Chapter 95: Midnight Shadows and Firelit Revelries
Chapter 95: Midnight Shadows and Firelit Revelries
The moon hung low in the blackened sky, silver light spilling across jagged rooftops and glinting against the curling spires of the demon king’s castle. Zorathys stood on the highest rooftop, his body wrapped in the soft folds of pyjamas, a sleeping hat perched crookedly on his head.
The pyjamas were decorated with printings of himself sleeping in the air with his body pillow.
The pyjamas had been a gift from one of the demons in the realm, and he liked it a lot. It was comfortable to sleep in.
One hand clutched his enormous body pillow, its fabric slightly rumpled from his nightly affection, while his legs were adorned in fuzzy slippers that slid slightly against the slanted roof tiles. A yawn, loud and unabashed, escaped him, echoing across the night.
His long black hair streamed behind him, twisting with the wind as if alive, the faint red glint of his earrings catching the moonlight and swaying with every gust.
Far from him, at the farthest part of the roof—where even the gargoyles who were supposed to be there had disappeared, choosing to protect their lives by moving to a different part of the roof—stood Ignivar and Naviel.
Both wore the precise, unyielding lines of corporate demon attire—tailored suits in sharp black and crimson, polished shoes reflecting the faint light of the moon—but they looked absurdly formal next to Zorathys, whose loose pyjamas contrasted sharply with their disciplined postures.
Zorathys gave them a half-lidded gaze, one that could have sliced steel if he had wanted, though tonight his eyes held only faint amusement.
"Why are you two so far from me?" he asked, voice lazy yet commanding. "Didn’t you tell Firefly that we are all friends?"
Ignivar groaned audibly, a low, frustrated sound, and cast a sharp glance at Naviel, who flinched.
"You should not have said that," Ignivar spat, irritation heavy in his voice.
Naviel bowed his head slightly. "I know that now," he admitted softly.
Naviel had told the queen that he, Ignivar, and Zorathys were friends, and now Zorathys was using that against them.
Zorathys yawned again, the gesture languid and deliberate. "I can hear you," he murmured, stretching slightly and letting the breeze play over his hair.
Ignivar cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. "Perhaps... you could forgive us for that?" he asked, voice carefully measured.
Zorathys tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Forgive?" he murmured. "What needs forgiving? That you were right all along? That we are friends? Friends who work together?"
Both Ignivar and Naviel exhaled heavily. The words carried a silent weight: yes, they had been right—but that meant more work now.
It wouldn’t be different from what they had been doing before... no, they shook their heads. It could be worse. This was Zorathys, after all.
Before Ignivar could process the thought further, his entire expression shifted. His sharp eyes widened slightly. "He’s... there," he whispered.
Zorathys’ smile widened, slow and predatory. "Then we have a party to attend," he said casually.
Immediately, black shadows stretched outward from him, curling and twisting like smoke made solid, engulfing the three demons.
Naviel held his breath instinctively, grimacing. Motion sickness from shadow travel had been a persistent problem for him, yet he had no choice tonight. Ignivar didn’t suffer from the same thing, though.
In an instant, the shadows lifted them, and the cold, dark air of the rooftop gave way to the oppressive heat of the Fire Territory. The world here was a living inferno.
Lava pooled and flowed in molten rivers across black volcanic rock, steam curling into the sky in chaotic plumes. The air shimmered with heat, and the smell of sulfur and burning stone was omnipresent. Meteors, some small, some large, fell from the crimson sky, leaving brief trails of fire before sinking into the molten rivers.
One in particular, hurtling like a comet, aimed directly at Zorathys. It slowed as it neared him, inexplicably hesitating, and then veered sharply to the farthest edge of the hellfire territory, landing with a deafening crash in a lava pit that sent molten sprays in every direction.
Zorathys walked casually atop flowing lava as if it were solid ground, his fuzzy slippers making no sound. The heat radiated against him, yet he appeared completely unaffected. Naviel, to his eternal discomfort, forced himself onto the scorched ground beside the lava, sweating and shifting to avoid burning himself while silently cursing the fiery terrain.
He hated the heat and preferred when they had work to do in the water realm instead.
This was Ignivar’s territory, and he was one with fire, so he didn’t feel anything at all either.
Ahead, a massive, ominous structure loomed—the party’s location. The castle was a chaotic masterpiece of hellish architecture, massive stone towers twisting like blackened thorns against the fiery horizon. Windows glowed with an amber light, flickering like trapped flames, and gargantuan gates carved with molten runes marked the entrance. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from the spiked rooftops, carrying the scent of exotic spices, roasted meats, and the faint, tangy perfume of demons in their finery. Music thumped even from a distance, a heavy, vibrating pulse that carried on the heated wind.
The party was in full swing. Demons of every conceivable kind swayed to the rhythm, their bodies reflecting the heat of the Fire Realm, their movements sinuous and hypnotic. Wings fluttered, tails lashed, and claws tapped against the obsidian floors in time with the music. Even Zorathys hummed along with the tune, a low, contented sound, and the sharpness of Ignivar’s hairs on end testified to the hypnotic danger inherent in the king’s subtle gestures.
The doors of the main hall opened with a creak that rang across the lava, and the three demons were drawn inside. The scents of rich food, warm fire, and unrestrained revelry collided, overwhelming the senses. A man sat at the head of a grand table, carved from a single block of black obsidian, adorned with crimson cushions. Around him, men and women of various demon species danced and laughed.
Music vibrated under the floorboards, and firelight played across faces, flickering over grins and sharp teeth.
Zorathys guided himself to the table, taking a seat at the head, beside the man, unbothered by the chaos around him. Immediately, the music stopped, though the host remained blissfully unaware that the shift had occurred. The room seemed to bend subtly to Zorathys’ presence—the shadows around him coiling like sentinels, quieting the revelers in unconscious respect.
The man holding court raised his glass to deliver a joke to the demons nearby, unaware of the subtle manipulation occurring. The audience froze, rooted to the spot, as Zorathys casually intervened. With a faint smile, he tilted his hand, and the drink spun slightly in midair, unseen, before the host unwittingly drank from it. Laughter followed, rich and full, oblivious to the invisible hand that had turned the glass.
"Another," the man demanded eagerly, still laughing. But Zorathys yawned, the sound leisurely and melodious. He leaned back, hugging his enormous body pillow with a content sigh, and allowed the hand that had adjusted the glass to rest.
"My hand is tired," he said lightly, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable edge. "From just turning that one drink."
The host stopped mid-laugh, shock widening his eyes as he glanced at Zorathys.
He could not believe his ears. It was the king’s voice, and that meant only one thing: he was doomed.
Zorathys wiggled his fingers with a serene smile, snuggling his pillow closer, perfectly at ease amid the swirling chaos of fire, demons, and revelry.
"Hi, Lord Castellan," Zorathys said to the man.