Chapter 1003: Gone [Part 1]
Chapter 1003 – Gone [Part 1]
"Another one is gone..." Kaelmor muttered.
The throne room became very quiet after that.
This was the kind of quiet that crawled under the skin.
Kaelmor sat upon the throne of Hell with one elbow resting against the armrest, his fingers curled around the carved obsidian edge so tightly that hairline fractures spread beneath his nails. The throne itself was old. Older than most houses liked to admit. It had been shaped from black stone, demon bone, and the pressure of too many dead kings. It was supposed to be unbreakable.
Yet beneath Kaelmor’s hand, it groaned.
His smile remained.
Kaelmor was not the sort of king who snarled in public, threw wine cups, or screamed until his throat went raw. That was for lesser demons. Warlords. Idiots with more muscle than theatre.
Kaelmor smiled when pleased.
He smiled when insulted.
He smiled when planning murder.
And most dangerously, he smiled when something inside him wanted to rip the room apart and paint the walls with the nearest unfortunate noble.
But today, the smile faltered.
Only slightly.
A twitch at the corner.
A flattening curve.
The demon kneeling before him noticed.
Poor thing.
It began trembling immediately.
"My king..." the messenger whispered, forehead nearly pressed to the black floor. "The trace is confirmed. The vessel is gone."
Kaelmor’s fingers tightened.
The throne cracked louder.
"I heard you the first time."
The messenger shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked.
Kaelmor leaned back.
Like a gentleman at a dinner table, not a king who had just felt one of his oldest sources of power vanish from the hidden architecture beneath his authority.
Aela.
His longest prisoner.
No. Not prisoner.
That word was irritatingly crude.
Prisoners required chains, cages, guards, punishments, endless maintenance.
Aela had been better than that.
Aela had stayed.
Willingly.
Or near enough that the distinction had been irrelevant.
The first elf had been his cleanest arrangement. The most stable. The others were crude by comparison, ancient beasts pinned under mountains, forgotten gods gnawing at their own bindings, mortal sovereign remnants locked inside cursed wells, dragon blood wrapped in sleep and obedience.
Useful, yes.
But messy.
Aela had been art.
A debt so beautiful it never needed a chain.
He had thought he would never lose her.
Kaelmor’s smile sharpened again. Which meant the opposite of calm.
"And the signature?"
The kneeling messenger swallowed. "Same as before, my king."
Kaelmor’s eyes narrowed.
The air pressure dropped.
Several candles along the wall bent inward, flames stretching toward him like frightened insects.
The messenger continued quickly, desperate to finish before death developed interest. "Unknown sovereign residue. Consumption trace. The vessel appears to have been... eaten."
A laugh escaped Kaelmor. Soft. Polite. But... utterly wrong. "Eaten."
Kaelmor slowly tilted his head. "How vulgar."
He rose from the throne.
Every demon in the room lowered their gaze immediately.
His coat settled around him in flawless black layers, red lining flashing faintly beneath the movement. His horns caught the throne room’s infernal light. His smile widened again, too clean, too bright, too much like a stage performer greeting an audience moments before burning the theatre down.
"Someone," Kaelmor said pleasantly, "has decided to be ambitious."
The messenger remained kneeling.
No one dared answer.
Kaelmor walked down the steps from his throne.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He had been busy.
Too busy.
That irritated him most.
He had spent the last several days composing the proper approach to Heaven. Not begging, of course. Kings did not beg. They presented opportunities. They offered structure. They stepped into chaos and called themselves order.
He had sent the proposal with exquisite wording.
Hell required a singular representative.
Not the Greed House’s charming little financial parasite with too many women, too many secrets, and the infuriating talent of making heavenly beings look at him as if he had invented sunlight with abs.
Kaelmor would be the only representative.
And Heaven...
Kaelmor’s smile twitched again.
Heaven declined.
Not rudely.
That would have been easier to punish.
They were polite. Formal. Maddeningly diplomatic.
Hell was currently too volatile. Too uncertain. Too internally unstable.
All future negotiations would be postponed until the situation became more conducive.
Kaelmor almost admired that last word.
It sounded so clean while meaning, ’We do not trust you.’
The angels had shut the gate in his face and smiled while doing it.
Worse, Heaven had not invited Lux to sit down together and ask why Kaelmor suddenly wanted to take over the responsibility Lux had been handling.
That would have been useful.
If Heaven had placed Lux and Kaelmor in the same room, Kaelmor could pressure him publicly. He could frame the takeover as Lux’s own willingness to hand over the burden. He could broadcast every word, every nod, every careful silence, and twist it into proof that Lux had stepped aside by choice.
But Lux was on vacation.
Worse, Lux had already broadcasted that fact after his one-week disappearance. He was officially on leave. Dragging a prince back from leave for political theatre, especially when Lux was not even the true CFO of Hell, only acting as his father’s replacement, would look desperate.
It would make everything worse.
But still...
Heaven had not opened the door to Lux either.
No chance for Kaelmor to corner him under celestial eyes.
And that irritated Kaelmor even more.
It meant Celestaria and her little council were not choosing him over Lux.
They were stepping back entirely.
And when gods waited, they usually had already smelled blood.
Then came the Shadow Corridor lords.
Kaelmor’s hand twitched.
The Shadow Corridor had always been useful because they were stagnant. Hidden. Petty. Proud of their secrecy. Their markets moved slowly, their territories remained buried beneath obscure routes, and their old lords clung to shadows because shadows made them feel ancient and important.
They were supposed to rot in their little dark corridors and occasionally sell information like rats with titles.
Instead, because of all this, they were rising again.
Showing themselves.
Stretching after too long in the dark.