sides. The center of her throat flexed as she forced a tensed swallow. 

"Boss, I-" Mayvalt's words were lost to the sound of her choked surprise as the Third Prince pulled her in towards his chest. She froze momentarily before her limbs came back to life, quickly tightened over the back of the Prince's cloak. They didn't speak as they embraced. Something more valuable than words was traded between them, so bitter with companionship that Ira turned away to let them share it in privacy. 

He ignored the aching the sight caused. The hollow cold in the center of his chest. Soon, it will go away. If--when he could hug Melchior like that. It would go away. 

The rustling of fabric and the scraping of shoes and hooves across stone was the only indication the two had split. The Prince retreated half a step, patting Mayvalt on the shoulder. "I'm not good at words so-" 

"Trust me, I know." The He-Goat snorted. "It's okay, Ba'al. I know what you mean anyways." 

"You always did." He agreed. "But let me try anyway. I think it's. . . important that you stay here and aid the Faun. You have my approval--although I know you don't need it." 

Mayvalt's brown eyes fluttered to Ira. He met her head on, his encouragement open across his face. Their time together hadn't been long, and a lot of it they had spent bickering like siblings, but Ira was glad he could be someone she had leaned on, no matter how briefly. She sucked in a heavy breath and turned back to the Prince. "I did, Ba'al. I always did. I think I spent a long time chasing it."

Mayvalt's eyes fell to the tops of her shiny hooves. In that clipped second when her attention had slipped, the Prince's face morphed to be as blank as new canvas. His body rigid like he didn't know how to pose it--but them her eyes found him and the second passed. A new mood seeped over his skin. His eyes rounded at the edges, his lips turned slightly up in something gentle and reassuring. His shoulders drew back to straighten his chest.

"Mayvalt, you don't need it." He said again, his voice more assured this time. She watched him through the pink curls of her untamed hair. "You've always had it." 

Her relief was a palpable thing, as heavy as the tension clouded around Ira's shifting body. Mayvalt punched her boss on his shoulder affectionately and kicked away from the stone walls, taking a couple more steps back into the Fifth Prince's lair. 

"Don't you two have all the fun without me." She called, lifting her voice so it reached Ira, too. "Once I get this town on back on its hooves I'm coming after Mammon. He still has a debt to repay to me--and I'm only accepting blood as credit. With interest." 

"Then," the Third Prince said softly, "this is 'later'?" 

Mayvalt nodded, her lips pressed into a bittersweet grin. "This is 'see you later, Boss.'" 

The Third Prince kept his gaze anchored on her as he took the last few steps past Astaroth's walls. The second he was aligned with Ira at the mouth of the property, the doors began to swing slowly shut. Mayvalt held her position in the center of the gap, waving until the metal grew slim enough that she was gone. The doors settled with a heavy clang. The ring of it the only sound between the two left over, and once it was gone they settled into a thick and, at least to Ira because the Prince seemed indifferent, uncomfortable silence. 

The Prince stared at the flat surface of the grays doors, a sort of confused loss in his golden cat eyes like he hadn't really expected Mayvalt to stay behind after all. Ira rocked forward onto his toes and cleared his throat awkwardly. "We should-" 

"Yeah," the Prince rasped. He cleared his own throat in turn and blinked focus back into his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to the icy smoothness Ira recognized. "Yes, we need to move. Kett is about a two day walk and we're already playing catch up."

Ira made no effort to suppress the groan the rolled past his tongue. "Angels, I'm tired of hiking." 

The Prince didn't laugh--the half hearted exhale he made actually felt more like the noise one would make to pretend they were listening to their least favorite coworker's storytime but Ira found it rather fitting. They were, in a very strange way, least favorite coworker's. Angels, they were exes--sort of, anyway. Not that the Prince seemed to have connected that dot yet. Which, Ira would remain grateful for. He didn't need the added complication. It was bad enough they had--nope, he didn't need to think about that. As guilty as it made him to have kissed the enemy, he could recognize it for what it was. It wasn't a kiss, it was just a spell to enhance Ira's ability to survive a trip through the Trammel and to give him an apparently temporary disguise. 

A spell Melchior would never be finding out about, Ira swore. And then that made him feel even worse. Was hiding it an admission of guilt? Angels, guilt? For? He hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't like he had volunteered to kiss the Prince. Melchior would understand that. Right? The enthusiasm Ira had felt wasn't diminished, but certainly darkened. Would Melchior even want to see him? It was all Ira's fault he'd even ended up in Hell, after all. 

"Ira." 

The Bishop flinched as if burnt, his eyes snapping to the Prince and holding there. 

"A couple days walk? On a time crunch? Finding a wolf before the wolf hunters? Any of this sounding familiar?" The Third Prince--angels, that was getting exhausting. It was only them now, Ira would have to find a less time consuming way to catalog him in his mind--said, eyebrows raised dubiously. 

"Oh," Ira breathed, nodding. "Right."

He spun on his heels and marched forward blindly, heading decidedly off into some direction. Clearly the wrong one--if the Prince's cleared throat and subtle nod left was any indication. Ira flushed and adjusted course. Slightly left and forward, east and away. 

Towards Kett, he thought. 

Towards Melchior, he prayed. 

And with no one by his side but the Third Prince of Hell. Sure, why not? How hard could it be? 

| 𓃦 |

Ira wanted to go back in time nine hours, find the version of himself that had thought this would be just another walk in another park, and shake him by the throat until he was blue. And then he was going to find that person, whoever they may have been, who had first declared Kett a two day walk and introduce them intimately with one, angels maybe both, of his Ossein daggers. Of course he knew that claim was more than likely incredibly peer reviewed. But he didn't really care. He knew that he had been lied to. Or the example had been set by creatures who had never had the luxury of ride share apps. 

If Hell had come with Hondas, Ira would have already been in Kett. In an inn somewhere, sucking down teas and loaves of bread faster than they barmaid could keep them on the table. If Hell had bread--because they did at least have teas. If Hell had any of those things. Actually, Ira didn't even know what a meal in Hell would be like or if he could find one. Angels, he wished he could. The cramping in his stomach had been edging towards constant. 

Ira hadn't eaten for two days, since it seemed Mayvalt didn't really need to--or didn't care to--and breakfast, lunch, or dinner had never made it higher on his priority list than finding Melchior. His skin was beginning to itch under his solid mud coating, his muscles were screaming for respite, and his head throbbed. Simply put, Ira was about as miserable as a cat in the dog pound. 

It didn't help that the Beelzebub never spoke. He hadn't said a word since they'd left Heneth. Ira thought he might have preferred it that way at first, but as his body pains increased he began growing desperate from something to turn his mind to. 

Driven by his hunger, or perhaps his boredom--because stumbling endlessly forward through the forest with the most silent man in Hell wasn't even half as entertaining as watching grass grow--Ira recalled the things he had seen in Heneth. He started with the Fifth Prince's strange garden. More than half of it had been alien to him. Black flowers growing from a watery planter, yellow berries hanging from a twisted tree, purple tubers in a glass box--but there had been one dirt row with something as seemingly ordinary as bell peppers. There were demons, sure. But also hut-like houses, cobbled streets, blue skies, mountains blotting the horizon. It was nothing like the brimstone and ash Ira had been warned about. It was almost peaceful. Besides the trees that wobbled too much and cast too-dark shadows--but even those seemed normal when he squinted. Ira was walking through uncanny valley. It was a place, and it was here. 

At the risk of sounding stupid Ira balled his confusion into something tangible and rolled it between his tongue. "Is there anywhere we could buy a horse? Y'know, just to get us to Kett or something." 

He winced at the sound of his ragged voice in the silent trees. And at the blunted lameness of his question. A horse would have been nice--really nice--but making the detour to find an equine salesman wouldn't have been on the table even if it was possible. And if it was possible was all Ira wanted to know. 

The Prince paused. He had managed to keep at least ten feet of space between them but he broke it then. Not because Ira was making much progress or because he turned around but because his golden eyes lanced across the air in a second, freezing Ira in place. When he exhaled, Ira swore he could almost feel it across the skin of his lips. 

"A horse?" 

So much for not sounding stupid. "Or something." Ira bristled. 

Beelzebub--angels, Ira didn't like that either. It was almost twice as formal as Prince--swung his eyes forward and began to walk again. He didn't make any particular effort to speak to Ira, but the woods were quiet enough that his replies found his ears anyways. "I'd be careful buying a horse. More than likely it's one of the Woodland Folk running a con."

"So, there are horses?" Ira hesitantly concluded. Well, horses were something, right? Maybe not as good as a cheeseburger, high definition streaming, or microwavable dinner but at least some things were the same.

"No." 

Okay, scratch that. Ira winced to himself. 

"There are Woodland Folk--who may look like a horse but are not a horse and if you get on their back you could be led into a mugging circle or run into a roaring river and drowned for kicks. So, in conclusion, we should avoid buying a horse." 

"No horses." Ira agreed, because he didn't really understand any of that but it didn't sound good. "Right." Well, that was incredibly unhelpful. 

Maybe he would have more helpful answers if you used your words, Rule. Ira pointedly ignored that nagging in the back of his skull. Maybe the Prince--yep, he was going back to Prince--assumed Ira knew nothing about their current playing field, but Ira certainly wasn't going to be the one to confirm how huge his disadvantage was. He didn't really suspect the Prince would try to take advantage--but then again, hadn't the Prince kissed him on the lips in New York? Something Mayvalt seemed shocked about, certainly. Ira had a feeling tricks were being pulled on him. Tricks he wanted to minimize by fluffing up his deck, even if his hand was only a two-seven offsuit. 

"Last I heard, one of my siblings had taken to unicorn farming in Acorah--that's slightly on our way but the detour alone would add three days. Plus I'm not expecting any family discount and everything we own can fit in the pouch on your hip." 

Ira sputtered on his next inhale, coughing until his lungs shuddered back into tempo. He picked up his weary feet, trying in vain to close the gap between them. The Prince maintained it effortlessly with his smooth steps. 

"Unicorns?" Ira shouted, all tough talk instantly discarded at the first signs of something truly interesting. "Like, really? Unicorns? Those are real?" 

"As real as anything in Avernus." His shrug was all Ira could make out from the outline of his swishing cape. 

Ira leapt, claws outstretched at the chance to plant a few more leading questions. "And how real are things in Hell? It's like I'm seeing home out of the corner of my eye but when I turn to look it's. . . off." 

"Heimr and Avernus have always been linked. Influence between the two is always waxing and waning." The Prince answered vaguely before clarifying. "Waxing like trade and trends passing through the Trammel and waning like wars and genocides." 

Ira cringed away from the wars and genocide part. He refused the nearly instinctual need to glance at the Ossein saddled to his sides and instead picked at the softer side of the Prince's explanation.

"So, in the Fifth Prince's garden. . . she had bell peppers." Ira hesitated. "Those were just. . . bell peppers? From Earth? But then the other stuff was native to here." 

"Sure. That would be the trade part." The Prince agreed. His voice was hollow, like he was answering the endless questions of a curious toddler. "You might find things here that someone, more likely something, saw in Heimr and brought back. For a while Heimrian vegetables were all the rage. I saw Halflings auctioning off dried peas once. Regular farming took some of the fun out of that some centuries ago." 

Ira shuddered. He had always hated peas. Father Pine used to hide them in mashed potatoes when he was small and going through his phase of refusing any and all things green. He couldn't imagine anyone fighting over one, but then his stomach pitched again. Angels, even mummified peas sounded appealing. He hated to think what he would do unattended in a root cellar full of pickled eggs, jarred pigs feet, or raw tubers. His stomach churned at the thought, momentarily dispelling his gnawing hunger. 

"Trades go two ways." Ira pointed. "Are you saying there are things on Earth that came from Hell. I mean more than the He-Goats." 

The Prince cast a dubious glance over his shoulder, his pitched eyebrow the first emotion Ira had seen cross his features since they'd left Mayvalt at the gate. "Have you ever seen a platypus? Purely Hellish. An Ely I knew once made them as a joke and dumped them in Avernus when they stopped amusing him. They must have made it through the Trammel at some point." 

Ira fell silent to inhale that particular bit of information. "That's. . . a lot." He said finally. 

The Prin--

Ira inhaled sharply. 

Beelzebub didn't say anything else. He fell back into the stonish silence he had maintained for hours, and since Ira had nothing else to say, he let him. Ira's thoughts turned internal, quiet. He wallowed in discontent over the pangs in his stomach, the ache in his legs, and the rasp of dry air in his lungs. 

He passed two more hours that way. The sun slinked lowered along the mountains, the trees darkened until Ira was tripping more than he was stepping. Each faltering lurch sapped more of his strength and tore at his legs until he had almost nothing left to offer. 

"Wait," Ira gasped. His voice sounded strange after so much compatible silence. He wobbled one more aching step, just enough to pin his spine to the nearest tree, and slumped into his ragged breaths. "I need--angels." He cursed.

Beelzebub  had been quiet enough, far enough ahead into the dark, that Ira could have believed he'd been left behind. Well, he did believe he'd been left behind truth be told. Until he heard the soft crunch of shoes on leaves. The sound of his temporary travel companion doubling back to supervise his crumpled form, no doubt. Ira might have mustered something like embarrassment had he not been held together only by the stitches in his clothes and the bark to his back. The Prince's golden eyes were the brightest thing left in the forest. They glimmered like headlights, hovering nearly six feet above the floor and several inches above Ira's own bowed head. 

"Here and at your service." Beelzebub joked dryly. Or Ira hoped he was joking--because at least that would make him seem something other than the still and blank slate he had been since Heneth. 

Ira sagged further into the vaguely oakish foliage to gather enough energy to narrow his eyes into a glare and curl his lips down into a scowl. "Hil-" he sucked in a sharp breath, "-arious." 

He shrugged. "I try." 

"Don't make the effort on my account." Ira mumbled. 

"Noted." He agreed, monotone as ever. 

Ira whimpered at a particularly painful twist in his stomach and pressed his shaking fingers to his hair. Beelzebub lurched closer in the dark, coming near enough Ira could see his lean shape in the dusky shadows, see the lines of his neutral face cut against the last few orange slivers through the trees. 

"I think I'm going to throw up." Ira declared. "Home schooling didn't prepare me for this." 

"Hell?" Beelzebub questioned, one arched eyebrow over his golden iris. 

"Gratuitous physical exertion with little reward." Ira corrected. "I think the mile would have fortified me."

"The mile?" Beelzebub echoed blankly. "It's much more than a mile to Kett." 

"Wow!" Ira beamed, clapping his hands together in a way he prayed dripped with the most amount of sarcasm possible. "Super not helpful! Thank you!"

"You're welcome but I don't see the point in thanking me for being unhelpful." 

"Are you always this-" robotic didn't quite fit. Actually, Ira couldn't think of any word that did. He opened his flattened palms and gestured from the top of the devil's oil black hair to the bottom of his worn leather boots. "much?" 

"I don't know." He answered, his golden eyes contemplative. "Mayvalt usually handles all the complaints directly and once they've gotten to me, who can say how much Mayvalt approved vocabulary has influenced the intent." 

Ira's gut twisted painfully and thunked into his toes. He winced visibly, pressing his palms to his forehead. "Angels, that was--I didn't mean. . . I didn't mean to make you think of her. . ." 

It had been strange to have a Mayvalt sized gap between them. Ira knew that if he, someone who had only technically met her last summer, had felt off about it than her timeless immortal boss much have felt it even more so. Not that any of his actions indicated as much. Getting a read had been difficult to say the least, but what Ira had managed to cobble together left him feeling even more confused. Sure, Beelzebub had been quiet but his muteness wasn't permeated by any stoic brooding. His face had been neutral at best the entire time they'd navigated their way east. And, anyway, it was more than the vocal modesty. His every movement seemed deliberate and careful. 

"Why not?" Beelzebub asked. 

He punctuated his question with a doggish tilt of his head, his brows carefully pinched. If Ira had asked a mime to, well, mime a confused man it wouldn't have been half as good as the look aimed at him by the devil. He was like that, Ira was noticing. Either too much or too little with no middle ground. His mannerisms were stage-play big to match the emotional pitch of his voice--or they were all replaced by the impression of a cardboard cut out. For what reason, Ira hadn't determined yet. If there was any reason at all. Maybe he was just weird, or awkward--he was a Prince of Hell, after all. Being strange was the least of his issues. 

It didn't matter. It didn't matter--especially not when Ira had bigger concerns. Like finding the wolf being hunted all across Hell, the one that was different and that had his pulse spiking with hope. But knowing that and resisting the urge to pick at the edges were two very different things in Ira's mind. 

"You've been together for a long time, right? You must be pretty torn up about it." Ira said, his tone carefully neutral. The power of suggestion was an art form better suited to whoever was making toy commercials these days, but Ira knew from their earlier conversation that Beelzebub was at least willing to engage him in conversation. He was surprisingly pliable, even.

"Why would I be?" He challenged, tone clipped in disinterred. "She's got some business here, sure, but she'll catch up." 

"Sure, sure," Ira shrugged agreeably, pulling back a little before he sunk in his dagger. "But it's okay to miss her until then. I won't judge. I mean, it'd be more surprising if you didn't." 

The silk Ira weaved was as thick as ship rope but he hoped that didn't warn off his prey. If his trap worked, and if he was right then--then? Then what? It didn't matter. It shouldn't. But--angels, forget it. Beelzebub had gone quiet, his face blank, and Ira didn't have the time to stand there doing nothing anymore. Kett was still unbearably far. It was only getting darker. His strength was only draining, his hunger only growing. He sighed and dropped his hands to his belt, using the motion to swing himself forward and away from the tree. 

"We should keep mov-" 

Ira's throat shuddered, chopping his words at the knee. The Prince shifted on his feet. His arms moved from passively hanging at his sides to lifting around his stomach in a soothing self hug shrug. It was as if a motor had begun to spin in the Prince's skull, his gears shifted under his skin. His eyes grew rounded, softer. His lips tipped downwards at the edges. The broad lines of his shoulders slumped under his cloak. 

Sad, but humbly trying to keep it from his exterior--until Ira had caught on, of course. Because what had Ira said? That it was stranger to display no sadness at all? His heart turned to stone, rhythm uneven and heavy as he watched the act manifest. And Ira was sure--it was an act. Everything the devil did was charged and weighed, plotted and scripted. Something about the realization uneased Ira so much he almost wished he had never tested him at all. 

Why had he? To know if he could trust the devil? Wasn't that enough of an oxymoron? 

Ira cleared his throat decidedly and stepped away from his spot against the tree. "We keep moving." He said, or ordered really. This time, he didn't falter. He could match the Prince, become his scene partner. That seemed like the better alternative than revealing his hand. Alone in the dark forest wasn't the place Ira wanted to question the Ely anyway. He had seen too many true crime documentaries to walk into something so uncertain. 

Ira made it less than three steps before he tripped again. A chilled grip on his wrist yanked him back onto his heels before his chin could get acquainted with the native Hell soil. 

"Your efforts are admirable, darling, but we should stop for the night." The Prince said at his ear. Ira's chest rasped, filling and shuddering with enough air that the expanse of it pushed his back into the solid body behind him. The Prince was as cold as the dusk. His flesh was indistinguishable from the wind curled between the trees. The clothes he wore were as clean, scentless, and heatless as they had been in whatever chest the Prince had taken them from. The Prince was less than a devil. He was a ghost. When Ira looked into the dark, he saw exactly what the Third Prince of Hell truly was. 

Nothing. 

Ira shook his arm free. The icy grip fell away obediently, leaving Ira to press his arm into his chest. He tried and failed to chase away the shivers racing up to his elbow.