POV: Venelana Gremory
"May our friendship prove eternal," Miriel said, her voice sweet and delicately composed, the sort of softness that had been cultivated over centuries to conceal the sharper instruments of intention that lay beneath it.
Venelana inclined her head with the smallest acceptable courtesy, the gesture precise, neither warm nor dismissive, the exact equilibrium demanded between equals who understood far too much about one another to mistake courtesy for sincerity, and she allowed the words to pass without immediate reply.
She did not lack an answer, however she needed to give it at precise time and in an appropriate manner.
They had been friends since childhood, a phrasing that would have seemed absurd in any other realm where centuries did not pass like minor seasons, and they had known one another longer than most human kingdoms had existed in any recorded form.
Yet Venelana had never once permitted herself the indulgence of believing that duration alone could sanctify affection among devils, whose kind wore familiarity like a mask and loyalty like a tool to be traded when profit required it.
Devil society, as she had come to understand it through centuries of experience, represented the most perfected expression of humanity's worst instincts. The courts of kings, the chambers of politicians, and the back rooms of conspirators were mirrored, distilled, amplified, and stripped of all comforting illusions of virtue, until only naked interest remained as the final and only honest law.
In Hell there was no honor that survived inconvenience, no chivalry that endured disadvantage, no friendship that did not exist tethered to benefit, and corruption was not a deviation from the system but its very bloodstream, circulating quietly through every institution, every House and every interaction.
Here one learned to laugh with those whose deaths one had already scheduled, to trade pleasantries with allies whose betrayals were already anticipated and accounted for, and to call one's rival sister or brother while arranging the precise political pressure that would ruin them without ever staining one's own hands.
For in hell, blood relation merely defined the starting point from which conflict inevitably rose.
Among the nobility there existed a ceaseless, wordless contest for elevation and dominance, a battle conducted through contracts, marriages, rumors, debt, assassination by proxy, and calculated misunderstanding, where every alliance was provisional by definition, every cooperation temporary by necessity, and every vow binding only so long as it aligned with advantage.
The poets call it the Great game. Though the poetry of it eluded her entirely, and she had long since replaced the word great with a private, bitter appellation: the Grim Game, in which the only certainty was that the ambitious would devour the naive and the clever would thrive while the honorable perished quietly, forgotten.
The Underworld was a class society carved into ancient law, where worth was measured neither by virtue, nor by craft, nor by loyalty, or love as her foolish daughter would have you believe.
Worth in hell was measured by power and blood in their most literal forms, and anyone who possessed neither learned very quickly that their existence itself could be revoked at a whim.
Venelana had mastered this world through experience and wisdom that comes with age. If there had ever been any childish hope in her that devils might rise above their nature through shared ancestry or ancient bonds, it had been stripped from her long before her children had learned their first formal bows.
Perhaps unmotherly of her, given that both her children were steadfast dreamers, clinging to visions of a grander future.
Yet as her son had already demonstrated, even the mightiest power and the purest devotion to an ideal of peace in Hell could be corrupted, bent inward by the very nature of this demonic place, until the ambition that once burned bright became something unrecognizable, a shadow of its original form.
She doubted that her son had even noticed the extent of his own transformation since childhood, when he had dreamed foolishly that reason and sense could sway the hearts of devils, that petty grievances might be set aside in service of a greater whole. Reality had intervened, as it always did, and the boy had learned the art of compromise.
"Eternity, you say?" Venelana asked, her tone light, almost teasing. "Still clinging to the naïveté of romanticism. With the span of years we endure, one begins to understand that eternity itself is hollow. Everything shifts, everything changes, even you, even I. Nothing remains as it once was, nor can it."
"And yet," Miriel continued softly as she lifted her teacup, her smile gentle, almost nostalgic in shape. "Despite all that changes, there are bonds that endure, are there not, Venelana? bonds that even time and war have not proven strong enough to erode."
Venelana accepted her own porcelain cup with composed fingers, noting the quality of the brew, the careful selection of rare leaves imported at considerable expense, and the intentional extravagance of the presentation, which alone carried a language of urgency that Miriel's voice took such pains to suppress.
"Some bonds persist because both parties find enduring advantage in remembering them," Venelana replied evenly, her voice calm, maternal, and firm all at once, the same tone she used when issuing corrections to soldiers, to servants, and to her own children alike.
Miriel laughed lightly, the sound cultivated and measured, and leaned back in her chair as if indulging in reminiscence rather than negotiation, though every movement of her posture reflected calculation refined over centuries.
"Do you remember," she said, "the day Ajuka and Sirzechs first stood side by side as boys, when no one yet called them Satans and they believed, perhaps foolishly, that friendship could outpace ambition."
Venelana remembered it well, though not as Miriel framed it. Miriel had observed that so-called friendship with the eyes of a strategist even then, and she had seen not a profound connection between two whose nature should have been isolated.
No, Miriel saw only two brilliant minds recognizing mutual usefulness at a formative age, each drawn to the other's potential rather than to any shared innocence or friendship.
The House of Astaroth had never truly stood close to Ajuka in anything but superficial ceremony, nor had there ever existed deep trust beneath the veneer of acknowledged respect. Miriel knew this as well as Venelana did, which made the invocation of that history less of a sentimental gesture and more of a deliberate attempt to bind the present to a narrative more flattering than it deserved.
"Sirzechs has always valued stability," Venelana said carefully, allowing neither affirmation nor denial to slip, "and Ajuka values results above all else, which is why it is no surprise that they rose together."
Miriel's eyes sharpened just slightly at the edges, though her smile did not waver. "Then surely," she said, "House Gremory understands the danger when that stability is threatened, particularly when fellow Pillars are targeted by hostile ambition rather than honorable dispute."
Well, that is a rather generous way of saying that they fucked up and are now attempting to double down rather than admit their mistake. For pride, after all, is the most sacred currency among the nobles here.
Venelana required no further clarification, for the purpose of the gathering had been obvious from the moment the invitation arrived, wrapped in gold and urgency alike. House Astaroth bled political ground in its escalating conflict with House Barbatos and now searched desperately for powerful allies to shore up its weakening position.
She had no desire to involve her House in a war whose origins were rooted in pride, rivalry, and miscalculation rather than necessity. She understood well enough that once a Pillar committed openly, withdrawal would become impossible without catastrophic loss of standing.
"There are many dangers in the Underworld at present," Venelana replied after a delicate pause, her gaze steady, "and not all of them announce themselves through battle lines and declarations of grievance."
"Yet some dangers," Miriel replied, her voice just a degree firmer, "cannot be ignored without consequence, particularly when one's long standing allies are the ones calling for aid, and stand to face extinction on false accusation."
Venelana observed the phrasing with quiet attention, recognizing the careful choice of defense over aggression, survival over ambition, as Miriel sought to reframe Astaroth's predicament into one that demanded moral obligation rather than political calculation.
Within herself Venelana measured leverage, costs, probabilities, and long term consequences with the same cold precision she applied to markets, contracts, and bloodlines alike. She saw quite clearly that Astaroth stood in desperate need of visible support while Gremory stood in a position where offering it would yield risk without sufficient compounding return.
If House Barbatos and its allies fell, the balance among the Pillars would fracture further and accelerate the general instability already creeping through the Underworld, yet if Gremory committed to Astaroth and war escalated, they would inherit both the enemies and the enduring resentment of every House harmed by the conflict's expansion.
"My House," Venelana said at last, "has always valued preparation over reaction, and protection over spectacle, for I have learned over a very long life that once blood begins to define a solution, it rarely ceases at the point one intended."
Miriel's fingers tightened briefly around her teacup before relaxing once more, the faintest signal of frustration slipping through the performance of elegance. "You were ever prudent," she said, "but prudence, too, can resemble hesitation when the world demands clarity of loyalty."
Venelana met her gaze fully now, the quiet weight of her authority settling into the space between them without overt threat or overt comfort, the presence of a woman with the voice to command the Lucifer – and does.
"Loyalty," she replied, "is not proven through haste, nor through the eagerness with which one collects wars, but through the care with which one preserves what must endure when wars are over."
Miriel searched her face for concession and found only composed resolve.
Venelana's thoughts drifted to her children and to the responsibility that outstripped every ancient friendship and political convenience alike. She did not measure success by territorial expansion or public victory, but by whether the next generation of Gremory would inherit strength rather than ashes.
She had learned long ago that affection among devils was often little more than a story told to disguise transaction, and that value, not sentiment, governed the survival of Houses and the worth of alliances, yet motherhood had taught her that some calculations did not allow for acceptable loss no matter the potential reward.
"I will always value what our Houses have been to one another," Venelana said eventually, deliberately leaving the statement anchored in the past. "and I will always wish for the continuation of that stability, but I will not promise what I may not be prepared to secure without jeopardizing those who depend upon me."
The words were neither a refusal nor an agreement, yet Miriel understood their meaning with perfect clarity.
The war would proceed without House Gremory's banner raised at its forefront, and House Astaroth would have to confront the consequences of its choices with whatever allies it could still compel.
Tea cooled quietly between them as centuries of polished civility sustained the illusion of casual fellowship, while beneath that surface two matriarchs measured futures in blood and debt.
Venelana remained composed, her mind on the only goal that mattered to her; the dominion of her House and the children whose inheritance she guarded as both mother and sovereign.
And in Hell, she reflected with calm certainty, only such priorities endured.
.
.
.
Venelana noted the tension in her grandson's voice before he asked his question. He sat opposite her on the train.
"Grandma, is there going to be another civil war?"
She had brought Millicas to this meeting to distract him from his sudden and obsessive interest in training and crafting. Ever since he encountered the fabled Haruki Yamashiro at his birthday celebration, the boy had developed an unhealthy drive to learn crafting and alchemy.
Haruki had left a deep impression on him as he always does. The boy had found his first object of hero worship.
Haruki's interaction with Millicas had, in her estimation, been rude and childish. He is a man who never needed to integrate himself into any circle because brilliance shielded him from consequence, a man who never conformed to etiquette or law because pride convinced him he stood above them.
Whatever Sirzechs says, Haruki had overstepped every boundary in daring to lecture the son of Lucifer before hundreds of lords of Hell.
Worse still, he had inspired her obedient grandson to imitate that defiance. Millicas had begun challenging rules and dismissing traditions as useless inventions that kill individuality and progress.
Sirzechs found the boy's defiance endlessly amusing. Venelana did not. Image mattered in the Underworld. The son of Lucifer could not afford a single fault.
"What makes you say that?" she asked, indulging him.
"It is why we went to House Astaroth, isn't it?" he said, sitting in a posture so careless that her eye twitched. "After House Barbatos attacked the territory of House Astaroth, House Astaroth must retaliate."
"So?" she said, frowning at the way he sat. "There have been many cases of inter-house conflict in the past. This is simply another number in the long list of smaller disputes. Not a civil war as you may fear."
"I don't fear anything," he said. "But this particular conflict is unique, isn't it?"
"How so?"
"Because House Barbatos and Astaroth are very strong," he said. "And they have many allies. So if one house is attacked, their allies will come. And the other house will call theirs. Then a chain reaction starts and a huge war begins."
"Perhaps," she said, releasing a quiet sigh. "But none of the great houses desire war. It is very unlikely."
"But that is not entirely true, is it?" he said.
She had no simple answer. There were always those who craved chaos and blood. Meron Naberius foremost among them, the one who had added fuel to the conflict between both houses.
Previously, it might have been possible to pacify House Barbatos through negotiation or force. Now, with another pillar house supporting them, and one as vicious as Naberius, that option had vanished.
After Meron's declaration, many lords, both great and lesser, had found the courage to oppose House Astaroth openly.
"One day, I will become so strong that I will convince the great lords to never fight again," Millicas declared.
"And why would you want that?"
"Because both Papa and Mama are very worried," he said. "They don't like war, so I will become so strong that there will never be another war again."
The sincerity in his voice tightened something in her chest.
"Well, your father is very strong," she said. "The strongest devil to ever live, in fact. Yet even he cannot end all wars. Why do you think that is?"
"Because there are others stronger than him?" he said, unsure.
"No," she corrected. "There are very few as strong as your father. However, there are problems that strength alone cannot resolve."
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Haruki ni-sama said that if you are not solving your problems with power, then you are simply not using enough of it."
Corrupting my grandson, she thought. That troublesome boy.
"Let me put it this way," she said, her tone measured. "Imagine an heir of a great house is assassinated in the territory of another great house. One house accuses the other of murder and deliberate assassination. The other denies all accusations. The aggrieved house seeks redress by attacking their territory, and the accused house must retaliate or lose standing. War becomes inevitable. How would you solve this if you were as strong as you wish to be?"
Millicas thought for a moment. "I would investigate and find out who killed the heir. Then execute him to make amends."
"An eye for an eye. Very clever," she said, mildly amused. "That would normally resolve such issues. However, these two houses have longstanding hatred for each other. One refuses to execute its member as compensation, or the other considers the price of only one life insufficient. Each seeks the other's destruction. What would you do then?"
Venelana took note of the boy's silence. His hands were folded in his lap now, his earlier carelessness replaced by thoughtfulness. He was clever enough to recognize the problem she had placed before him, yet still too young to understand its true weight.
"I would force them to stop," Milicas said at last. "If I were strong enough, I would make both houses sit down and talk until they agreed."
A predictable answer from a child who believed strength was a universal solvent.
"And if they refuse?" she asked. Her voice remained soft, but she let the cold pressure beneath it settle over him. "If they spit in your face and call you unworthy of authority? If one house believes yielding would stain their honor, and the other believes compromise would expose them to humiliation? If both consider peace a greater defeat than death?"
The boy's small shoulders tensed. "Then… then I would punish them."
"For what?" she pressed.
"For being stubborn."
A quiet exhale left her. He had inherited his father's simplicity in moral instinct, at least when Sirzechs was younger. Admirable in a battlefield commander. Disastrous in a statesman.
"Punishment is meaningless to people who believe pride is worth dying for," she said. "And it is entirely ineffective when both sides would rather be destroyed than seen as weak."
Milicas looked genuinely unsettled now. He was beginning to see the scale of it. Good. Better he learn this now, under her guidance, than later when a misstep could ignite politics into bloodshed.
"So what should be done?" he asked. "If talking doesn't work and power doesn't work, then what stops the war?"
"Preparation," Venelana answered. "Negotiation and leverage. The slow and careful work that prevents conflict long before it begins." Her tone sharpened. "Strength is a tool, Milicas. It's not the answer to everything. And it's useless when the minds involved have already chosen their path."
She watched him absorb that. His spine straightened slightly, the posture no longer careless. Good. He was teachable, even under Haruki's unfortunate influence.
"So sometimes," he said, "you can't solve it at all?"
"Sometimes," she agreed, "the only available outcome is loss. The art lies in choosing which loss harms your people least."
"Then why do devils fight so much? If everyone loses?"
"That," she said, "is what pride does to our kind. Pride clouds judgment and convinces even intelligent men that yielding is death. Pride makes an entire House destroy itself rather than admit error. It is the one thing strength cannot suppress."
She adjusted his collar, more out of habit than necessity, then held his gaze.
"Haruki Yamashiro's is great and brilliant," she continued, "but even he cannot change the fact that some devils will never listen to reason, and can never be forced into obedience without consequences that ripple for generations."
Milicas nodded slowly. "So… if I want to stop wars, I need more than strength."
"Yes." Her voice softened, though the discipline remained. "You will need judgment. Patience. And the ability to see what people value most, so you may guide them without crushing them. Even fools have uses, if one understands where their value lies."
He blinked at that. "Haruki ni-sama said fools only get in the way."
"Haruki," Venelana said coolly, "is brilliant. But brilliance is not the same as wisdom. He speaks from the perspective of a lone prodigy who answers to no one. You, however, are born into responsibility. The son of Lucifer does not have the luxury of Haruki's worldview."
Milicas absorbed every word. Good. Even young, he understood the weight of titles.
"Then one day," he said with new determination, "I will become someone who can judge wisely."
"That," Venelana said, laying a hand on his shoulder with controlled affection, "is far more important than becoming someone who can break mountains."
He looked up at her. "And that will stop wars?"
"It will prevent some," she answered. "And delay others. Which is often the only victory possible."
The boy fell quiet. Thoughtful, as he needed to be.
She allowed herself a small, private satisfaction. Haruki Yamashiro might have planted dangerous ideas in the boy's mind, but she would shape them into something useful.
Strength without wisdom was a calamity. But strength refined by judgment, pride tempered by foresight. That could change the course of their world.
"I still think Haruki ni-sama is cool," Milcas said in defiance, a mischievous gleam in his eyes that both amused and exasperated her.
She had begun to formulate a reply, poised to lecture him on the subtleties of power and prudence, when the world itself seemed to fracture beneath them.
A violent jolt seized the train, hurling carriages like they were made of paper. The screeching metal of the tracks gave way to the chaos of snapping beams and shattered glass as the carriage was torn from its rails.
The world tumbled into darkness, the familiar hum of the engine replaced by the roar of twisting metal and the screaming wind as the train plummeted into the wilderness below. Venelana's instincts, honed over centuries, took over as she clutched Milcas to her chest, bracing for the inevitable impact.
When the carriage came to a halting crash, the air thick with smoke and the acrid tang of fire, Venelana forced herself to rise, her body aching but her resolve unshaken. She lost Milcas. Her eyes scanned the wreckage, seeking her grandson, heart pounding with instinctual fear.
Before she could take a step forward, a brutal force struck her from behind, driving her to the ground with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. She rolled instinctively, attempting to leverage her strength, but the weight pressing upon her back was unyielding, and a manic laughter cut through the smoke and chaos.
Venelana's eyes narrowed as she glimpsed twelve dark wings fanning the ruined space- a fallen angel, she realized at once, yet unlike any she had ever encountered.
The raw intensity of the being pressed against her as she unleashed destructive power from every fiber of her body, coating the wreckage and the surrounding wilderness in an aura of annihilation she had mastered over lifetime.
Her attacks, though fast and precise, collided with nothing but air; the creature moved with impossible speed, dodging her assaults with the grace of a feline. Her attack tore through the forest instead, reducing trees and steel fragments to ash.
She turned sharply, searching. He was no longer on the ground.
He hovered above her, twelve wings spread wide. Millicas hung limp in his arms, unconscious and utterly defenseless. The fallen angel stared down at her with a dispassionate, almost bored expression.
Her breath caught.
"Kokabiel," She whispered.
The face she recognized immediately. She had negotiated with him before the current peace. He had always been a volatile creature, ambitious to the point of madness… but he had never possessed twelve wings.
He had been a ten-winged cadre, nothing more. Yet the aura pouring off him now was on par with the Seraphim themselves.
Impossible.
How had he acquired this strength? And why here, now?
"Hello there, Lady Gremory," Kokabiel intoned, offering a mocking bow. "You look well, but not for long."
He did not move his arm. He did not shift his stance. Yet his hand rose skyward in the blink of an eye, faster than her senses could track.
A second hand caught his wrist.
"Stop," commanded a woman's voice.
She appeared beside him in an instant. Hooded from head to toe, her presence concealed as if shrouded by deliberate sorcery. Venelana could not see her face. She could barely sense her aura. Only the faintest pressure betrayed her strength.
Kokabiel snarled in annoyance. "Do not interfere."
"We have taken what we came for," the woman said. "There is no need for further bloodshed."
"Tch," he muttered, grudgingly. "You spoil my fun. But fine, have it your way"
And then, as effortlessly as he had arrived, he released Milcas from his grasp, opening a swirling portal that swallowed them both. The hooded woman followed, her presence a calm yet unyielding shadow at Kokabiel's side.
Venenalana remained in the aftermath, her robes scorched, her body bruised, the train wreckage smoldering around her, wilderness aflame with the chaos of the attack. Each breath she drew was measured, though beneath the composure seethed a mad fury.
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