Vinea's eyes darted towards the door, terrified of this existence which called itself her uncle, without the safety net she called Asmodeus. Her confidence and willpower wavered as piercing erald eyes glared at her like a snake observing its prey.
'Damn it!'
"What's the matter, dear niece?"
Parading in Alan's skin, phisto smirked, knowing she understood everything.
A fearso predator waiting for her to make a mistake and lower her guard, sothing she couldn't do... wouldn't do!
'Give strength, my love.'
"N-Nothing, Uncle... I am just a little tired from the long journey."
"Hmm, then will you join for dinner?"
"W-What?"
The hairs on Vinea's arms stuck up; she wanted nothing more than to leave and return to Zar'Kaleth and burrow herself into Asmodeus' arms.
"Well, it's been a long ti since we last spoke. Don't you think it'd be good to talk about what's happened since I left the north?"
'Yeah right, Screw you!'
Her nose scrunched as she closed her eyes and tried calming herself with a deep breath.
Could she learn sothing important?
The logical part of her mind started to race, wondering what might be best. A al wouldn't kill her, and Alan wouldn't either. Not directly, at least, she wanted to believe.
"Okay, Uncle..."
"Haha, good! Then, let's go."
Alan held his arm out, offering to escort the demon princess who helplessly hooked his arm despite the cold chill that spread through her body.
The mont they stepped forward, phisto's tricks started. "Do you rember the last ti I escorted you to dinner?"
"Eh?"
'No...'
A mory surfaced as they walked down the hallway; the young Anne was still a weak knight who lacked the power to defend herself, and the fallen Hero still carried his desire to fight, before his second defeat and close to their father's birthday.
Vinea's hand twitched slightly against his arm.
That mory was old. Buried.
She could still picture the tall doors of the palace, the way Alan had smiled in the torchlight, with a gentle smile. Back then, he'd still joked like Simon, praised Paul's cooking, and laughed when Asmodeus got flustered around Yuina. He hadn't yet touched the darkness.
But now?
The warmth was gone.
What stood beside her wore the sa face and moved with the sa stride. Its gait flowed too smoothly. No fog ca from his breath in the autumn air, and the carpet barely shifted under his weight.
This man was a monster.
Vinea kept walking.
They passed artwork embroidered with the Lion of Grigor, old statues of heroes now half-forgotten. The hallway curved toward a private dining wing. A quiet place, sealed off from the public feast halls she rembered from previous visits.
"I had this room renovated," Alan said casually. "Imported woods from the east. The floor sings when you walk on it—listen."
She didn't respond.
Silent stewards opened the doors as the guards bowed.
Inside, everything shimred gold. Soft orange light from high chandeliers spilt over a polished table set for two—velvet chairs. Steam spiralled from freshly roasted duck and bowls of seasoned grains. Glass goblets waited, wine already poured. The sll was wrong. Too sweet.
Vinea hesitated at the entrance.
Alan, or rather phisto, turned to her with an expectant smile. "It's safe. I even had them test everything beforehand."
She smiled weakly. "I'll trust you."
The lie tasted bitter. She stepped inside.
He pulled her chair out for her and let his hand brush her back.
She sat, looking at him with a sharp glare.
"Do you rember the first al we shared after the siege?" he asked, leaning forward as he cut into the at with unnatural grace.
"I rember."
"You were quiet then too. I thought you hated ."
"I didn't."
"I wanted to apologise for all that," Alan said.
She blinked. "Apologise?"
"For not doing more." His green eyes locked onto hers. "To stop what happened to you. To your family."
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.
He was digging and testing her reactions.
phisto knew.
Of course he did.
But Vinea smiled politely. "It's the past."
Alan raised his glass. "To the future, then."
Reluctantly, she tapped her glass against his.
They drank.
And as the wine slid down her throat, she realised. Poison didn't scare her. What terrified her was the thought that phisto didn't need that to kill her right now.
That he could devour her whole with nothing more than a smile.
***
The food sat on her plate, mostly untouched.
Vinea held her utensils out of habit, but her gaze never left him. phisto didn't eat like Alan. Alan chewed too fast, liked to talk between bites, and never used the smaller fork. This thing sliced everything with practised precision, every movent exact, chanical. Inhuman.
He sipped the wine again. "Do you still train with Levia? The girl had a sharp tongue, but good instincts."
"She's stronger now. All of us are."
"A sha the rest of the world doesn't realise how much potential the demons have."
His voice carried no mockery, making the false sincerity worse.
"I'm curious," he continued, reclining slightly. "Do you think Asmodeus is happy ruling that little kingdom of his? Surrounded by you won, tucked away in the north?"
"More than happy," she replied quickly. "He's building sothing better than any human ever managed."
"Mmm. That's the kind of answer I expected."
He tapped a finger against the goblet, watching her from the corner of his eye.
"Then why did he send you instead of coming himself?"
The question made her flinch.
He smiled again.
"Was it fear? Or did he already suspect sothing… darker?"
Vinea steadied her breath.
"You're not Alan."
"True."
He confird it without hesitation and leaned forward now, elbows on the table, voice low and smooth.
"But I rember him. I rember every thought, every hesitation. He loved your family, you know. Cared deeply for Simon and Paul. And he—"
"Stop."
The word ca sharper than she intended.
The thing wearing Alan's skin chuckled. "So there's still a little fire left."
Silence stretched again.
Then he said, "You'll stay the night here, of course. Your room is ready. There won't be guards outside. You're ant to feel safe."
Vinea didn't respond.
She stood, carefully, pushing the chair back without a sound.
"I think I've had enough."
"As you wish," he said lightly. "But tomorrow, I'd like you to et soone. A friend of mine from the mainland. She's been… very helpful."
Vinea bowed slightly, her face unreadable. "I'll consider it."
She turned.
But as she walked away, phisto's voice followed.
"Oh, and Vinea—"
She stopped.
"If Asmodeus sends more ssengers... I hope they're more fun."
Her fists balled up against her side.
She walked faster as if to forget the horrible mory and guilt. Vinea could tell that Alan still lingered inside that monster, waiting for help.
'He has to be...'
***
The hallway stretched longer than she rembered, and the path to safety seed too far.
Every step Vinea took echoed louder than the last, the sound distorted, like the walls were listening.
When she reached the guest wing, her breath was tight. She didn't knock, because Ygrenne opened the door before her hand touched it as if waiting for her.
"Your Highness?"
"Don't ask. Just let in."
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room was expansive, with red curtains drawn and a hearth burning low, but the warmth didn't reach her skin.
Vinea walked to the edge of the bed and sat without grace.
Ygrenne didn't speak; she simply poured herself a cup of water and set it on the nightstand.
"He's beco sothing else."
Ygrenne stood silently.
"Alan's still in there... it was faint, but I felt it. When he looked at , sothing was trapped behind the eyes." Her voice cracked. "Asmodeus would've known what to do. But I… I almost broke down just having dinner with him."
"You endured well, Your Highness," Ygrenne said quietly.
Vinea wiped her cheek. She hadn't noticed the tears until her fingers ca away wet.
"We leave at first light," she said. "No excuses."
Ygrenne bowed. "Understood."
The pair didn't move or speak about leaving because leaving didn't offer answers.
What could they do now?
Send a letter?
Warn the north?
Would phisto let them go?
Maybe he already knew their next steps.
Vinea didn't know.
She only knew that she needed to survive long enough to send a warning.
Long enough to get back to him.
To Asmodeus.
As her head sank into her hands, the door across the hallway creaked open. Footsteps passed beyond the curtain. asured. Deliberate.
Ygrenne moved to the window and peeked through the side slit.
She froze.
"Your Highness..."
"What is it?"
"Soone's in the hallway."
"...Who?"
Ygrenne's lips parted. But no answer ca.
Because in that exact mont, the footsteps stopped.
And the knock on their door ca—soft, gentle.
Polite in a way that felt wrong.
"May I co in?" A woman's voice. Sweet. Smooth.
Neither of them moved.
Another knock. Louder.
"Lady Vinea... I was told you'd be here."
Ygrenne reached for her sword.
Vinea stood slowly.
Because whoever was outside that door… wasn't from Grigor.
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