POV: Serafall
What does it mean to be a magical girl?
Despite what certain cynical producers, morally bankrupt screenwriters, joyless critics, and one particular devil whose name Serafall would refrain from mentioning on the advice of her lawyers might have you believe, magical girls were not emotionally unstable child soldiers contracted into indentured servitude by suspiciously marketable woodland creatures.
A magical girl stood between despair and the person drowning inside it, armed with absurd awe-inspiring courage, ridiculous cool costumes, impossible promises, and the unwavering conviction that even the ugliest heart might still contain something worth saving. Serafall loved them for that. She loved the brightness, the pageantry, the declarations of friendship hurled into the face of monsters, and the refusal to accept that cruelty must have the final word. She had seen what happened when people surrendered to that finality.
During the Civil War, she had walked through cities where prisoners hung from gates as warnings and watched enemies and allies alike commit atrocities that still returned to her in dreams with every scream intact. The blood had come from every banner. Evil was easier to bear when one could place it safely on the other side of a line, but the war had taught her that cruelty crossed those lines freely, and some of the devils she had fought beside had carried darkness every bit as terrible as those she had sworn to defeat.
But what else could she expect? They were devils.
Perhaps the endless wars and cruelties of devilkind were simply the natural flowering of what he had planted in them. Serafall refused to believe it. If birth determined destiny, then every devil was condemned before drawing breath and every attempt to become better was theater performed by creatures incapable of escaping their maker's intention. Lucifer might have created their race but he did not earn the right to decide what they became.
That conviction found the strangest possible expression in Levi-tan. Serafall understood perfectly well how ridiculous the costume looked and heard the whispers about a Satan prancing around in ribbons and speaking about love while overseeing one of the most dangerous military powers in the world.
She wore the costume anyway. Magical girls appealed to the part of her that had survived everything Hell had shown her, because they refused to let monsters determine the terms upon which goodness was allowed to exist. Serafall had killed enough people to know that redemption was rarely clean, safe, or deserved. Some souls rejected every hand offered to them, and mercy given carelessly could become cruelty toward the innocent. She knew all of that, and still she believed the attempt mattered.
To redeem the irredeemable had become the closest thing Serafall possessed to a private creed, because anyone already easy to love required very little courage from her. The true test came with those who had made themselves hateful, those who expected every offered hand to hide a knife because knives were all they had ever known. She wanted to prove, perhaps to Hell and perhaps to herself, that devilkind could choose what came after its creation.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Lady Leviathan."
The Devil arrived at midnight, which Serafall felt deserved to be noted as very much outside her official working hours, but she had only her own curiosity to blame for allowing the appointment in the first place. Then again, how was she supposed to ignore a letter bearing the seven-pointed star of House Beleth, especially when it contained a personal request for an audience from King Meruem Beleth himself? The young prodigy who might or might not be a future Super Devil and already had become one of the most talked-about figures in the Underworld, and Serafall would have been lying if she claimed that had not made her curious.
"When trouble comes calling, when Hell starts brawling, Levi-tan is always here to help her fellow devils through☆~" Serafall sang brightly, punctuating the little rhyme with a cheerful flourish of one hand. "Diplomatic crisis, catastrophic misunderstanding, or mildly awkward tea party between people who secretly want to kill one another, Levi-tan handles the whole package☆~ Although Levi-tan would like it officially recorded that midnight appointments should ideally come with cake☆"
"Well, I didn't have time to bake one, but I'll keep that in mind for the future," the devil replied with a chuckle.
Serafall stepped aside and allowed him into her office before gesturing toward one of the chairs facing her desk. Meruem was tall and slender, dressed in pale ceremonial robes threaded with black and gold that gave him the polished grandeur expected of a king while doing very little to hide how young he still was. His [King's Eye] was already active, bathing his crimson gaze in an almost hypnotic quality that complemented his handsome features rather unfairly.
"You know how to bake?" Serafall asked, genuinely surprised. High-class devils tended to regard ordinary domestic work as something servants existed to prevent them from ever learning.
"I don't," Meruem admitted with an easy smile, "but I would learn to bake just for you."
Shameless flirt☆~
"If you're starting with flattery this early, it must mean you need a huge favor from me," Serafall said, fixing him with an accusing look.
Meruem caught the humor in her tone and raised both hands in mock surrender. It was irritating how effortlessly charming he could become whenever he bothered to try.
"You wound me, Sera dear," he said playfully. "Can't I do something nice for a friend without harboring some sinister ulterior motive? House Sitri has been a steadfast ally of Beleth for centuries, and I have certainly never forgotten the honor of having my younger brother fostered beneath your family's roof."
He neglected to mention that Belathriel had been sent to House Sitri largely to place as much distance as possible between the boy and the torment inflicted by Meruem and the Fourth Queen. From the outside, Serafall supposed anyone watching them might assume she and Meruem were old friends enjoying a late-night reunion, though the truth was less flattering. She could count the number of times they had actually spoken on one hand, almost all of them at formal gatherings, but among the Four Satans she was still probably the one most acquainted with him, using the word acquainted in the loosest possible sense.
"Oh, Belathriel-chan was an absolute model ward! A little too quiet for my taste, since I could never persuade him to practice magical-girl poses with me, but my mother absolutely adored his manners☆~" Serafall replied, amusement glinting in her eyes before she gestured toward his gaze. "Do you always keep your King's Eye active?"
"Alpha Stigma," Meruem corrected, much to her confusion. "King's Eye sounds painfully bland, so I renamed my visual prowess Alpha Stigma. It sounds much cooler, don't you think?"
Serafall did not.
She also noticed that he had very neatly avoided answering the question.
"Whatever pleases you, Your Majesty," she said neutrally. "I don't suppose you came to seek my advice regarding the nomenclature of your ocular abilities."
"Unfortunately not," Meruem said, glancing around her office before his gaze lingered briefly on one of the framed magical-girl illustrations mounted beside the bookshelves. "I came because I would like to conduct business with the Greek pantheon."
Serafall folded her hands on the desk and regarded him with renewed interest, the playful smile remaining in place even as her thoughts shifted into the far less colorful style of diplomacy.
"Business with Olympus covers quite a lot of ground, Meru-chan☆~ The Greeks have gods for practically everything. Are we talking trade, magical artifacts, or have you somehow managed to offend Zeus already and come here hoping Levi-tan can prevent a thunderbolt-related diplomatic incident?"
"Nothing quite that entertaining," Meruem replied. "I need access to two specific substances. Water from the River Lethe, and water from the spring of Mnemosyne."
"That's a very unusual shopping list."
"So I've been told."
"You do know what those waters actually are, yes?" she asked, leaning forward slightly. "Lethe flows through Hades and is a water of forgetfulness. It's said that souls preparing for reincarnation drink from it so the memories of their earthly lives are washed away before they return to the world. Mnemosyne is a sacred spring belonging to the Titaness of memory, and fortunate souls are allowed to drink from Mnemosyne so they could preserve knowledge and remembrance beyond death." She tilted her head, studying him carefully now. "Which naturally raises the question of why a seventeen-year-old devil king suddenly needs access to substances capable of tampering with memory at the level of the soul."
Meruem gave her an easy smile. "Research."
Serafall stared at him. "Research," she repeated.
"Very important research."
"Mm-hmm."
"Potentially revolutionary research."
"That somehow becomes less reassuring every time you add another adjective☆~"
Meruem chuckled. "I can't give you the details yet. The project is sensitive, and there are people I would prefer not to know what I am working on until I understand whether the idea is even viable. I can assure you, however, that I'm not planning to poison the drinking water of Lilith and erase everyone's childhood."
"That possibility had not actually occurred to me until you mentioned it."
Serafall sighed softly, though amusement still tugged at the corners of her mouth. Meruem was charming when he wanted something, which she suspected was precisely why he made her instinctively count the silverware whenever he smiled too pleasantly. Still, the request itself was serious enough that she set aside the teasing for the moment.
"The Lethe is going to be the difficult part," she said. "Very difficult, actually. The river runs directly through Hades, which means any legitimate attempt to acquire its water places us under Hades's jurisdiction. He guards his realm jealously, and he does not enjoy outsiders treating anything within it as a commodity they can simply purchase."
"I expect a cold reception."
"You should assume worse," Serafall continued. "Hades is aloof, proud, and generally uninterested in devil affairs. His relationship with our race has never been particularly warm, and depending upon which century you ask about, 'coldly indifferent' may be the most charitable description available. Not to mention the Evil Pieces…He has very little incentive to provide a devil with something drawn from one of the foundational rivers of his realm."
Meruem rested one elbow against the arm of his chair. "And Mnemosyne?"
"That should be easier," Serafall said. "Mnemosyne herself is far more approachable than Hades. If you offer her something worthwhile, I doubt arranging a trade for some of her water will be especially difficult."
She tapped one finger lightly against the desk while turning the problem over in her mind. The diplomatic route was possible. Difficult, expensive, and potentially humiliating, but possible. The Underworld maintained formal channels with most major pantheons, and her office had handled Greek correspondence often enough that she could open a line without causing alarm. Hades himself was another problem.
"I can arrange contact," Serafall said at last. "I need to be very clear about what that means, though. I can send a formal request through the proper channels, invoke your rank, explain that House Beleth seeks a private commercial audience, and emphasize that the Four Satans have no objection to the meeting taking place. I may even be able to convince the Greek side that hearing you out is preferable to letting you find some creative unofficial route into their territory."
Meruem opened his mouth to object, paused, then tilted his head with an expression that said, fair enough.
Serafall smiled sweetly. "My point is that I can open the door for you, Meruem-chan☆~ I cannot promise Hades will walk through it. I certainly can't promise he will sell you anything."
"That's fine." Meruem gave a small shrug. "I'm not asking you to negotiate the purchase for me or place the Underworld's reputation behind my request. I only need an introduction, preferably a direct audience, but formal correspondence would suffice if Hades refuses to meet in person. Everything else will fall entirely upon my shoulders."
"Hades has no wants for material compensation. He may refuse any price."
Meruem smiled. "Everything has a price, Lady Leviathan. Wealth is simply the least imaginative form of payment."
Serafall watched him for a moment, and there it was again, that uncomfortable sense that the young devil sitting across from her had spent far too much of his short life learning how to make impossible things easy. Still, he had approached her properly, requested diplomatic assistance rather than trespassing into another pantheon's domain, and accepted responsibility for whatever bargain followed. She could hardly complain when a devil actually used her office for its intended purpose.
"Fine," she said at last. "I will contact the Greek diplomatic mission and request an audience on behalf of House Beleth. I'll frame it as a private commercial and scholarly matter so Olympus doesn't assume the Satans are secretly trying to buy pieces of the Underworld under their feet." Her smile returned, bright and mischievous. "In exchange, Levi-tan demands one thing☆~"
Meruem narrowed his eyes with theatrical suspicion. "You said you were always here to help."
"And I am☆~ Helping still allows for administrative fees."
"What will the fee be?" he asked curiously.
He met her gaze with effortless calm, and something about those crimson eyes sent an embarrassingly small flutter through her chest. Serafall Leviathan was powerful. Scratch that, she was absurdly powerful. If she ever lost her temper badly enough, she could plunge an entire nation into an ice age on a whim, and that sort of strength brought with it the rather inconvenient habit of being idolized by half the Underworld.
Devils were creatures of power and tended to revere those who possessed enough of it, and as the most powerful female devil alive, Serafall had spent centuries being placed upon pedestals she had never asked for. Far too many people saw Leviathan the Satan, and few were interested in Serafall the woman. It was one of the reasons she remained single after all these years. Being so powerful did dreadful things to one's dating pool, especially when one happened to be a hopeless romantic who wanted that wonderfully embarrassing sort of love sung about in magical-girl endings, rather than purely carnal pleasure.
Which was why Meruem's gaze intrigued her. There was none of the breathless adoration like the devils who practically worshipped the ground beneath her heels, nor the barely concealed lust of those who fantasized about reducing the great Leviathan into their personal little cockslave.
…Admittedly, what she saw in Meruem's eyes was not especially flattering. He looked at her the same way he might have looked at an insect to dissect. But Serafall had observed enough of him to realize this was simply how Meruem looked at the world. Lords or commoners, they all seemed to begin from roughly the same level in his mind. And that, if nothing else, made him interesting.
"You're zoning out, my lady," Meruem said with obvious amusement. "You were telling me your price for services rendered, if you recall."
Serafall blinked once, then immediately straightened in her chair with all the dignity of a Satan who had absolutely not spent the last several seconds studying the eyes of a teenage devil king and wondering why she found his complete lack of reverence refreshing.
"Levi-tan does not zone out☆~ Levi-tan performs highly sophisticated internal diplomatic calculations that occasionally require staring into the middle distance." She reached beneath the papers stacked beside her desk and produced a thick bundle bound with a pink ribbon, placing it before him with ceremonial gravity. "And since you asked so politely, my administrative fee is very simple. I want your professional opinion on this."
Meruem stared at the bundle. "What is it?"
"The script for the next season of Magical Girl Levi-tan☆~"
There was a pause long enough for Serafall to enjoy herself. Meruem stared at the manuscript. Then he stared at her. Then he picked it up without complaint, leaned back into his chair, and began reading with such concentration that Serafall's triumphant grin slowly faded into confusion. His eyes moved over the pages at an absurd pace, one sheet turning after another while his expression shifted between mild interest, thoughtful disapproval, and occasional disbelief.
She poured him wine meanwhile, which he accepted wordlessly. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Serafall found herself watching him with increasing suspicion as he crossed one leg over the other and continued through dialogue, transformation sequences, monster descriptions, emotional climaxes, and the obscene twenty-three-page outline for Levi-tan's new winter costume. By the time he reached the final page, placed the manuscript neatly upon the desk, and folded his hands over it, Serafall had developed the uncomfortable feeling of a student awaiting examination results from a particularly judgmental professor.
"Well?" Serafall pressed, leaning across her mahogany desk, her purple twintails bouncing with frantic energy. "What do you think, Meru-chan? The power of friendship completely overwrites the villain's tragic backstory, and then they all sing a song together! It's flawless! It's pure hope!"
Meruem slowly let out a long, heavy breath, setting his porcelain wine glass back down with a sharp clink. When he looked at her, his charming and hypnotic crimson eyes were filled with disgust.
"How do I put this? It is, without a doubt, a banal piece of cliché trash," Meruem said smoothly, leaning back and resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "It's an absolute insult to the concept of narrative integrity. I am frankly astonished that a Satan of the Underworld spends her time writing such mind-numbing, idealistic rambling. No one over the age of five can possibly take it seriously."
"Hey!" Serafall shrieked, slamming her hands onto her desk.
"The Friendship Aurora Cannon is especially offensive." Meruem continued with increasing enthusiasm, apparently enjoying himself now. "You spend eleven episodes establishing that the Empress of Despair has consumed entire civilizations, transformed children into emotional livestock, and personally engineered the extinction of a species because their songs annoyed her. Then Levi-tan discovers that she was lonely as a child, hugs her, and suddenly the woman collapses weeping because nobody ever asked whether she needed a friend. I don't even understand how anyone can write this with a serious face."
"You absolute philistine!" Serafall slowly placed both palms against her desk. "The point is that nobody becomes evil in a vacuum☆~ It's meant to show that people can change, that despair doesn't define anyone forever, and that compassion has power precisely because cruelty is easy. Of course Levi-tan believes in redemption. What kind of miserable sewer creature watches a magical-girl show hoping the heroine solves every emotional conflict by decapitating somebody?"
"Did the families of the six billion dead receive invitations to the redemption party?"
"That's such an ugly way to phrase it." Serafall gasped as though he had slapped her. "My show has won seven Golden Baphomets, three Lilith Awards, and the Children's Cultural Foundation's highest commendation, you overeducated little gargoyle☆~ Love, friendship, hope, forgiveness, and believing in people even when they have stopped believing in themselves… Those are foundational magical-girl themes"
"And that's precisely why the genre is completely stagnant and boring," Meruem replied, his irritation giving way to the dangerous enthusiasm of someone who had unexpectedly discovered a subject he genuinely cared about. "The trope played straight is a dead art form, Serafall. This nonsensical idea that an all-loving hero can simply smile away centuries of systemic corruption, bloodlines, and deep-seated trauma through the 'power of friendship' is both childish and insulting to anyone with a modicum of intellect. It completely ignores the nature of power, and refuses to engage with its own themes in a mature manner. Real life, much like the Underworld, doesn't bend to a colorful monologue and a sparkly wand. There is a reason why your show is considered a children show. The genre desperately needs a modern, realistic touch. It needs to look into the mirror and face the consequences of its own absurd premises."
Serafall's jaw dropped. She stared at him, absolutely flabbergasted by how passionately he was tearing down her entire life's passion. "A newer touch? What could possibly be better than absolute happiness and justice?!"
"Depth, realism, and deconstruction," He answered seamlessly, a genuine spark of interest finally appearing in his charismatic eyes. "Which is exactly why I completely prefer Lady Grimm's shows over your redundant nonsense. Lady Grimm actually understands the psychological weight of possessing power. Her work is a masterful deconstruction of everything you blindly worship."
Lady Grimm!
Of all the names he could have invoked, he had chosen that one.
Serafall's greatest creative rival, professional grave robber of cheerful tropes, and the filthiest old she-devil ever to discover that putting adorable girls through elaborate psychological torture could attract an older demographic. Lady Grimm possessed one true artistic talent, as far as Serafall was concerned, and that was taking concepts other people had already made beautiful and coating them in sufficient blood, despair, nihilism, and philosophical jargon that critics began applauding the resulting corpse. Worse, her shows had become increasingly popular among older devils, particularly those tiresome nobles who regarded enjoying anything uncomplicated as evidence of intellectual inferiority, and that wrinkled menace never missed an opportunity during interviews or award ceremonies to remind Serafall of the ratings.
And now Meruem preferred her work.
That felt personal.
He leaned forward, his expression becoming intensely captivating as he launched into a passionate defense of his apparently favorite creator, and Serafall could only stare at the shameless brat while her patience began suffering a quiet and dignified death.
"Lady Grimm's takes the familiar magical girl ideals, and then asks what those ideals cost when the world refuses to cooperate. In Ashes of the Starlight Maiden, the protagonist spends half the series believing that compassion can redeem every corrupted familiar, then encounters one who genuinely enjoys causing pain and possesses no hidden wound begging to be healed. She has to decide whether preserving her moral purity matters more than allowing innocent people to die. Lady Grimm actually interrogates what friendship means when dependence becomes dangerous."
"Yes, I remember Ashes of the Starlight Maiden." Serafall crossed her arms. "Fourteen episodes of adolescent misery followed by a finale where the blue-haired girl murders her best friend because 'love can become possession.' Very subtle. I nearly choked on the symbolism☆~Lady Grimm enjoys kicking puppies and calling it thematic complexity☆~"
"It's brilliant." Meruem defended. "It acknowledges that power is never free, and that absolute altruism is a myth. Hers is the only magical girl media worth watching."
Serafall's face went through three distinct shades of red before settling on an expression of absolute, unadulterated fury. She lunged over her desk, pointing a trembling, angry finger right at his face, her magical aura flaring so hard that small snowflakes began to drift through the warm office air.
"You take that back, you cynical little edge-prince☆~" Serafall ranted, her voice hitting a high-pitched octave of pure outrage. "Of course hope fails sometimes! That is why choosing it matters. If kindness worked every time, it would not require courage. Lady Grimm is just a miserable, bitter old lady who completely hates happiness! She takes beautiful, innocent young girls who just want to help people, throws them into a meat grinder of endless misery, and calls it art! That's completely missing the entire point of the Maho Shojo concept!"
She stomped her foot on the floor, her twintails whipping around violently. "The whole reason people love magical girls is because they provide a beacon of hope when everything else is completely dark! If you take away the love, and you take away the happy endings, and you just replace it with pain, suffering, and existential horror, then it's not a magical girl show anymore! It's just a tragedy disguised in a skirt! Lady Grimm doesn't understand the concept at all! She's just a joy-killing monster, and you're a cold-blooded nerd for agreeing with her!"
Meruem sat completely still as she breathed heavily, waiting for her to finish her massive tirade. Slowly, a devastatingly charming, smug smirk crept across his face.
"And yet," the Meruem murmured, his eyes twinkling with absolute amusement, "Lady Grimm's ratings among the high-class Devils are currently higher than yours. It seems the Underworld prefers a bit of reality over your fairy tales, my dear Satan. And besides you asked for my opinion."
Serafall watched him with narrowed eyes as he adjusted the folds of his robe, infuriatingly pleased with himself.
"Yes, and Levi-tan has learned a valuable lesson☆~" she declared. "Next time I want constructive criticism, I will ask someone with joy in their heart."
"Then you will only receive compliments."
"Compliments are constructive when they make me happy☆~!"
"That explains several seasons."
She could scarcely reconcile the deranged young devil who had once burned a fellow devil in holy water, crowned himself amid screaming and war, and seemed to regard brutality as spectacle, with the boy now sitting across from her and arguing about magical-girl shows with genuine enthusiasm. Serafall knew perfectly well that monsters could be charming, that madness could wear a beautiful smile and speak with perfect manners, but she refused to accept that this alone made him beyond redemption, that some invisible line had already been crossed and all that remained was to wait for the inevitable descent.
No. She could not believe that.
Who prayed for the devil, after all? Who, in ten thousand years, had possessed enough common compassion to spare a prayer for the sinner who needed it most? Serafall could not share Sirzechs's ease in looking at Meruem and seeing only the surviving shadow of a barbaric age. She saw a young man of terrifying power, yes, one capable of terrible things, yet also one still unfinished, still full of choices he had not made and virtues no one had bothered to cultivate. If there was even a fragment of good in him, then someone ought to nurture it before the rest of Hell taught him that cruelty was the only language worthy of strength.
POV: Latia Astaroth
The high harp was an instrument clearly designed by someone intimate with the sin of lust. There was something indecently intimate about drawing music from strings with naked fingers, feeling each vibration travel through the fingertips and into the bones while the sound lingered in the air after the hand had already moved on. The piece she played that afternoon was an old one, The Lament of Astarte, composed during the last years of the Great War for an opera whose theatre had burned with its audience still inside, which Latia considered the sort of history that made a song worth remembering.
She sat before the tall harp in her chambers with one leg crossed over the other, her blond hair falling loose over her shoulders, and let herself disappear into the melody. Music was among the few pleasures that had resisted becoming dull. A skilled composer understood that pleasure depended upon anticipation, and Latia had gradually come to suspect that the great defect of her life was how little anticipation it contained.
She was a branch daughter of House Astaroth, beautiful and talented enough to attract proposals, and smart enough to understand precisely how little any of those things changed her station and more importantly her mood. Her future had been written before she learned to read. She would marry advantageously when Lord Astaroth judged the bargain worthwhile, produce children of respectable blood, and spend the centuries afterward being praised for how gracefully she had accomplished what was expected of her.
What a fucking tedious eternity that promised to be.
"My lady Latia." The servant waiting near her door bowed deeply when she finally allowed the last note to die. "Lord Astaroth requests your presence in his private office."
"Tell His Lordship I shall be there shortly," Latia answered, and the servant bowed again before withdrawing.
She rose from the harp bench and crossed to her mirror, where she spent several minutes arranging herself into the version of Latia Astaroth appropriate for presentation before the head of her House. A dark dress replaced the lighter gown she had worn while practicing, jewels went into her ears and around her throat, her hair was brought into order, and a trace of perfume completed the transformation.
She made her own way through Astaroth Castle, passing galleries whose vaulted ceilings disappeared into painted heavens populated by devils, angels, dragons, and long-dead ancestors depicted with the heroic proportions their descendants had paid artists to give them.
Devil society had changed considerably since the Civil War, especially beneath the reformist Satans, but old blood remained old blood and hierarchy remained the favorite religion of Hell. A woman could command armies, become a Satan if she had Serafall's monstrous talent, and still find herself discussed at dinner as a prospective marriage alliance when her surname and womb became politically convenient.
Latia resented that reality. She wanted something carrying her own name upon it. A composition, a theatre, perhaps even a scandal magnificent enough that future generations would whisper about Latia Astaroth because of something Latia had actually done. She wanted the intoxicating instant before an audience applauded, when the theatre held its breath and one knew that every eye belonged to you. Power was ultimately the ability to determine the rhythm to which other people moved.
"Hi Latia ♡ ~"
She knew the voice before she turned, and the pleasure went out of her thoughts. Diodora Astaroth approached with that reptilian smile plastered on his face. As heir of the main line he outranked her by birth, and everyone in the castle understood what that meant even when nobody had the vulgarity to say it aloud.
Latia bowed as etiquette dictated. "Good evening, Lord Diodora."
"Beautiful as ever, cousin ♡ ~" Diodora said, moving close enough to crowd her against the wall with an intimacy she had neither invited nor welcomed. His hand settled possessively at her ass and squeezed her buttocks as his gaze traveled over her breast, and Latia felt irritation crawl beneath her skin while her expression remained beautifully composed. "You spend too much time hiding in those chambers with your harp these days♡ ~ People might start thinking you prefer strings to company, and that would be a terrible waste. You should come dine with me tonight."
Latia considered several answers that would have been tremendously satisfying and would earn her punishments. That was the difficulty with men who ranked higher and knew it. Diodora had talent and the expectation of eventual lordship, which gave his whims a weight her displeasure could scarcely challenge without consequence.
There were certain makings of a true devil in him, she supposed, but his manner lacked the quality that made genuine power exciting. Not like Meruem. For all his ego, Diodora had achieved nothing of his own. Meruem had returned from exile and made the Underworld rearrange itself around his existence through sheer force of will. Even Latia, who regarded hero worship as an intellectual disease, could not help but be wet at the thought of his crimson gaze.
"I'm certain your company would be unforgettable," Latia told Diodora pleasantly. "Your father has sent a servant specifically to fetch me, however, and I would hate to explain that I kept Lord Astaroth waiting because his heir decided his desires took precedence over a direct summons. You're welcome to explain that arrangement to him yourself, of course. I'm sure he would find the conversation fascinating."
Diodora's mouth tightened. His hand withdrew. "Tch. Go, then. We can discuss dinner later."
"I'll treasure the anticipation."
Latia continued walking and released the breath she had been holding throughout the encounter. The possibility of eventually becoming one of Diodora's wives had occurred to her often enough to acquire the texture of a recurring nightmare. Proposals had already arrived from lesser Houses and several respectable greater families. Lord Astaroth had rejected every offer with immaculate courtesy. He was preserving a valuable piece until the proper square opened upon the board. She wondered occasionally who would receive the great privilege of deflowering her cunt. The thought usually made her want to break something expensive.
Lord Astaroth's private office occupied the upper western tower, where the wealth of the House ceased bothering with modesty. The doors themselves were blackwood inlaid with gold, and beyond them stretched a large chamber, its floor covered by ancient carpets whose dyes had survived entire dynasties. Golden cabinets displayed relics from the Great War beside ceremonial weapons that had probably killed enough people to deserve names. Paintings filled the walls between tall windows, including portraits of the original Astaroth and successive heads of the House, and one immense canvas depicting Lucifer receiving the submission of conquered devil clans during the Unification Wars.
Lord Astaroth himself sat behind a broad desk of black marble veined with gold. His blond hair was immaculate, his blue eyes stern beneath a composed brow, an ideal devil lord.
"My lord," Latia said, bowing deeply. "You summoned me."
"Sit down, Latia."
Latia sat. Lord Astaroth returned to his writing, finishing several lines before sealing the document and handing it to the servant waiting beside him. "Have this delivered to Lord Agares before morning. You may leave us."
"Yes, my lord."
The servant departed, leaving them alone. Lord Astaroth waited until the doors had closed before drawing another letter from beneath a folio and laying it upon the desk between them.
Latia recognized the seal immediately.
A seven-pointed star.
"You will prepare yourself to leave for Beleth Castle at the end of this week. Queen Morena has requested your presence at court, and I have accepted on your behalf. You will reside there until circumstances require otherwise."
Latia stared at the royal seal for several moments before looking back toward him. "Queen Morena requested me personally, my lord?"
"The request came through a royal messenger this morning," Lord Astaroth replied, already arranging another stack of papers. "The Fourth Queen has begun considering the future of her son's household, particularly the question of a headwife when the appropriate time comes. She intends to gather suitable young ladies from the Pillar Houses into her household as her ladies-in-waiting."
Latia felt her eyebrows rise despite herself. "And Queen Morena intends for me to be among them."
"I am not sending you there to be just among them," Lord Astaroth said, his voice carrying the mild impatience of a man correcting a mathematical error. "House Astaroth was instrumental in his return from exile and Queen Morena remembers her debts. That's why she informed us of her intentions before invitations are extended to the other Pillar Houses - to give us time. By the day those other girls arrive, you should already be familiar with the Beleth household and, most importantly, its king."
Latia stared at the seal, and suddenly the afternoon had acquired a very different melody. "I am to be his wife then?"
"Not just a wife," Lord Astaroth corrected without hesitation. "Don't set your sight too low, Latia. You have the blood of Astaroth flowing through your veins. Anything less than the foremost position would be an inadequate result. All the other girls are your future rivals. You have been granted a head start, and I expect you to use it."
"But why all this theater, my lord?" Latia asked curiously. "Our House was the only Pillar House that supported Meruem's return from exile. I would've thought Queen Morena would repay that debt by offering her son's hand directly."
"Because Morena can't control the King," Lord Astaroth said impassively, as though the answer ought to have been obvious. "He is proud, willful, and powerful enough to disregard every social convention that inconveniences him. She may want the match, but she will not risk arranging his private life behind his back. As far as Meruem is concerned, our debt was already settled when he gave us the Ring of Power."
How thrilling. Meruem continued to defy every expectation Latia formed of him, and she could think of few things sexier than a man who danced entirely to his own music and possessed enough power to force everyone else to follow his rhythm or fuck off the dance floor.
"No matter," Lord Astaroth continued. "If this is the game Morena believes her son requires, then we shall indulge him and win it. You will enter his court as an irresistible eclipse. Be a siren of ether - let your grace become a labyrinth of comfort and moonlight from which his thoughts can find no escape. Learn everything there is to know about him, Latia. Then use that knowledge to become his newest obsession, a beautiful puzzle he can't resist trying to solve, until he loses himself in the attempt."
Latia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Lord Astaroth occasionally became intoxicated by his own rhetoric, a peculiar vanity of his that could transform instructions for seduction into something fit for the final act of an opera. At least he had taste.
"And if his preferences happen to be qualities I do not possess?"
Lord Astaroth finally looked directly at her, his blue eyes cool and utterly certain. "Then mold yourself until you possess them," he commanded. "I will not tolerate failure. You have until the end of this week to prepare."
Latia lowered her head. "I understand, my lord. I will give House Astaroth no reason to regret sending me."
"See that you do."
She returned to her chambers with her thoughts moving faster than her feet, dismissed her attendants, and began removing the jewelry and formal layers she had donned earlier before sinking into the steaming bath prepared for her. A strange heat settled low in her belly, and when she touched her cunt, she realized she was wet. Who knew being selected as breeding stock for a royal marriage could be so arousing?
She was an instrument of her House, and she despised that her opinion was not asked. But as warm water closed around her shoulders, Latia found herself smiling. There were worse cages than the court of the Lord of Rings, and cages sometimes contained doors for women clever enough to find them. Meruem Beleth stood upon a trajectory of unparalleled greatness. If she was expected to spread her legs for the advancement of House Astaroth, then she intended to make damned sure that whatever bed she climbed into stood close enough to a throne for her to reach the armrest.
She had seen the video of his coronation. The brutality of Dimora's fate should have repulsed her, and some surviving scrap of good sense did recoil at the thought of flesh blistering beneath holy water while a woman screamed herself hoarse. But horror came tangled with a darker sensation that Latia had enough self-awareness to recognize instantly, one that slipped beneath her disgust like a lover's hand beneath silk and curled warmly around her cunt.
Fuck, that was attractive.
Morally appalling, certainly, and probably evidence that some essential screw inside her head had worked itself loose years ago. Power had always been Latia's favorite aphrodisiac. It had an eroticism all its own to Latia, as though Meruem had reached across the Underworld, wrapped one hand around the throat of its social order like filthy whore, and squeezed until all those venerable old laws remembered who possessed the stronger fingers.
Perhaps Rias was right, there truly was something wrong with her. Where sensible women saw a warning to stay far away from Meruem, Latia found herself wondering what it would feel like to stand close enough to feel the heat.
Then there would be the competition, and that thought finally made her grin.
Other daughters would come. Beautiful ones, brilliant ones, daughters raised from childhood to smile correctly and dance perfectly. Latia would have to outplay them and establish herself at the center of a court where every woman understood exactly what prize lay before them. The prospect sent a thrill through her that months of comfortable monotony had failed to provide.
Delicious~ She almost wanted to kiss Queen Morena for arranging it. At last something had stained the colorless surface of her life. At last there was a stage worthy of performance, an audience difficult to impress, and a prize that could alter the course of her entire existence.
Latia leaned her head against the marble rim of the bath and began humming the opening melody of The Lament of Astarte, but the mournful cadence suddenly felt wrong for the occasion. This demanded something sharper, a composition full of dangerous intervals and unresolved chords. Life had finally changed key without warning and she intended to seize the melody before anyone else could decide how her part was meant to end.
AN: I originally wrote the Serafall part as a completely political and moral discussion between her and Meruem, similar to the conversation between Sirzechs and Meruem. About halfway through, though, I realized Serafall would never actually talk about such a boring topic so directly. So I had to completely rewrite it and make the conversation about something she'd actually talk about.
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