Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #12: The Iron Liver]

Log Date: 12/31/12763

Data Sources: Raikaron Syntaritov, Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

9:29pm SGT

Empty.

It was an odd feeling to have, especially for an occasion such as this. So much effort and work had gone into the preparation for this night. Not just on my part, but on the part of my staff, my lieutenants, and all others that had it in mind to attend. So much build-up, so much investment, you would think that there would be some emotional payoff. And in years prior, there had been.

But this year, all I felt was… strangely empty.

I run a thumb over the the bottle I have in hand. It’s unlabeled, identified only by the tag tied around its neck. Back in my native Dreaming, draughts like these would be endowed with beautiful labels; the label was almost as much a work of art as the draught inside it would be. But since I didn’t intend to sell any of the draughts I mixed, and these ones were only brewed for one-off use in the Iron Liver, I hadn’t bothered to commission labels for any of these draughts. There’s nothing but cool glass beneath my thumb, and the faint swirl of color behind that glass.

Why did I feel nothing?

“My Lord?”

I turn at the words. Danya is standing in the door to my study, dressed in an elegant flowing gown for the evening. Most of her hair is still kept back in her usual severe bun — an indication that she is still somewhat on duty tonight, in the role of hostess.

“Are the guests getting restless?” I ask, returning my attention to the bottle in my hands. “The invitation was quite clear. The proceedings begin half an hour from now.”

“They are settling nicely. They know you are punctual.” Danya says. “I was more concerned about you. You have been unusually withdrawn tonight; usually you are more gregarious at these functions.”

“Usually I am, though you know that such sociability on my part is engineered.” I agree, still holding the bottle as if it contained the answers to my questions. “I cannot feel anything, Danya; this does not excite me like it normally does. The thrill of grandstanding, of entertaining, it’s… not there this year. And I don’t know why.”

Danya’s brows draw together as she enters the study proper. “Unusual, doubtless, but perhaps now is not the time to ruminate on such anomalies. The contest is due to begin in half an hour; you must start preparing. This is not like our closed estate parties; there are other Lords here, Greater and Lesser both. Lust is already at her table; she brought Spite and Envy with her—”

“I am well aware, Danya.” I say, setting down the bottle on my mixing table as I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “High expectations, a crowd to impress, demon lords to entertain. Put on a smile and give them a show.” Dropping my glasses back into place on my face, I start to button the cuffs of my sleeves. “What do you think? Should I stick with the vest and waistcoat affair tonight, or should I go with a tailed tuxedo?”

“Tailed tuxedo. Sin-black on the shirt and slacks, sacrament-red on the bowtie. Tonight’s not a night for understatement or demure attire.” Danya says, turning and waving to the kitchen staff that had been waiting just outside the study. “The audience needs to be able to pick the host out of the crowd. You need to be able to visually command attention when you are speaking, so it’s okay to be a little flashy tonight.”

“Should I go with a hat?” I ask as my vest starts to lengthen and develop sleeves at a tap from my forefinger, while my tie starts to re-knot itself back into a bowtie configuration.

“Skip the hat. The estate may be stuck in the victorian era, but our guests are not and neither should we be.” Danya say as the kitchen staff start carefully loading the bottles on my mixing table into an iced tray they brought with them. “Most of the contestants have already arrived. They’re chomping at the bit to begin, so having you make an appearance may put them at ease.”

“And Jayta still has not backed out of it?” I ask as my vest finishes morphing into the cut of a formal tux.

“She is determined.” Danya says, watching as the staff finish loading the tray, then looking to me as they start to leave. “There is still time to withdraw her invitation to the contest.”

“No. As you pointed out some time ago, I shouldn’t be coddling her. If she would like to rise to this challenge, then we should allow her to do so.” I say, making my way over to the mirror on the wall and checking my attire, making sure my bowtie is sitting straight. “Let us simply hope that she represents the House well, and that the experience does not leave her with a negative impression.” I turn to Danya, holding out my arms to either side. “Presentable?”

“It’s not your best outfit, but it’ll do for tonight.” she says after a moment, then starts for the door.

“You’re the one that picked it out for me.” I point out, turning and falling in step with her.

“If you wanted a fashionista, you should’ve called up the Demon Tailor of Talingrad. I’m your head of staff, not a runway sheik.”

“Is that a subtle request for a career change?”

“Anything but. Now let’s get you downstairs; the guests are waiting.”

Jayta’s Journal

I’d never been much of a drinker.

I’m small, so it doesn’t take much to get me drunk. And I’ve only been really drunk once, for the sake of saying that I’d been there and done that — it wasn’t something I ever repeated. I didn’t like having gaps in my memory, and the pounding hangover the following morning was enough to convince me that going on a bender wasn’t something I wanted to do regularly.

Besides that, drinking was an expensive habit for someone that was just barely scraping by in college and work. Rent and groceries came first, and there was rarely anything left over for leisure and pleasure. My drinks, if I had any, were usually at the generosity of friends that had better jobs or richer parents than I did. On the whole, drinking just wasn’t a luxury I’d ever learned to enjoy or have the time and resources for.

But often, spite can motivate us to push beyond the boundaries we’ve set for ourselves.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: The Chthonic Hall

9:50pm SGT

“Seriously, I don’t need an escort.” I say as I follow Aritska, one of the hawk harpies, down the halls of the House. “I can get down there just fine; there’s no need for this.”

“Father has insisted.” Aritska replies simply as she opens a door leading down to the House’s subterranean floors. “You are an important member of this House. Therefore, you deserve an escort to show your importance to our guests.”

I take a deep breath. I’m still not used to the harpies referring to Raikaron as a parental figure; it’s just… weird. I’ve gotten so used to everyone calling him Lord Syntaritov, a title that puts distance between him and everyone else. Hearing someone call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ shows that the distance only exists for some members of the House.

“Well, you’re not going to be standing beside me the whole time, are you?” I ask as we start down the stairs. Unlike the other halls of the House, the walls on either side of us are carved stone, rather than the stuffy wallpaper that adorns most other walls aboveground.

“No. I will only see you to the table. After that I will be maintaining order in the hall, along with some of the other harpies.” she answers, boots thumping down the stone stairs.

“Hey, didn’t your feet used to be… like… bird legs?” I ask, noticing her combat boots. “The other harpies, their legs are still… uhm. Bird legs.”

“The shrikes and crows are too hyper to manage a full human transformation.” Aritska answers, the stairs starting to curve around the further we descend. “It takes lots of focus. They cannot sit still long enough for it.”

“Oh. Right.” Honestly that makes a lot of sense. Ever since the harpies have returned to the House, it’s been a lot livelier. Intermittent shrieks, caws, chirps, and screeches have become a daily feature of the House’s soundscape. “I heard there’s going to be a lot of important people at this, uhm.. contest.”

“There are. We do it every year. Demons of the higher Circles find it very entertaining to watch or participate in.” Aritska explains as the stairwell starts to widen out. “Those that attend will often place bets on who will last the longest, or on what round they’ll lose, or on whether they’ll last longer than another participant. The House gains much by it, since demons from higher Circles are richer in power and favors and secrets.”

“Yeah, I know. Had a couple people toss a bet on me.” I mutter as the stairs start to level out, and I can see light from a doorway ahead, accompanied by a low murmur. “How long will it last? We’re starting pretty late.”

Aritska looks over her shoulder at me, smiling a toothy grin full of sharklike teeth. “The question isn’t how long the contest will last. It’s how long you will last.” With that, she steps through the doorway, leaving me to follow uneasily.

Passing through the doorway, I find myself in a underground cavern. The floor is wide open, with a single round stone table sitting on a carved slab in the middle. Around the edges of the room are terraced plateaus at varying heights, each one with a low stone railing and a table or two, with chairs to go with them. Flights of stairs are carved into the stone between terraces, leading from one to the other on the way to the bottom of the cavern, which is about twenty feet down from the terrace we’re currently standing on. Light is provided from brackets torches on the walls, and an iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling; the entire room has all the hallmarks of an underground arena or an amphitheater.

“Wait, has this always been under the House?” I ask, hurrying to keep up with Aritska as starts down the stairs.

“It has. It is where we conduct rituals and guest events.” she answers, her arms folded behind her back. “But normally there is no reason to come down here.”

“There are a lot of people here.” I say, staring at the terraces as we descend the stairs. Most of them are occupied; some of them look like they’re reserved for specific demon Lords and their staff, if some of the matching uniforms are anything to go by. As my gaze wanders, I catch sight of Lust standing at the railing of one of the higher terraces. A wine glass is cupped in one hand, and she’s wearing a dress that has no qualms with baring skin.

“There always are a lot of guests for the Iron Liver.” Aritska says as we near the floor of the hall. “It is exciting and entertaining. Father brews the draughts himself, and you never know what each year will hold.”

I look to the stone table as we reach the floor. Other demons are already there, most of them standing at their spots along the rim of the table. Some of them are chatting with each other, while others are playing it cool and standoffish.

“Oi, look who’s here!” booms a voice from the side of the table that we’re heading towards. Brian is waving an arm as Aritska and I approach the empty spot beside him. “You made it! I was starting to wonder; we had like five minutes left before the official start.”

“Yeah, I made it.” I say, stepping up to the circle marked out beside Brian. Aritska peels off shortly after, without much of a word. “Ready to disappoint my Lord.”

“You trying to lose, then?” asks a voice on my other side. I look to see that it’s Harro, who’s cleaned up a little for this in a suit and tie — whether of his own accord or at Raikaron’s command is unclear. “Not that I’ll complain if you tap out before me. Means I win the bet with Danya.”

“I’ve just got doubts about whether I’ll be able to keep up with a couple of big boys like you two.” I say, feeling dwarfed by Harro on one side and Brian on the other.

“Remember, size and metabolism don’t mean a thing in the Iron Liver!” Brian says cheerfully. “These are Dreaming draughts. The same stuff that’ll knock a big guy flat might only shift the little guy a bit.”

“Do we have, like… a menu or chairs or anything?” I ask, looking around. The stone table is empty, with only a gaping circle in the middle, as if it was really some kind of circular bar. There’s no glasses, no chairs, no menu, nothing. Just a bunch of demons standing around the edge of it.

“No menu. You don’t find out what you’re drinking until they put it in front of you.” Harro says. “And no chairs either. You have to stay standing the entire time; you’re disqualified once you can’t stay on your feet.”

“Well that’s just charming.” I mutter. “Maybe I should back out…”

“Nah.” Harro says, giving me a pat on the back. “Don’t let it scare you off. Stick it to the skinny strawberry. Show ‘im you can hold your own with the rest of these demons. You don’t want to keep being his little dollhouse toy, do you?”

Dollhouse toy. That more or less decides it for me, and I start to unbutton the cuffs of my sleeves, rolling them up to the elbow. “And what are you here for? Just to prove that you can drink me under the table?”

“Well, that, and who knows, I might just win.” Harro says, smirking as he leans against the table, one hand tucked in his pocket. “And I’d love rubbing that in the skinny strawberry’s face.”

“Hey, even if you lose, you walk away with something!” Brian points out, and I’m starting to realize that optimism is part of his personality. “You get a bottle of the stuff that knocked you out. At least that’s what they’ve done in past years.”

Any further conversation is broken up by a sudden flare of crimson light. I turn to see that there’s a pillar of red brilliance spilling to the floor from the ceiling overhead; when it clears, Raikaron’s standing there, dressed sharply in a formal tux, hands folded neatly behind his back. He flourishes one hand out to the side as he takes a bow towards the rest of the cavern, then straightens up again, his voice echoing as the background murmuring dies down. “Ladies and gentlemen, demons and demonettes, I would like to welcome you to our annual Iron Liver competition!”

The cavern fills with clapping, along with some scattered hoots and shouts from the lower terraces. Once it dies down, Raikaron motions to cavern at large.

“Many of you are returning guests at this event, though I do see new faces in the crowd. We hope you will enjoy the Iron Liver, and moreover that some of you will profit from it — many of you have placed bets already, and you may continue doing so until the first round. Do note that all bets are final — no takebacks, and no refunds. For those of you which hunger, refreshments are only a command away, as you will notice a member of the waitstaff posted on each terrace to take requests or the placing of bets. And finally…”

At this point, Raikaron’s mouth curls a bit at the corner. “…do behave yourselves. No throwing of food or beverages when you lose a bet or when your contestant drops early. It ruins the fun for everyone else, and the harpies of the House of Regret are always looking for a good reason to put their Krysmis gifts to use.”

There’s scattered giggling throughout the hall as the harpies posted around the cavern pull out brand new whips, snapping them for effect. Once their giggling and chattering dies down, the sound Raikaron’s voice has me, and most of the other contestants, turning in place to see he’s suddenly standing within the wide circle in the center of the stone table.

“As for you, my dear contestants, it looks like most, if not all of you, are first-timers at this table.” he says, lightly resting his fingertips on the stone counter. “And so, a review of the rules and some of the expectations are in order.”

He makes a sweeping motion, and a wave of red light races around the counter, forming a display on the stone in front of every contestant. “What you see before you is a record of what your friends, acquaintances, and superiors have bet on you, be it power, favors, secrets, or something else. So you have a sense of what is riding on you, and who will benefit by your win or your loss. And so you will know who will be disappointed if you don’t last as long as they hoped you would. No pressure, of course.”

I glance down at the display in front of me. There looks like there’s only two bets on me, as compared to several for everyone else. One of them is the bet that Danya and Harro took on me, and the other one is… I feel my heart jump into my throat.

It’s a bet between the Lord of Lust and the Lord of Regret, over whether I’ll be the last one standing.

I look back up at Raikaron. His bright green eyes catch mine, only for a moment, before flicking away again.

No pressure, indeed.

“Now that you’ve had a chance to skim those, we’ll move on.” he announces with that pearl-perfect smile. “The rules are relatively simple. Each round, you will be given a sample of a Dreaming draught, to be announced on the round thereof. Those samples will be poured into your shotglasses, which you are presently wearing on your fingers. If you’ll go ahead and take those off and place those on the table now, please.”

That has me a little confused until I see Brian pulling off the glass salamander ring that he got back at the Krysmis Eve party, when we did the raffle. He sets it on the counter, where the salamander wriggles, then starts to expand and lengthen, curling around and around on its side until it’s formed a small shotglass. The other demons around the table are starting to do the same, so I reach to my finger and start to work the ring off, finding that it actually comes off easily, instead of clinging to my finger like it did before this.

“Excellent.” Raikaron goes on as the last of us place our rings on the counter. “Now you may, at any point in time, yield if you cannot handle the draught you have been given. Your samples must be consumed in full; there will be no drink-half-now, drink-the-rest-later. Afterwards, you must still be standing in order to qualify for the next round. If you cannot stand unaided — that means you cannot lean on the counter in front or you, or on your fellow contestants — then you are disqualified. Are there any questions before we begin?”

“Do we get anything to clear the palate between drinks?” one of the demons across the counter asks.

“You do not.” Raikaron says as kitchen staff start filtering onto the cavern floor, carrying an iced tray filled with unmarked bottles. They enter the gap in the counter, filing into the circle in the center as they set down the tray and start to uncork the bottles to let the draughts breathe. “Palate cleansers help keep you grounded, and we can’t be having that.”

“Can we take affirmative action to remove some of the competition?” another demon asks.

“Creative question! No, you can’t eliminate other contestants by beating them senseless. Technically you can, but you’ll also be disqualified, and will subsequently be escorted to the House’s playroom for a short session with the harpies.” Raikaron says with a wide, unnatural smile as the kitchen staff start to line up around the inside of the counter, reaching out to take our shotglasses and fill them up.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” another demon mutters with a smirk, prompting snickers from the other demons around the table.

“This isn’t going to ruin our clothes, is it?” another demon in a fancy dress asks.

“It may very well do so!” Raikaron replies brightly, clapping his hands together. “But it’s a bit too late for a change of wardrobe, since we’ll be starting in just a moment. Unless you value your wardrobe so highly that you’d like to strip down on the spot and compete au naturale. I can promise you that the spectators would not mind one bit.”

Scattered laughing can be heard in the terraces, though the fancy-dress demon just gives Raikaron a frosty glare. As it dies away, the kitchen staff start placing our shotglasses back in front of us, filled up with a liquid that can only be described as birthday-cake icing — white with sprinkles of color and glitter laced through it.

“Now, the first round is poured, and we are ready to begin.” Raikaron announces as the waitstaff return to standing at attention. He raises his gaze to the rest of the hall. “All bets are placed? Recording devices are prepared? Ready to commence?”

“Wait, I’m still placing a bet—” someone calls from one of the higher terraces.

“Most unfortunate, because it’s time to begin!” Raikaron crows. “Let the annual Iron Liver commence! For our first round, we will start you all on something easy: Unicorn Vomit! On the count of three, you may partake.” He pauses for a single, suspense-filled moment before speaking again. “Three!”

Those of us that were expecting a countdown are taken off guard, and everyone around the counter scrambles to grab their shotglassses and toss them back. Harro manages to nab his before I get mine; Brian is still struggling to pick up his glass with his massive hands as I raise the shotglass to my mouth and tip it back.

The taste hits me first, and I almost spit it back out again — because it tastes like cake donut. I’ve never had a drink that tastes like a pastry before, and it’s confusing my brain. The liquid’s slightly thicker than water, making it harder to swallow than I’d been expecting, and I have to fight to get it down. I gasp a breath afterwards, slamming my shotglass down on the counter as my vision swirls with bright colors around the edges, before stabilizing again. I feel a little unsteady, but otherwise fine.

“Khhh!” I puff, shaking my head to clear it. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Says you.” Brian grunts beside me. I glance over, about to make a smarmy remark, only to be rendered speechless when I see him leaning heavily on the counter.

His leathery scales have turned a bright, splashy scarlet.

“Holy shit, Brian, what happened to y—” I start, then I’m cut off by the sound of howling and jeering from the terraces. I look around to see that the demon on the other side of Harro has been laid out flat on the ground by the shot he just took, rainbow colors and glitter flashing through his hair as he lolls and groans.

“And there’s our first knockout of the night!” Raikaron proclaims as a couple of harpies jump down the terrace railings to go collect the guy that passed out. “There’s always someone that drops on the first round. The exotic power of a draught from the Dreaming isn’t for everyone, I suppose. One down, nineteen to go!”

As the harpies start dragging the guy away, the rest of the contestants turn back to the table, and that’s when I notice that they’re all suffering similar effects as Brian and the guy that went down. Hair, fur, scales — whatever they’ve got, it’s turned to a number of bright colors of varying hues and shades. Harro’s scruffy mane has turned a burnt orange color, and I have to cup a hand over my mouth to hold in a snort.

He just raises an eyebrow at me. “What you laughin’ at? You looked in a mirror recently?” he says as the kitchen staff take back out shotglasses and begin washing out so they can pour the next round of drinks.

“Who, me?” I demand, my voice coming out as more of a giggle than I intended. I’m feeling kinda… lightheaded, faintly euphoric.

“Yeah, you.” he chuckles. “Those are some nice streaks of blue in that pretty blonde hair of yours.”

“What seriously?” I demand, reaching up to grab the hair at the back of my neck and pull it around to take a look at it. Sure enough, it’s striated with streaks of baby blue. “Aurescura above, you’re kidding me!”

Harro snickers. “Your eyes have changed too. You’ve got a nice dark-blue indigo thing going on there.”

“Hey, at least you’re not bright red.” Brian grumbles, sizing up his massive arms and hands.

“Oh my god.” I say, pressing a hand to my eyebrow. Since I don’t have a mirror, I simply have to take Harro’s word for it. “How long does this last?”

“You’ll simply have to wait and find out.” Raikaron answers, likely to me, but also loud enough for everyone at the table and beyond to hear. “Now! Hands up off the counter, let’s make sure all of you can stand without assistance!”

I pull my hands off the counter, as do the other demons around the counter. Some of them sway a little; a few of them sway a lot, clearly struggling to remain upright. None of them fall over, but it’s clear that it’s only going to take a few more shots to knock out the ones that are already unsteady on their feet.

“Lookin’ a little woozy there, Brian.” Harro calls over my head.

“Oh hush.” Brian grumbles, folding his arms. He’s got his feet set slightly apart, as if that’d keep him steady, but I can see that he’s swaying a bit more than many of the others. “Least I didn’t drop on the first round.”

“That candy-coated stuff hit you that hard?” Harro continues to cajole. “Man, it barely shifted me. I could do this all night. Even Jayta looks steadier than you are right now.”

“Keep it up, I’ll be laughing my head off when the next round knocks you on your ass.” Brian retorts, his solid black eyes glaring. “Give it to us, Rai! What’s up next for round two?”

“Patience, my aggressively-hued friend.” Raikaron says as the kitchen staff start pouring the next shots into the cleaned glasses. Whatever it is, it looks like it’s white with little streaks of bright red going through it. “Our next selection is Snowcherry, in keeping with the spirit of the season. Typically it’s served in warm climes in the Dreaming, but we make an exception here to see who can weather the chill of winter.” With that, the kitchen staff push our shotglasses back across the counter to us, the sides of each one covered with a thin skein of frost. “Drink up!”

I hesitate, as do a couple others, then reach forward and grab my shotglass, squeezing my eyes shut and tossing it back. It’s cold to the touch and tastes faintly of sour cherry mixed with something that might be peppermint, but it’s hard to tell with how I feel the cold spreading through my body. I can tell right away that this is something that’s meant to be sipped on, not downed all at once; slamming my shotglass down, I gasp a sharp breath and brace myself on the counter as frost forms on my skin in patches and chunks.

“Woooo, that’s a bit nippy.” Harro exhales, setting his shotglass back down.

“Can see why it’d be a summer drink.” Brian grunts, eyeing the inside of his shotglass, then looking around as the demon on the other side of him topples over backwards, frozen solid. “Another one bites the dust!”

“Two down, eighteen to go.” Harro says, pushing his glass back to the kitchen staff as he looks at me. “You’re not looking too hot, blondie. That last one looks like it cooled you right off.”

“Sh-shu-shu-shut up.” I chatter, rubbing my hands and scraping off the ice that’s formed on my forearms. “I’m f-f-fh-fh-fine.” Yet even as I say the words, I know that last drink hit me a lot harder than the first one did. The edges of my vision are a little hazy and frosted, and I know if I take my arms off the counter, I’m going to be swaying.

Harro smirks. “Oh, that’s cold. If you’d like, I can warm you up after this.”

I look at him, then snort as I finish pushing my glass back to the kitchen staff, who are starting to wash out the shotglasses for the next round. “Oh, you think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one getting knocked down a peg on the second round of the night. Seems we’ve got a lot of lightweights here, come to mention it.” He looks around at the other demons, and I see now that a good number of them are struggling, swaying in place and shivering like I am.

“Oh, s-sh-sh-shut up.” I mutter as the harpies start dragging away the guy that froze on the last drink. I hate to admit it, but Harro’s weathered these drinks better than most of us so far. As the kitchen staff start drying out the shotglasses, I work up the will to push off the counter, and force myself to stand under my own power. “Maybe I’ll consider it. If you win.”

“Oh, really now?” Harro says, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not pullin’ my leg?”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Win and find out.”

He grins, turning back to the counter as they start pouring the next round. “Think I will.”

“My, tonight might be shorter than usual.” Raikaron says, lacing his fingers together as he studies the remaining contestants. “Hands off the counter, let us see who is still able to stand on their own power. Not the worst showing I’ve ever seen, but it seems the Snowcherry did a number on a number of you. Luckily for all of you, we’ve got something for round three that should warm you all right up: Spitfire!”

The kitchen staff slide our shotglasses back to us, filled up with a grey liquid that’s speckled with dots of red. The color’s giving me doubts; I reach down and grab it, hesitating in lifting it, at least until I feel how warm the glass is. If it can warm me up after the drink I just had, I’m willing to give it a try, so I toss it back.

It goes down far easier than I expected, although it is strong and leaves me coughing a little on account of the strong cinnamon taste. Slamming my glass back down on the counter, I can feel the warmth of the liquid working its way through me; it doesn’t entirely chase away the chill of the Snowcherry, but it does stop my shivering. I stay braced on the counter, waiting for the hit that came with the last two drinks, but it never comes — while I’m still unsteady on my feet, it hasn’t gotten any worse with this drink.

Which is more than I can say for everyone else at the counter.

There’s a lot of coughing, wheezing, and hacking around the table. I look up to see many of the other demons are braced heavily on the counter, coughing and sneezing up gouts of flame. At least two have fallen over and are crawling away from the counter, wheezing fire; another couple are slumped on the counter, out cold, while most of the others look like they’re barely hanging in there. The shouting, jeering, and catcalling has ratcheted up several notches with so many demons removed from the running, and with them, several bets lost.

“Oh my, was that a little too hot for some of you?” Raikaron remarks innocently. “I thought surely it wouldn’t be out of order after the Snowcherry, but it seems like some of our contestants couldn’t take that heat. That’s what — one, two, three, four? Four that are tapping out this round? That makes six down, fourteen to go. Still a sizable number; we’ll see how many of you are still standing by round five.”

“Well, that really wasn’t too bad.” Brian remarks, pushing his shotglass back across the counter. “I’m still a little dizzy, but that one didn’t make it any worse. Perhaps my draconic lineage gave me an edge there.”

“You too?” I ask, pushing my shotglass back. “It wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I don’t know why everyone else is struggling with it.”

“Wait, you’ve got dragon blood too?” Brian exclaims.

“What? No! Like, I meant… the Spitfire didn’t hit me as hard as I thought it would.” I explain, before the sound of muted coughing draws our attention. Both of us look to see Harro covering his mouth as he pushes his glass back across the counter.

“Having a little trouble there, Harro?” Brian asks smugly.

“Shut up.” Harro mutters. “That one kicked a little harder than the other drinks, but not by much. I think the effects are starting to build the more I drink.”

“Mhmm. Sounds like excuses to me.” Brian snickers as the kitchen staff start to wash out the shotglasses. “Looks like the Spitfire knocked out a bunch of folks. I think we’ll start getting a sense for who the real competition is here in the next couple of rounds.”

“At least half of the contestants are usually gone after the fifth round.” Harro grunts as he lets out a little hiccup of flame, staring around the counter as the harpies start dragging away the contestants that have passed out. “Nearly all of these sods look like they’re set to drop next round or the round after. Some of them look like they’re a couple drops from using the floor as a pillow. Pretty sure I can outlast most of them.”

Brian snorts. “Tell that to the guy beside me that was standing nice and proud until the Snowcherry knocked him flat on his ass. Barely swayed on the first round; laid out on the floor on the second round.”

“Yeah, well he didn’t have motivation.” Harro says, and a moment later I catch an unexpected slap on the ass that has me snapping upright. I give him a wordless, incredulous look, to which he responds with a sly grin.

“Right, now that we’ve cleared the clutter from the counter, I do believe we’re ready for the fourth round.” Raikaron announces as the kitchen staff start pouring the next drink — if you could really call it that, since it looks like a dark blue gas with starry grains of light shining through the swirling concoction. “As I believe we’ve eliminated all the lightweights through the previous three rounds, we can pivot away from the beginner draughts, and dedicate this round to a more sophisticated and complex draught: Cosmos.”

The shotglasses are slid back across the counter, little bits of blue gas drifting over their rims as they slide towards us. I catch mine, picking it up and trying to figure out how to go about ingesting something that looks like a vapor. Since it’s heavy enough to stay in the glass, I figure it’s not much different than ingesting a liquid — so taking a deep breath, I lift it up and throw it back.

Or I try to, at least. All I do is end up with a mouthful of mellow, honey-tasting gas that kind of sits there and won’t go down; it takes me a good nine or ten seconds to realize that since it’s a gas, I have to inhale to get it to go down. Once I have that revelation, I’m able to suck it down instead of standing there with my head tipped back, gargling my drink like an idiot. Slamming my shotglass back down on the table, I feel it hit my lungs and spread throughout my body, my vision fuzzing a little more around the edges and staying that way. Even with my hands on the counter, I can feel myself swaying in place, and I’m not sure how many more rounds I’ll last.

Beside me, I hear Harro grunt as he braces himself on the counter, eyes squeezed shut. Looks like the Cosmos hit him harder than it hit me; as I watch, his orange hair starts to glow, turning into filaments of plasma that float and curl around his head as he pushes back upright. He looks like some kind of celestial messenger with a nimbus of glowing plasma around his head, swaying in the air like he’s caught underwater. Around the table, the same thing’s happened to the other demons — what with the Unicorn Vomit we had at the start of the contest, a lot of them have developed neon-hued plasma hair.

“Haaaahaha!” Brian chuckles, slapping the table with one of his massive hands. Since he doesn’t have hair, he’s instead developed glowing patterns on his forearms, like glowing tattoos. “Weren’t ready for that last one, were you, Harro? Lookin’ a little green around the gills there. Seems like it’s finally caught up to you. You so sure you’re gonna win now?”

“Stuff a sock in it, Brian.” Harro grumbles as he shoves his shotglass back towards the kitchen staff, before catching me staring at him. “See somethin’ you like?”

I cover my mouth to hold in a snort as I push my glass back to the staff. “Almost looks like your head’s on fire, with all that. Orange plasma stuff.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, like you’re any better. You looked in a mirror recently?”

“Oh shit.” I murmur, only just now realizing that the same thing that happened to everyone else probably happened to me. I reach up to touch my hair, only to find my fingers poking through a plasma shroud of yellow and blue filaments now wreathing my head. It lazily follows my head’s movements like liquid in zero-g, little glowing droplets of plasma breaking off the edges and circling around me whenever I turn my head, and rejoining my ‘hair’ on the other side. “Shit that’s weird.”

“Makes me glad I don’t have hair.” Brian says, sliding his shotglass back across the counter even as he sways on the spot. He’s not looking too hot either, but he’s still standing, which is more than you can say for a couple more demons that have fallen out. The harpies are collecting them, dragging them back to a set of terraces at the ground level that look like they’re reserved for recovering contestants.

“Eight down, twelve to go.” Raikaron proclaims to the hall at large. “While we’re preparing the next round, here’s a little fun fact for everyone: the longest Iron Liver we’ve had to date lasted fourteen rounds. It was a marathon between a rather muscular enforcer and a surpassingly thirsty succubi, which was rewarded amply — and if anyone ever breaks that record, they will be rewarded amply as well.”

“Fourteen rounds, geez.” Brian grunts. “I’m struggling at four, I don’t get how anyone could go fourteen rounds pounding back drinks like these.”

“ ‘Cause you ain’t got the balls for it.” Harro says, rolling his shoulders as he takes his hands off the counter, swaying noticeably. “Bring it on. I could go for fourteen rounds.”

“That’s what he said.” I mutter, the quip escaping my mouth before I can think better of it. Gods, these drinks are doing a number on my filter.

Harro raises an eyebrow down at me. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” I say quickly, pushing off the counter and doing my best to stand without staggering in place.

“Y’all kids are too horny.” Brian says, shaking his head. “Gives me the advantage.”

“Only one with horns here is you.” I quip again, fighting to keep in a giggle and failing.

“You’re fun when you’re drunk.” Harro snickers. “We need to do this more often.”

“Oh god no, I dun’ like drinking.” I say quickly, waving my hands.

“And yet here you are.” Brian says, planting his hands on his hips. “Raikaron! Hit us, I’m ready for the next round!”

“So they always say.” Raikaron says as the kitchen staff start pouring the next drink — something that looks like a liquid that’s both blue and red at the same time. It’s not purple, but when you look at it, you can see both blue and red at the same time, almost as if the drink is both at once, but can’t decide what color it wants to be. “Round five will be a checkin of sorts. You all can see your fellow contestants, and will have noticed the effect that the draughts are having on them, but I’m sure you’ve noticed the conspicuous lack of mirrors here on the cavern floor. We’ll rectify that with this next draught: Double Trouble!”

The kitchen staff slide the shotglasses back across the counter with that, and I catch mine, staring down into it. It’s still doing the quantum uncertainty thing, where it’s red and blue at once, but without being both and definitely not purple. The longer I stare at it, the more it starts to make my head hurt, so I lift it up and toss it back without further ado.

The first thing I notice is the taste: cranberry, of all things. That alone makes it hard going down, but I swallow it anyways, noticing that it ends on a peanut-butter-ish taste that takes away a bit of the bitterness. Slamming down my shotglass, I stagger as I feel it hit me and hit me hard, my vision swimming. My head feels light and cloudy, almost detached from my shoulders, and it’s affecting my balance — I know I’m not going to last more than another couple rounds. Hell, I’ll be surprised if I make it past next round.

The other thing compromising my balance is the fact that there’s now two of me, and I’m seeing things from two points of view, and both us are equally intoxicated.

“What the… shit.” I mumble, right me turning to look at left me. There’s an exact me standing beside me, except that she is me, and I’m also staring back at me, but the perspectives are slightly different because one of me is looking left and the other me is looking right. I’m simultaneously both of the me’s that are here, each of me staring at me. Two bodies, one mind.

This is gonna get weird fast.

“Okay.” I hiccup through the left me. The right me braces herself on her table, looking around to see how Brian’s doing, only to find that he’s laid out on the floor, mumbling and dazed. The left me turns to check on Harro, only to find that he’s in the same state.

I don’t know how, but I’ve managed to outlast both of them.

“Oh… shit.” I mumble through right me, who sways dangerously, and reaches out to steady herself on left me. Both of us lean on each other as we look around, and for a moment, it seems like no one around the table has dropped; that there are actually more people than there were before. It takes a moment of staring through bleary eyes to realize that everyone that’s still standing has cloned, creating the illusion that there are actually more people at the table than there are. I guess technically there are more people at the counter? But exactly half of them are copies of the people that are already there.

Yeah, this is gonna get weird.

“Well, there goes another four.” Raikaron remarks, fingers laced together with no small amount of amusement. “Twelve down, eight to go. We may well be entering the final stretch here. Pass your glasses back, and while we are cleaning and filling them for the next round, gather yourselves. You may lean on yourself to remain upright… for as long as your double lasts, that is.”

Right me reaches forward to push my shotglass back across the counter, though even something as simple as that has her perilously close to tipping over. Left me catches her and pulls her back upright, though not without a lot of effort. Around the table, I can see that others are similarly struggling, probably no more than a drink or two from hitting the ground.

Even I go down next round, at least I can say I outlasted Harro and Brian.

Without anyone left to talk to, I watch woozily as the harpies drag Harro and Brian away from the counter. I’m kinda sad to see them go, because now I don’t have anyone to banter with. Now it’s just me versus all these demons I don’t know and have never seen before. This is definitely great as a social event, when you have friends to drink with you and shit-talk you. It’s not as much fun when you’re just belting back drinks with a bunch of strangers and trying not to be the first one to drop.

Both of me push off the counter, the left me putting her arm around the waist of right me, resting the head of left me against right me’s shoulder. And then I look at me, and just stare for a while as the kitchen staff clean out the glasses for the next round. I watch the glowing filaments of plasma hair drift in the air, lazily undulating in some unseen air current; I study my own dark blue eyes, wondering if I like the blue better than my natural grey. I examine the shape of my face, my shoulders, my unsteady, intoxicated body, and for a moment I can understand why they call me ‘little demon’ so often. It’s because I am a little demon. A petite little murderer, one that you could easily pick up and fit in your arms.

It’s all so strange. I see myself in the mirror every morning, but that reflection always stares back at me. For the first time, I feel like I’m seeing myself the way other people see me. How other people must see me when I’m not looking back at them. I’m seeing myself the way the rest of the universe must see me and realizing that I am small, but also precious and something that seems like it needs protecting.

And then I blink and shake the head of right me, because I realize that I was staring at left me and thinking of her as if she wasn’t me. How I feel, versus what I look like — there’s such a disconnect between the two that I almost hadn’t recognized myself.

“Now, this next draught is, by the standards of the Dreaming, a bit less intense.” Raikaron says as the kitchen staff start pouring the next drinks. “But then again, the draughts of the Dreaming have uncertain effects on mortals, as we can see by some of the great and mighty ones being folded early, while the underdogs have lasted a couple rounds longer than them. Who knows how this next drink will treat those of you that still remain — but I suppose there’s only one way to find out. So for our sixth round, we present a draught enjoyed by juvenile Dreamlings: Bubble Hiccup!”

The shotglasses are slid back across the counter to us, and left me reaches down to catch it. It’s filled with a liquid that shifts and changes hues, all of them light, pastel colors. Within the glass, there’s what looks like little clear orbs, like water beads, or something along those lines.

I really don’t have anything to lose — either this drink puts me down, or I make it another round. So the right me braces the left me as she lifts the glass to her lips, and throws it back.

If the drink hits me, I don’t feel it the way I did the other ones. This one tastes fruity, though it’s a general kind of fruity, like taking a spoonful of fruit salad and shoving it in your mouth — all the flavors just kind of blur together. It goes down easy, though the clear orbs linger in my mouth, some of them too large to swallow; I have to bite down on those, and they pop when I do, giving me bursts of flavor I can tie to a specific fruit.

Once I finish swallowing, I set my glass back down on the counter. Before I can slide it back to the kitchen staff, I’m hit with a hiccup, a few bubbles ejecting from the mouth of left me and wandering out into the air before popping one by one.

Well ain’t that cute.

The sound of thuds from around the counter draw my attention, and both of me look up to see other demons around the table folding. It’s hard to tell how many are really left since everyone’s got doubles right now, but I think I spot six people slumping over the counter or toppling onto the floor, which makes three people total knocked out of the running. Left me pushes the shotglass back against the counter, while right me lets out a little hiccup, ejecting more bubbles. Behind me, I can hear shouting and groaning from the terraces as the spectators cheer on those that are still standing, or lament the bets they’ve lost. It takes me a moment to realize that amid all that noise, I can hear my name being shouted; right me turns around to squint at the terraces, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. It takes several seconds of drunk squinting, but eventually I figure out who’s shouting me on.

It’s Danya, shouting for me to show them what the House of Regret is made of.

I blink a couple times, then give her a dizzy thumbs up from right me. I hadn’t expected her to be the one cheering me on, though I don’t think she’s necessary cheering me on, so much as she’s cheering because I’m representing the House. Somewhere at the back of mind, I also remember she’s won her bet with Harro, because I managed to outlast him.

I’m going to have to rub that in her face later, especially since she doubted me.

“Another three down, leaving us with only five.” Raikaron observes as the harpies drag away those that folded this round. “Admirable that you all have lasted this long, but there can, of course, only be one victor. And so we must continue, so we can sift out those unworthy of the title. For this seventh round, we have a draught that’s rare to be seen here, or in the depths of any of the hells: Halo!”

The kitchen staff are sliding the shotglasses back to us by the time he’s finished speaking; now that there are fewer contestants, it doesn’t take as long to wash the glasses and fill them up again. This time, right me reaches down to catch the glass, which is filled with a swirl of yellow and white liquid that reminds me of eggs. Hoping that it doesn’t also taste like eggs, right me lifts it up and tosses it back, while left me keeps an arm around right me to help keep her braced.

Like the last drink, this one doesn’t hit me the way the others did. And thankfully, it doesn’t taste like eggs either, although that doesn’t make it any less odd — the lemon taste isn’t unusual, but the part of it that tastes like sugar cookie throws me for a loop. The shotglass is slammed down and slid back across the counter even as I see angelic halos manifest above both of my selves, giving off a gentle glow. Around the counter, another two demons and their doubles totter and slump over, unable to stay standing any longer, leaving just two other pairs, and me.

Holy shit, I might actually be able to win this.

“Well, it seems that brings us down to just three.” Raikaron notes as the shotglasses are taken back ever more quickly, cleaned and refilled. “That puts us in rarefied company; there’s not many that can withstand seven rounds of Dreaming draughts. I’m sure your respective parties are all proud of you, to have come this far — and doubtless, the winner will make their House quite proud.” As the harpies start dragging away the ones that dropped last round, the kitchen staff finish filling up the shotglasses with a liquid that has a dark red tint to it, like dried blood. “For this eighth round, we bring out a draught that’s popular among mortals, on the rare occasions when they can get their hands on it: Amageryon’s Touch!”

Left me swipes the glass off the counter as soon as it’s slid back to me, lifting it up and throwing it back without hesitation. When it hits my tongue, the first thing I notice is the taste — it’s metallic, earthy, not at all like the other drinks. This one doesn’t have the taste of something you’d eat.

And that’s really all I have the chance to notice before my vision starts to get blurry.

Maybe I’d gotten overconfident because the last couple drinks hadn’t done much to me; maybe it was karma for having the audacity to think I could actually win this contest. But this drink hits me, hard enough to finally push me over the edge. My balance starts to go as I have trouble telling apart the perspectives of the two me’s; the left me rushes to put down the shotglass so I don’t drop and spill it as I fall over, which I’m doing right now. The room seems to tilt, the lights blurring together and streaking across my vision; right me is clinging to left me, and left me is bracing on the counter, trying to stay upright.

Then both of me are on the ground, staring at the world sideways, trying to make sense why the floor feels like it’s along a vertical plane.

“Shit.” I exhale, and I can’t tell which of me is saying it.

My head feels thick and heavy and foggy, and my vision still isn’t good for shit; the ceiling and floor are blurring together. I can feel hands on me, sinking into my uniform and dragging both of me across the floor, and in the state I’m in, I’m not going to resist them. I don’t know how long it takes, but I’m eventually dragged up a set of stairs, pulled upright, and loaded into a chair, where someone has to set their hands on my shoulders to keep me from falling out of it. Somewhere along the way, my double has disappeared, though I don’t know whether it was the left me or the right me.

“Here, child of Aurescura. Drink this. It will clear your head.”

I can feel a glass pressed to my lips, fingers under my chin to tilt my head back. Cold liquid seeps into my mouth; it makes it all the way to the back of my throat and I start to swallow before the taste hits me and I realize how bitter and salty it is. I jerk forward, spitting it back out and coughing, as the fuzz in my vision starts to clear and straighten out. “Jaysus— shit— fumrucker— the hell are you trying to put in me?!”

“Water.” says a voice beside me.

“Salt.” Looking up, I see the white raven harpies are standing on either side of me.

“And cynical clarity most bitter.” says the last one, who must be behind me.

I finish coughing, wiping my hand across the back of my mouth. “You— what?” I sputter, staring at them, then looking around. I’m sitting at one of the tables on one of the lowest terraces, where it looks like other contestants are lolling with their hands over their faces or heads resting on tables. Looks like this is where all the disqualified people are.

“It’s a sobering drink.” Brian calls from where he’s leaning back on one of the chairs at the next table over. “Helps clear the fuzz that comes with belting back so many Dreaming draughts.”

“They couldn’t have made it taste a little more pleasant?” I grunt. After having so many pleasant-tasting drinks, downing that stuff is like catching a slap in the face. Definitely wakes you up, for sure. Leaning forward, I rub my palms into my eyes; even though my vision’s no longer blurry, my head’s still a little fuzzy. When a loud cheering goes up from the terraces above and behind us, I take my head out of my hands to see that there’s only one person left standing at the counter.

“And so we have it!” Raikaron proclaims, raising a hand to the final contestant. “Pulling victory from the jaws of defeat, the House of Spite takes the title this year! Hanging on by her fingernails on those last few rounds, if for no other reason than to spite those that thought she would’ve tapped out by now!”

There’s a clunk as a chair is set down beside me, and I look askance to see Harro shooing off all three of Trinity. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. This is exactly the sort of thing the House of Spite would do: get close to getting knocked out, then hang on out of nothing more than, well: spite.”

“Lotta big talk coming from the guy that dropped three rounds before I did.” I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “You owe Danya a favor now.”

“Don’t remind me.” he sighs, sitting down in his chair. “After all I’ve done for you, you couldn’t have humored me and dropped a little earlier than you did?”

“Excuse me?” I say, giving him an incredulous look. “After all you’ve done for me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I saved your bacon during Hallow’s Eve and helped you with that sorcerer guy that was trying to kidnap your brother—” he begins.

“I’m pretty sure you stalked me, then jumped in to look like a hero, and Raikaron’s actually the one that scared that guy off.” I point out.

“By possessing you.” Harro adds quickly.

“Yes, but he was the one doing the heavy lifting there.” I say, rolling my eyes.

“And there was that task with the Mordo guy that had a bunch of goons that you were having trouble with.” he persists.

“Alright, I’ll admit that one would’ve been a lot harder without your help.” I say, running a hand through my hair, at least until I realize that it’s still a bunch of nebulous plasma filaments. “But I could’ve done it on my own, it just would’ve taken longer.”

He gives me a flat look. “Would it kill you to say thank you?”

I scoff. “I’m a demon. Paragon of vice and sin. ‘Thank you’ isn’t in our vocabulary.”

He chuckles at that. “Good to see you’re finally embracing it.” Smirking sidelong at me, he goes on. “Paragon of vice and sin, huh? You wanna prove that?”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You think I’m that easy?”

He shrugs. “You’re a demon, not some callow schoolgirl, right?” The way he says it, it sounds almost… like a challenge.

“You’ll have to try a little harder than that.” I say, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. “I’m not just gonna swoon into your arms. Work for it.”

“Oh, you’re playing hard to get?”

“No, I’m making you work for it.”

He smirks, looking back to the counter, where the rest of the House of Spite has come down to the floor of the hall to lift up their champion. “Fair ‘nuff, I suppose. In that case… you wanna blow this popsicle stand? We can head upstairs, chat a bit, and…” He reaches down, picking up a bottle that’s been tied with a ribbon. “We can share this. A bottle of Double Trouble, since that’s the one that knocked me out. Could make things… interesting, if you’d like me to give you a tour of my room afterwards.”

“A tour, mm?”

“Let’s be honest, it’s probably not as nice as your room, since you’re the teacher’s pet, but it’s not too bad.” he says, tugging at the ribbon on the bottle that says 12th Place. “Got a nice, cozy bathroom, a leather recliner that’s old and comfy, and a whisper-silent box-spring mattress…”

I know this is a bad idea. But my head’s still fuzzy from the drinks even if my balance and vision are back to normal, and besides, I can’t stop thinking about what I said earlier, and how Harro had replied to it.

I’m a demon. Paragon of sin and vice.

Good to see you’re finally embracing it.

That had felt good, hearing that. It felt empowering. It felt like accepting what I was, owning it. And instead of letting it hold me back, I could let it set me free. I could do the things I’d always been told not to do, take the risks I’d always been too meek and timid to take. Like tonight, with the Iron Liver. I’d taken a risk and even though I’d lost, it had been fun. I’d liked it. I’d enjoyed myself, even though it was against my better judgement, and out of spite for Danya.

Maybe this could be the same.

“Alright then.” I say, unfolding my arms as I look around. Nobody’s paying attention to us, but that’s about how it goes at events like this. Losers don’t get the spotlight; that’s something reserved for the last one standing. It means that nobody’s paying attention to us, so we can probably slip out without being noticed. “A drink, and a chat. Then a tour. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” he grins, standing after I do and gesturing for me to take the stairs first. “Ladies first.”

“What, so you can stare at my ass on the way up?” I smirk on my way up the stairs.

“Heh. Can you blame me?…”

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: The Chthonic Hall

10:31pm SGT

“Alright, let’s start getting this cleaned up.” I say to the kitchen demons still behind the counter with me. “Make sure the contestants each get a bottle of the stuff that knocked them out. I trust we logged that?”

“Yessir. We wrote it down as the contest progressed, as always.” one of the demons says, holding up a clipboard with scrawl on it. “What do you want us to do with the rest?”

“Unopened bottles will go into my personal reserve.” I say, fighting the urge to reach up and loosen my collar. The din from the celebrating House of Spite is getting on my nerves, with as close as they are to the counter. I don’t like having to raise my voice to be heard. “Anything that has been opened, pour it out and put it on labeled trays so the rest of the guests can get a taste of what the contestants got to enjoy, if they so desire. Ensure also that the contestants get their shotglasses back. They make good souvenirs.”

“Yessir. We’ll begin right away.” the demon says, bowing out of the way as I make my way out from behind the circular counter. Walking around the counter’s rim, I size up the hall and the terraces within, taking stock of the guests. It seems the mood has simmered down to light conversation while snacking on platters; now that the main event’s over, they’ll likely get their fill of food, then slowly begin filtering out as the night wears on. Folding my arms behind my back, I narrow my eyes as I spot Jayta following Harro up the stairs towards the edge of the hall. I’m about to assume control of Harro and march him back down the stairs to demand what he’s up to, when my attention is yanked in another direction.

“You’re looking fine tonight, Lord of Regret.”

I turn to see Maryah standing behind me, cradling a glass of wine and dressed in a… well, it would be overly generous to call it a dress. ‘Strategically draped silk’ would likely be a more apt description for what she’s wearing. “Lust. I hope you enjoyed tonight’s showing?”

“It was amusing.” she says, sipping from her glass as her eyes flit to the House of Spite’s gaggle of celebrating demons. “As usual, the beginning and the end are more interesting than the middle. Seeing who drops first and who’s the last one standing.” Her eyes flick back to me. “Walk with me, Raikaron.”

My eyes briefly dart back to the edge of the hall, where Harro and Jayta are exiting through one of the stairwells. I would rather tend to that first, but I can’t ignore a request from the Greater Lord that I answer to. “Very well.” I say quietly, turning to fall in step with Maryah, who’s already started up the stairs on the other side of the hall. “Is there something you wished to discuss with me?”

“Why must it always be business with you?” Maryah asks. “Not every encounter between us must be work-related, Raikaron. We are Lords of Sjelefengsel. We enjoy the privilege of leisure that is denied to most other demons, and I have no qualms about taking advantage of that privilege. Your generous assumptions about my work ethic are flattering, but entirely incorrect.”

“Is that so? I wonder what the Ninth Circle would say to such an admission.” I say, following her up the stairs.

“They will say nothing, given that you shall not apprise them of it.” is her sharp retort. “If anything, their work ethic is worse still than mine. I have no idea what Lucifer does beyond throw out orders every now and then.”

“Perhaps their positions exist simply to gall you with their ease.”

Maryah looks over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at me. “Mouthy tonight, are we, my little abomination?”

“Simply an observation leveled by way of hypothesis. Nothing meant by it.” I reply with an innocent shrug.

“You Syntaritovs are never good at lying.” she says as we crest a terrace and cross it towards the next set of stairs.

“We’re incapable of it, actually.”

“Is that so.”

“So the rumors go.”

“You would think a lineage so known for chaos and mischief would employ deception regularly, rather than eschewing it.” she says, starting up another set of stairs.

“We do employ deception with some regularity. We never bear false witness or testimony, though.” I say, keeping my hands clasped behind my back as I follow her up the stairs. “It’s something of a rule for us. The truth may be bent, twisted, interpreted, obscured, or omitted, but it still must be the truth. Syntaritovs do not deal in falsehoods — only in facts, interpreted subjectively.”

“Sounds disgustingly close to politics to me.”

“Hardly. Politics requires falsehoods in spades, and a moral depravity that is, unfortunately, still far beyond me, and many other demons here, I suspect.” I reply as we crest the final terrace and pass into one of the stairwells leading out from the hall. “It also requires a great deal of inaction and broken promises, the latter of which are also something that my family are forbidden. Say what you will about Syntaritovs and their methods, but we get results. Often much quicker than any government, local or otherwise, could provide them.”

“At a price?”

“Always at a price, my Lord. We are dealmakers by nature.”

“You are annoyances by nature, but I digress.” Maryah says as we ascend the stairwell’s curve back to the House proper. “To the topic of the event tonight, I believe you owe me a small favor now.”

“Yes, I believe I do.” I sigh, listening to Maryah’s heels click on the stone steps. “Had you something in mind for it?”

“Calm yourself, I don’t intend on cashing it on the spot.” she replies, sipping from her glass once more. “I would rather discuss the bet itself at the moment. Whatever possessed you to make such a longshot bet that you were almost guaranteed to lose?”

To this I give yet another idle shrug. “In the spirit of the event, no? You make bets you know you will probably lose. It’s the thrill, the risk.”

“I concur with the sentiment, but will observe that such a thing is out of character for you, Raikaron. You are not one to seek thrill and risk. You are cautious and calculating.” she states as we emerge back into the halls of the House. “Where was the calculus in this? The potential benefit did not outweigh the probability of failure.”

“True. Perhaps it was an expression of faith, or confidence in my new avenger. An indication of my support and belief in her.”

“Faith.” Maryah chews up and spits out the word like it’s a lemon rind. “Why am I not surprised that you traffic in the currency of the heavens while here in the midst of hell?”

“I’ll refrain from answering, given the question seems like a rhetorical exercise.”

“I’m not going to compliment you on observing the obvious.” she says as she finds a stairway leading up to the second floor, and starts up it. “But I will observe in turn that your admission indicates some level of attachment to your new pet. I do not feel you have been entirely truthful with me, or yourself, about what you intend for her.”

“I’ve been accused of lying to others, but lying to myself? That’s new.” I reply, following her up the stairs. I have some idea of where this walk is going to conclude. “If you must know my rationale for placing such an unlikely wager on my avenger, I sought the risk because I have been struggling with emotion of late. Primarily a lack thereof. I thought an ill-considered risk, willfully taken, would generate emotion that I seem to have grown so far removed from.”

Maryah lets out a very unladylike snort as we pass the second floor on the flight of stairs — an indisputable signal that what I just said has amused her, and not merely on a surface level. “Is that so? The little abomination struggles with a lack of feeling, and his solution is to place a bet that he knows he will lose, and hope the risk inherent in it will spark his emotional engine once again? Forgive me, but that’s amusingly juvenile. Remind me, how old are you again?”

“Three millennia, by the measure of mortals, though my age should not be a salient factor in this discussion…”

“You’re clever and tactical, Raikaron, but some parts of you are remarkably childlike in spite of your age.” Maryah says, continuing to march up the stairs. “Placing a risky bet in hopes of sparking emotion? Don’t make me laugh. Experiencing emotion requires more than that. It requires personal investment in something. Risk of real loss, not some piddly little bet. Aren’t you a creature of the Dreaming? Shouldn’t you know all this already? Your kind are supposed to feed on emotions and memories, and yet you have trouble generating them in yourself?”

“It has been several centuries since my departure from the Dreaming, and my subsequent employment in Sjelefengsel.” I mutter as we reach the third floor. “However, being as your derision implies you have a better method for eliciting emotion in individuals which have long since gone numb, perhaps you would care to dispense some of that wisdom.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” she says as she starts along the third floor hall. “But I want no complaints about the means by which the end is achieved. Is that clear?”

I narrow my eyes, keeping my hands folded behind my back. “If aid is offered with a caveat of that sort, I am strongly disposed to turn it down. I am a Syntaritov; deals are a family business. I know what an offer like that portends.”

“Well then, I’ll simply have to insist. The offer was merely a courtesy.” Maryah says as we near the door to my study. “If you will not accept my aid willingly, then you will simply have to accept it unwillingly. The mortals have a term for that, don’t they? Something called an ‘intervention’?”

“Yes, although they are largely reserved for those that desperately require them…” I murmur, my pace slowing. I do not like where this is going, but at the same time I think Maryah has already decided my consent or opinion are irrelevant.

“By your own admission, this is something you are needing help with.” Maryah says, opening the door to my study. “Don’t be shy, Rai. You want our help, don’t you?”

My unease continues to grow as Maryah’s pronouns change to the plural sense. “I don’t believe I do.” I say, stepping into the study to see that Envy and Spite are already there, the latter standing by the fireplace and the former by my desk. “But I’m fairly sure you’d force me to accept it anyway.”

“That’s a good boy.” Maryah says, stepping in and closing the door behind us. “I asked Envy and Spite, and they were generous enough to offer their support in trying to solve your problem.”

“Too kind.” I remark drily.

“Relax, Regret.” Spite says, tucking some of his blonde hair behind one ear and giving me a sawtoothed grin. “We’re your friends, remember? Just a little fun between Lords of the Seventh Circle.”

“That’s a generous assumption on your part.” I say as I cross the room to my desk, moving around behind it. “Peers, most certainly. Friends, on the other hand, require a level of trust rare to be seen in Sjelefengsel.”

“Be comforted, Regret.” Envy says, moving around behind my swivel chair as I sit down in it. “We would not have done this if Lust had not commanded it.”

“You don’t say.” I remark, glaring at Lust as she crosses the study to stand in front of my desk while Envy reaches around my chair with what looks like a simple black collar in hand, and starts to fasten it around my neck.

“It’s a compliment, Raikaron.” Lust explains. “They fear you, which is why they would not have attempted this without a Greater Lord present.”

“I don’t fear him.” Spite says, picking an oval mirror off the wall and moving over to join the rest of us. “But I’d only do this if he wasn’t fighting back. Having a go at you on my own is something that I’d…” He pauses for effect as he reaches the desk. I already know from his grin what’s about to follow. “…well, I’d Regret it, I’m sure.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Would you like an award for managing to exercise all six of your braincells at once for that pun?”

“Get your kicks in while you can.” Spite says, slamming the mirror down on my desk, edge-first. There’s cracking and splintering as it digs into the surface of the desk, deep enough to remain standing on its own. “You won’t be so smug once we’re done with you.”

“It is our understanding that you have struggled with a lack of emotion of late, Regret.” Envy says as she finishes fastening the collar. Coming back around my chair, she reaches up, brushing some of her black hair from her dark, queasy-green eyes. “Worry not. We will remedy that.”

“Perhaps, with a little emotion to ground you, you’ll stop acting so lofty, as if you were better than all the other Lesser Lords.” Spite sneers.

“I cannot help that I execute my station with class and dignity while you struggle to do the same.” I reply mildly.

“Keep it up, Regret.” Spite says, slamming his hands down on my desk. The leather on the arms of my chair twists and bends, deforming to wrap around my forearms like restraints.

“You are too easily baited, Spite.” Envy says softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him out of the way so she can stand behind the mirror. “You wish to feel emotion, Regret, so your wish will be granted. Lust has told me of your doting attachment to your new avenger. She is your prize, is she not? An acquisition that you value most highly, above all your other demons.”

“That seems a little dramatic, if you ask me.” I reply, watching Envy’s hollow gaze. “If you intend on harming her or removing her from my jurisdiction—”

“Tamper with another Lord’s contract demon? We’d never!” Spite says with mocking sanctimony, planting a hand to his chest as if offended. “What do you take us for, savages? We have standards, you know.”

“We have no need to do anything to her when she will do it herself.” Envy says, planting a finger on the top of the mirror. “All we are doing… is making you watch.”

The surface of the mirror ripples with that, so that instead of my reflection, it serves as a window through another mirror surface elsewhere in the House. Into a small room, from what I can see, wherein the door is opening, and Harro steps in. And then shortly behind him, Jayta.

I know where this is going.

“Yes, Regret.” A touch at the side of my face has me jerking my head up to see that Envy’s transitioned into sitting on my desk, reaching over it to brush my cheek. “Do you feel that warmth that’s starting to kindle inside? That’s envy, and it will become jealousy, then anger and rage. The seed for emotion was always there, my cold Lord, buried within your unadmitted affection for your subordinate. It just needed something to water it — in this case, watching someone else claim what you so prized. The sapling will grow, and it will bear fruit rather speedily — those emotions which you so craved, and which you can pluck at your leisure. You will live again, my Lord; your heart will beat red with envy. And when I have taken my fill of your suffering…” Her hand strays down to the collar on my neck. “…then you will be released from this.”

“Wait, she gets to collar and feed off him?” Spite demands, glancing back at Lust. “Why wasn’t I offered that?”

“Shut up, Spite.” Lust drawls. “Your House won the Iron Liver tonight. This is Envy’s consolation prize.”

“Oh, now we’re doing participation trophies?” Spite sneers.

Lust’s head turns towards Spite. “Are you continuing to run your mouth after I told you to shut up?”

Spite seems to realize his mistake and straightens up off my desk, clearing his throat and busying himself with his jacket. “Ah, no. My apologies, Lust.”

“You think that I will simply sit here and let this happen?” I ask, my gaze straying between the scene in the mirror and the other Lords in the room. “These are my subordinates. If I will an end to this, it will stop dead in its tracks.”

“Yes. But you will not will an end to it.” Lust says. “After all, you lost our bet this evening, and you owe me a favor, a favor which I am now cashing in. You will not interfere with their little date, Raikaron Syntaritov. Instead, you will watch it. All of it, and all that may transpire between the two of them tonight. This is the favor you owe me, and I require it of you here and now.”

I can feel my chest tighten at the compulsory weight of the favor being called in; a burden on my shoulders like a stone mantle settling on me, pinning me in place. I am without words for what is being done to me; I can feel something hot rearing up inside me. Indignation, fury, anger.

Emotions that I had thought absent, now making their roll call.

“Oh, look at him.” Spite snickers. “Let’s see you grit those teeth, Regret. I’ve never seen you look that way before.”

“Our work here is done.” Lust says, turning away and stalking back towards the door of the study. “Envy, Spite — attend me. We must make it clear to Danya that she is in charge of the rest of the evening, and her Lord is not to be disturbed until the morn’s light.”

“Suffer for me, Regret.” Envy says softly, stroking my cheek one last time before she slips off my desk. “It has been long since I tasted the envy of another Lord.”

That’s the final word from the three of them as they each depart, the door closing and locking behind them. In the silence to follow, I can feel the weight of Lust’s favor forcing my head to turn, and fix my gaze on the mirror jammed into my desk. Compelled to watch as Harro pours out a couple drinks into the glasses that Jayta is holding out for him, compelled to listen to their flirting talk.

I no longer feel empty, but suspect I will regret recovering my emotions after this night.