Night did not fall on the city so much as it exhaled over it. Lamps burned because they were supposed to, not because anyone trusted them. Sound lived quieter. Prayer whispered softer. Hope still existed—it simply sat down more often than it used to.
A rooftop above it all hosted two beings who were both much too old for this to surprise them and far too complicated for it not to matter.
Caelum arrived the way he always did, without ceremony and entirely aware that this annoyed Inkaris.
"You always pick rooftops," Caelum said lightly, hands tucked behind his back like a scholar reading the sky. "I do wish you'd develop a taste for balconies again. Those were fun. People screamed more."
Inkaris didn't look at him immediately.
"You pushed several people off those balconies."
"Yes," Caelum sighed wistfully. "And yet somehow I remain the villain every time someone mentions it. Mortals have no sense of humor."
The demon finally turned his head.
"You're still dramatic."
"And you," Caelum smiled, "are still terminally serious."
They stood together without tension, like men who had argued across centuries and always ended up here again anyway. There was no hostility. No surprise. Just inevitability.
Below them, someone stumbled. Someone else sat down because they couldn't not sit down. Somewhere, a child cried in a tired rhythm.
Inkaris closed his eyes briefly.
"You hate this kind of suffering," Caelum observed softly.
"I hate pointless spirals," Inkaris replied. "Give me clean cruelty. Honest destruction. But this? This is just… erosion."
Caelum hummed.
"Slow despair is elegant."
"It is lazy," Inkaris countered.
They shared a silence only old beings could—where the quiet carried weight, memory, and too many nearly-spoken confessions.
"You didn't call me here to exchange philosophy," Caelum finally said.
"No," Inkaris replied. "I called you because you owe me a drink."
Caelum blinked.
Then laughed.
"Oh, don't do that. You know I adore when you pretend sentiment, but come now. We both know demons don't drink unless they intend to—"
"I need help," Inkaris said.
Caelum stopped.
For a heartbeat, the city held its breath with him.
"You haven't said that," Caelum murmured, voice softer now, "since the Oasis War."
"Yes."
"And the last time you said it," Caelum continued, "you ended up bleeding starlight on a sand dune while scolding me for being too theatrical."
"Yes."
Caelum's smirk faded into something almost painfully fond.
"Go on then," he whispered. "Ask."
"Malvane has stumbled into power," Inkaris said. "You showed him how to hold it."
Caelum shrugged.
"He wanted strength. I handed him possibility. What he built afterward is… him."
"He is draining belief. Not power. Not faith magic. Belief itself," Inkaris said quietly. "He is turning trust into a currency only he can spend."
"Yes," Caelum replied. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"It's lethal."
"It always is."
Inkaris looked at him now, and for once, Caelum did not meet the gaze with mockery.
"I need you to tilt the board back," Inkaris said. "Complicate the siphon. Break its rhythm. Confuse the transfer. Do what you always do best."
"And what's that?" Caelum asked gently.
"Make chaos behave helpfully."
Caelum smiled.
"There it is. The compliment."
Wind moved between them. Neither moved aside.
"And what," Caelum continued, tone warming into velvet danger, "do you offer for my delicate artistry?"
"A favor," Inkaris said.
Caelum stilled.
Quietly.
Completely.
He stepped closer.
"Say that again."
"A favor," Inkaris repeated.
"You," Caelum murmured, eyes brightening, "are offering me yourself."
"If necessary."
"And when I call it in—"
"You will not be refused."
"No arguments?"
"No."
"No twisting language?"
"No."
"No demon cleverness?"
Inkaris almost smiled.
"I said 'no' three times. That should terrify you more than reassure you."
Caelum laughed softly.
"Oh, Inkaris… you really do still care about things. It's disgusting. I've missed it."
He leaned in like a conspirator.
"This price will not be kind."
"I know."
"It may destroy you."
"I know."
"And yet?"
"Do you remember," Inkaris asked quietly, "the plateau above the drowned city?"
Caelum froze.
"Yes."
"You told me then that sometimes," Inkaris continued, "we don't choose the price. We simply choose to be willing."
Caelum was silent.
A rare state.
He watched Inkaris the way one would watch a storm choose where to fall.
Finally, he nodded.
"Fine."
Power sealed.
Not as thunder. Not as light.
As agreement.
Deep. Binding. Intimate.
Caelum loosened his shoulders afterward and sighed.
"There. I am now invested. Congratulations. You have successfully weaponized my curiosity."
He turned to leave.
Stopped.
Inkaris cleared his throat lightly.
"One more thing."
Caelum groaned theatrically.
"Of course. Go on. Break my heart."
"In the event…" Inkaris began carefully, "…of my absence—"
"Ah," Caelum smiled softly. "There it is."
"—you will find yourself bound to the one I currently mentor."
Caelum blinked.
Then narrowed his eyes.
"In what way bound?"
"Instruction," Inkaris replied. "Guidance. Interference. Protection. Grinding irritation. Emotional accountability. The works."
Caelum stared.
"You're forcing me," he whispered, incredulous, "into attachment."
"Yes."
Caelum began laughing.
Laughing real laughter. Bright. Wild. Genuine.
"You wicked, forward-thinking, absolutely infuriating creature," he breathed. "You planned your replacement tutor."
"I plan everything."
"And," Caelum continued joyfully, "you tethered me to him emotionally."
"Yes."
"Oh," Caelum whispered. "This will ruin me wonderfully."
He smiled then.
Soft.
Almost… fond.
"I'll take good care of your little wish-granter," he said quietly. "Eventually."
Inkaris nodded.
"I know."
Then Caelum vanished.
And Inkaris,
for the first time in a very, very long time,
allowed himself to sit.
Just for a moment.
Not because he regretted anything.
But because he knew exactly what it meant to win like this.
And he accepted it.
---