House of Hope - Rinienne (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Part 1. Castaway Prince

His head was pounding so strongly it felt like a hundred tiny imps crawled inside his skull, wreaking havoc around his brain. The pain was persistent, and was making it impossible for him to concentrate on anything but his immense desire to rid himself of it.

He knew full well that it wasn’t going to happen no matter how hard he wished for it. Not with the defeat he’d suffered from the hands of that group of intrepid heroes. And certainly not with everything going on around him currently.

“And now you just knead it like this,” the dwarven cleric that went by the most ironic name Raphael could think of was instructing his own incubus. “Put all of your weight into it, the dough wants you to be rough and thorough. Yes, yes perfect!! You’re just natural at baking!”

Haarlep laughed at that, sharp and sonorous. Their covered in flour fingers sunk into the soft mass that laid on the table in front of them with more enthusiasm than the situation called for. “What can I say, I’m just very good when it comes to rough and thorough,” they said, glancing towards Raphael as if by accident, a sly smile touching their lips.

Raphael ignored it, offering nothing but a roll of his eyes in return. Instead, he brought a glass of wine to his mouth and took a generous sip, doing his best to find solace in a pleasant bouquet of flavors and light raspberry notes the expensive bottle offered to him. It burned the cut on his lip, and stung the bruise on his chin where he needed to move facial muscles to drink, but it was a small price.

Everything was taken from him. His powers were gone, as if somebody pulled an invincible cork, emptying a barrel. His own home became a giant resort for the souls lost in the hells, run by a person who herself was locked in one of Raphael’s dungeons until recently. His plans, his aspirations to become the rightful ruler of the Nine Hells. His dignity! All was taken from him.

At least they left the wine.

“Well, and what about you? A you just planning to sit there all day, moping?” Hope asked, looking him over with an expression Rapahel couldn't read. Then she moved to the ice box near the long marble table brought into the boudoir to be used for cooking and pulled a fresh leather bag filled with ice, throwing it in Raphael’s direction.

“As if I have anything better to do,” Raphael groaned. More because he almost spilled his drink while attempting to catch the bag, but also because she was the least person he wished to talk to right now. “You know, you could’ve just healed me,” he complained nonetheless, bringing the ice to his partially swollen face.

“Yes-yes, I could, couldn't i? I have helaing, all of that, at the tip of my fingers. But would you really learn your lesson then?” she responded cheerfully, and her expression alone made his headache worse somehow.

“Oh, bugger off,” Raphael muttered, returning his attention to his wine. He wanted to kill her, to incinerate her for good, but he couldn’t, not in his weakened state. All he could do now was to fantasize about it.

Her expression turned sadder, and Raphael suspected it was not due to his words managing to strike a nerve. Why was she sad now, when she could’ve gloated, he couldn’t even start to imagine. “You know, I still have hope for you,” she said. "Even for you! Hope."

Raphael laughed at that bitterly, but he didn’t reply. He was considering a clever comeback, but was interrupted by the door into the boudoir swinging open with a loud thud, as if somebody kicked it with their foot. A large form of a red orthon appeared in the field of Raphael’s vision.

“Ma’am!” Yurgir greeted with a grin that Raphael could’ve sworn was genuine. “We have some new arrivals!” he announced.

That traitor. He was switching his allegiances faster than a noble dame was changing gloves. It was a mistake to keep him alive, too.

“Most excellent!” Hope responded, perching her fist on her hip. “Do you know who they are?”

“No, no clue,” Yurgir shook his head. “I just saw four flashes of light coming from the portal room, I thought you wanted to know.”

“Very well,” she nodded and clapped her hands. “Let us then go and greet them as it’s proper.”

With that she followed Yurgir out of the door, but before the two of them disappeared, the orthon turned directly towards Raphael, grinning at him with as much delight as his face could muster, making Raphael want to throw his bottle into his head. Somehow, he managed to resist the urge. He definitely did not have an unlimited amount of alcohol, and he had no idea when the chance to restock it was going to present itself.

“You look terrific,” Haarlep pointed out softly, bringing Raphael's attention from the now empty doorway to the incubus. “And not in a good way.”

Something in Raphael’s chest lurched in a strange manner as he understood the two of them were now completely alone in the room. He wasn’t sure what, because Haarlep… Haarlep was… Well, different. Raphael had no idea what he could call their partnership, but somehow out of every single individual occupying his home at the present, Haarlep was the only one whom he did not wish to see dead. And that was something in his books.

Still, there was a tension between them now, which he couldn’t explain. He did his best to pretend it was a sexual kind. It was the most plausible explanation as to why he felt almost awkward under the incubus’ intent stare — because usually staying alone with Haarlep in this particular chamber meant being pressed into the pillows and ravaged. Yet, sex was the last thing on his mind now.

“Yeah, well, I feel even worse,” he admitted with a sigh.

Haarlep stepped closer to him, their tail darting to caress Raphael's leg. Briefly enough for it not to be conspicuous, but purposeful enough for it not to be accidental. “I could help with that, you know,” they smiled coyly.

Raphael wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be seductive or not, but it definitely did not have that effect because of how ridiculous Haarlep looked. Their usual get-up consistent of leather straps was gone, and they were wearing some kind of incredibly tight fitting black shorts, and a sleeveless black chainmail that was made of metal rings so thin, Raphael could see their skin underneath. But that was not the ridiculous part about them, no. On top of that all was draped a white, frilly apron, and their hands were whitened with flour almost up to their elbows, bits and pieces of bread dough sticking under their black claws.

“I doubt anything you have in mind would actually help me,” Raphael muttered.

Haarlep turned halfway back to their table, yet their eyes stayed fixated on him, their smile never faltering. “Ah, too bad, I guess I was safekeeping that healing potion for nothing,” they chuckled.

Raphael's eyes snapped sharply to their face and he gritted his teeth. “Well, why wouldn’t you just hand it over then?” he demanded.

He didn’t enjoy healing potions much, always finding their taste almost revolting, but his soul pool lost its revivifying power with the destruction of the soul pillars, turning now onto a mere bath. And healing wouldn't have been unwelcome right about now. It could’ve taken away his pain and cleared his mind enough to allow him to sulk and drown in self pity in a much more comfortable state.

Haarlep hummed thoughtfully, bringing their pointing finger to their lips. “I do not enjoy your tone,” they said. “Perhaps, if you ask nicely, I will consider the transaction.”

Of course, Raphael had admitted to himself only a moment earlier that he didn’t wish to see Haarlep dead, but by every god of the Faerunian pantheon it didn’t mean he wouldn't have enjoyed slapping them. He wasn’t going to do it, of course. Mostly because his unruly incubus might’ve actually liked it. Still, Raphael didn’t wish to play their games right now either, and instead of an answer, he leaned further into his ice bag.

Haarlep meanwhile returned to kneading the dough, their focus entirely on the task, yet somehow Raphael could feel them watching him. “It’s not as bad, you know?” Haarlep said after a moment of silence, their voice more serious now than Raphael had ever remembered.

“Not that bad?” Raphael laughed bitterly. “Need I remind you that I just lost everything?”

Another pause, which this time felt incredibly strained. “You didn’t lose me,” they said, so quiet, that Raphael pondered if he’d misheard it.

A glass of wine stopped an inch away from his lips, his heart allowing itself a few stronger thuds, which echoed dully in his ears. He didn’t allow himself to react any further, knowing that the very first interpretation of Haarlep’s words his mind conjured was nothing but wistful thinking.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked instead.

Haarlep let out a sign. “Your father contacted me while you were... indisposed of,” they said, pulling out a rolling pin from somewhere underneath the table, starting to roll the dough over the marble surface. “I was... relieved of my duty of spying on you, and was to return to Cania.”

This time it was a tremble that prevented Rapahel from taking a sip, his eyes going wider. The fact that Haarlep was a spy sent by his father was a purely disguised secret. Rapahel was well aware about it from the start. But the fact that they were now being recalled... “No, that can’t be,” he muttered more to himself. His father couldn't have stopped caring about him so completely that he decided Raphael wasn’t even significant enough to spy on.

“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Haarlep continued. “Your powers, you were cut off from using hellfire, haven’t you?”

This time Raphael felt as if air was punched out of his lungs, his head spinning. He had a feeling, but chose to believe it was that bastard Tav doing something to him that rendered him powerless. He didn’t want to even think that his father would actually go to this extreme, that he would actually—

“I’m sorry. You were officially casted out as of two days ago. Lord Mephistopheles no longer thinks of you as his kin.”

The glass of wine in his hand shattered, sharp shards cutting into the skin of his palm. Mixture of red wine and blood gushed down, staining the fabric of the couch and the shirt he was wearing, yet neither that, nor the pain from his fresh cuts registered in his mind.

There was a strange sensation building up in his throat, and his vision was starting to become blurry. If he wasn’t going to get a grip on his reactions, if he continued to sit there allowing fear and despair to have a hold on him instead of anger as it was supposed to be, he was going to start crying.

He’d cried before, a long time ago, when he was small and naive and allowed the beating and teasing of full-fledged devils over being a half fiend to get to him. He swore to himself it was never going to happen again.

“Oh my, it does look like you will require that potion after all,” Haarlep's voice came from somewhere close to him, and the next moment Raphael felt their touch on his hand. When the incubus had time to approach him, he didn’t know. “Tsk-tsk, look what you’ve done, master,” they said, bringing the hand close to their face, starting to gently pull the shards of glass out. “Now I will have to wash my hands again before returning to my baking.”

“Master,” Raphael spat, angry and confused, “why call me that now? Why are you even still here?”

Haarlep remained silent for a long time, finishing tending to the wound with care and precision. This was not the first time they’d done it for Raphael, cleaned him up after a battle. They could’ve easily killed him in moments like this, but they were bound by their service to Raphael’s father not to do harm. Now their motives were unclear, and that uncertainty was terrifying.

“I noted that you enjoyed pecans,” they said finally, as the last piece of glass was removed from Raphael’s palm. “I thought I could try making pecan rolls for you.”

Raphael’s face burned, hotter than his father’s hellfire ever could. Just for a single moment, he allowed himself to consider, that Haarlep could possibly—

No, he couldn’t allow even a seedling of this sort of yarning to settle in him. There were hidden motives in Haarlep’s loyalty, he was sure of it. Now he only needed to discover them.

Pulling his hand away from the incubus, Raphael stood up from his chair. He cursed under his breath, remembering his bruised side, but managed not to fall back, which honestly seemed like a great feat.

“Where are you going?” Haarlep asked flatly, as if Raphael’s action hurt them.

“I need some fresh air,” Raphael replied coldly and started to walk away.

Because at the end of the day, hope was not for people like him.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“As you can see, three souls, freshly killed in the last week or so,” the gnome with an angry expression announced, his intonation matching it in discontent.

“Wonderful!" Hope nodded, "I mean, of course it's not wonderful, they all are dead after all, but, we got them now! Umm... why are you only giving me two files?” she asked. There was something off about the entire situation with the souls, and it wasn’t about Nubaldin displaying hostility towards her from the start. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was just yet, but hoped that looking through the documentations — because of course, souls in the Hells came with their own documents — was going to clear it up.

“I’m going to keep this one,” Nubaldin shrugged, turning to one of the souls hanging in the air in suspension, asleep, unaware.

“Yeah, I don’t really think that’s how it’s going to work,” Hope said, extending her hand, a silent request to hand the last piece of parchment over unmistakable in the gesture.

Nubaldin looked at her with annoyance, then his gaze slid past her shoulder and onto Yurgir, as if he was sizing the two of them up. Finally, the defiance in his eyes dimmed. “I spent half the morning fetching them just for you. As pure and innocent as you could only hope for. A mother of two who sold her soul to protect her children. A poor professor who ended up on the streets, who did his best to be a good person, but was tricked into a contract by a promise of a better life. And all I want in return is this piece of garbage,” he said, spitting onto the floor under the third soul.

Hope looked over it. It was a human man, probably in his early to mid forties dressed in an expensive black coat, with golden embroidery decorating it. Atop of his head was a rich quaff of black, messy hair. A noble of some kind, if she had to guess.

“Nobody is keeping any souls,” she said firmly. Except for her. But that was different. She wasn't going to do bad things with them.

Nubaldin groaned and gritted his teeth. For a moment, Hope thought that he was actually going to fight her over this, but a second passed, then another and he begrudgingly passed the papers. “Fine, but I’m not promising to be nice to neither you nor him,” he announced in a tone that spelled headache to Hope. And here she thought Raphael was going to be the biggest nuisance to her plan, but the former master of the house was simply choosing to drink himself into oblivion, it seemed.

Maybe she needed to interfere, before he ruined his health. Or maybe she needed to continue being very mad at him? Hope wasn't certain.

“Ah, I’ve seen this one before,” Yurgir huffed, his nostrils flaring as if he was sniffing the air. “A picture in Baldur's Gate, plastered over a half destroyed wall.”

Hope’s eyes fell onto the paperwork, and she began reading. The name of the man the soul belonged to was Enver Gortash. He was from a poor family of cobblers, sold into a servitude to Raphael by his own parents.

“I guess that’s why you wanted him,” she sighed. “He’s been here before.”

“He was,” Nubaldin sneered. “And, oh, how I missed beating this brat up.”

Hope ignored the cruel remark, reaching for the soul, her palm hovering over his cheek, yet never touching. There was so much pain and anger coming from him, so much cruelty and cold ambition. He was like her in a sense, he lost something, just like her. But it was a different something.

“A Bane’s chosen,” she whispered, still reading from the papers.

This was strange. This soul was supposed to be in the Bane’s domain now, and not in Avernus, and Hope wondered if it was something Raphael had done to it. Or was, perhaps, it some other power at work, because at the bottom of the parchment, there was a footnote that read, “For my fiery friend, who wished to see the Hells filled with flowers.” And a signature below it that said, “The Final Scribe.”

“This one might be more of a trouble than anything else,” Yurgir warned. “Too much old blood and quarrels. You don’t want to lose control if a fight starts. Let me just eat him.”

“No!” Hope protested in absolute shock. One could assume it was possible to get used to working with devils given the amount of time she’d spent as a prisoner here, but she didn't think she ever could. Even the nicest of them were capable of turning around and saying or doing something so completely outrageous, without even understanding why it was bad. “I’m going to take them all to the guest rooms, I will wake them up one by one.”

“Eh, whatever you want,” Yurgir shrugged, scratching his chin. “But I warned you.”

Hope nodded. She was going to take Yurgir’s words seriously and keep a close eye on this Gortash guy. But she was going to try giving him a second chance too, even in death, because he’d suffered so much in his life. Maybe the ycould look for the parts of themselves they lost together. That was what Ilmater would’ve wanted from her.

Still, there was another thing that was nudging at the counter of her mind the entire time, something Yurgir had mentioned earlier. Something she’s been really trying to figure out since stepping into this room. A small buzzing in her head, like a bee.

“Say,” she asked, turning to the orthon, “didn’t you say you saw four flashes of light coming from this room?”

“Well, yeah, I did,” Yurgir nodded. “Ohhh! Four flashes of light, four people coming in!”

“But...” Hope hummed, looking over the slumbering souls in front of her. “There are only three of them.”

Nubaldin grunted, then raised his hands in a very dramatic approximation of a shrug. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m a gnome, I like to torture, but I don’t eat souls!” He said immediately. “And as you can see there’s nothing else in this room, but a bunch of portals.”

“What if it was awake and walked out?” Hope wondered, trying her best to ignore the gnome's comment about torture. Bad, bad Nubaldin!

“No way!” Nubaldin protested. “There is a barrier in this room that makes it impossible for souls to pass through. Otherwise all our... indentured servants would’ve attempted to run for it by now.”

Yurgir next to her shifted in unmistakable excitement. “Then it must've been a living person who slipped past here,” he said, pulling out his crossbow. “I say, we must go and find the intruder, before something undesirable happens.”

As on a command, following the orthon’s words, every single portal in the room began blinking. Then, one by one, they started to shut down, the room sinking into dusk. A silence spread around the area, and only now Hope realized how loudly the portals were humming prior, how much energy it must’ve been taking keeping them constantly open.

In this new silence, Yurgir loading his weapon, followed by deep chuckle sounded particularly ominous.

***

“What is our next step, master?” Korrilla inquired.

She’d spotted Raphael exiting the boudoir and hurried to his side immediately, almost making Raphael wonder if she was waiting to ambush him outside the entire time. She looked as beaten up as Raphael, but unlike for him, Hope had offered healing for her sister. Korrilla had refused it, her pride and disgust apparent in her bearings.

“I have absolutely no clue what your next step will be, but I’m going to stroll down this corridor for a while, then will turn around and go to my room in hopes of getting utterly wasted,” Raphael replied pointing to his almost empty bottle, which now was also covered in his own blood from the earlier accident.

“But…” Korrilla tried again. “Are you really just going to let her give orders in your home?”

The distaste in her voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t hate that she felt for her sister — Raphael had had time to analyze his servant’s feelings — but something else, something more delicious. It was envy, it was insecurity of walking in somebody else’s shadow for her entire life, somebody that the whole world had considered better, prettier, smarter, stronger…

Korrilla’s feeling was the thing that made Raphael appreciate her services in the first place, but now he wasn’t even able to enjoy the bitterness of it.

“I could throw a boot at her,” he proposed indifferently. “Maybe a pair of underpants, if you desire to be hilarious.”

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, he took a swing of his wine. His cambion’s body was resistant to alcohol like to any other kind of poison, but it still had an effect, and now, when almost the entire bottle was gone, he felt pleasantly unsteady, the blurry world swirling around him.

Because of it, it was rather difficult to pick where to step, and Raphael's foot landed into a pile, which at some point might’ve been an imp or a part of a hellhound, the red goo sticking to his boot. The place was in a state of absolute disarray. The walls were scorched and covered in soot to the point it was difficult to even see gilded designs Raphael found so aesthetically pleasing. The floor was even worse, covered in the remnants of his servants, low level devils killed by the thieves who raided his home. There were also bits and pieces of rock, scattered throughout the corridor, but that one was a part of his own trap.

“Is anyone going to clean this mess?” he moaned loudly into the empty hallway. As it was expected, nobody responded to his demand, every single soul responsible for housekeeping was freed by Hope, given personal rooms and directed to ‘rest and relax’, until they could find a way to send them to a better afterlife.

With a great deal of annoyance that slipped even through his intoxication, Raphael sharply turned to Korrilla. “Weeell,” he drawled, “don’t you wish to be helpful?”

Korrilla looked at him with an equal measure of disbelief and disgust. “Yeah, no,” she said.

“In this case, why won't you be a dear and get lost,” Raphael proposed in a mocking manner.

Korrilla huffed, gifting Raphael with a last disappointed look, then turned around, starting to walk away down the dirty hallway.

***

Stumbling over his own feet, Raphael finally reached his room, which was almost modest in comparison to his boudoir, at least because it was only about a fifth of its size. Making sure to lock the door, he moved towards his desk and fell heavily into a soft comfortable chair, which greeted him with a warm embrace of an old friend. Or, at least he thought it would be how an embrace of a friend feel like.

It looked like his personal room was one of a few areas of the fortress that hadn't been discovered and looted during Tav’s raid. Even after everything, it stayed pristine clean, with all of his most expensive furniture in its places, every item of his personal belongings accounted for.

Without realizing it, Raphael reached for a small secret compartment on the side of his desk, his hand hovering over it undecidedly. There was enough courage in him to open the compartment, to pull out an old wooden box, unadorned with either gold or precious gems, so simple in its design that it looked completely out of place in its surroundings.

He pondered for a moment if he wanted to open, but it was the moment his resolve abandoned him, and so he returned the box back into its place, slamming it closed and trying to get his mind off the thing altogether. Instead, he decided to get up and fetch another bottle of something from the bar near his bed in hopes to drink himself into oblivion.

Yet, before he could get up from his chair, something was thrown in front of him from the other side of the room. If he was in a slightly better state, he would’ve definitely spun around, preparing for a fight. Yet, now he simply stared at a familiar scroll of parchment, which landed onto his table, unrolling itself before his eyes, revealing his own neat and tidy handwriting.

“Devil!” came a small voice from behind him, and Raphael turned his head in the direction of it, seeing a somewhat familiar tiefling child. If he tried hard enough, he even though he was capable of recollecting her name. Mon, or Mob, or something like that. “We had a deal!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, feeling more annoyed at the idea of finding random children in his chambers, rather than anything else. “Actually, I don’t even care, get out!” he added pointing at the door. It was locked now, and he pondered if it was easier to attempt looking around his pockets for the keys or throwing her out of the window.

“Yeah, not happening,” she responded, crossing her arms over her chest. “We had a deal, I signed your stupid contract, I want my powers.”

The details of the deal started to return to Raphael. This child was an orphan, who signed off her soul for helping her and her crew of thieves to safely get out from the Shadowlands, and for Raphael becoming her patron. That last one made him laugh out loud.

“Mol, was it? Sorry, you’re really out of luck here, I’m not granting any powers to anyone,” he said. “Might as well return from whatever hole you crawled out.”

She huffed, but hadn’t moved an inch, staring at him as if she really thought she was capable of taking him down. Although, drunk and aching all over as he was, Raphael considered that it might’ve been a possibility.

Finally, after what seemed to be several minutes of this silent staring contest, her eyes moved around his frame, taking in the sight of his cuts and bruises. “Did Tav beat you up or something?” she asked confusedly, tilting her head.

“I’m not talking to you about it,” Raphael groaned, turning away, trying his best to suppress the heat of humiliation that rose to his cheeks.

“Then, I guess we'll just sit here silently,” she shrugged and moved in the direction of his bed. “So, is that where you sleep? Do devils even need to sleep? Oh, it’s so soft!” she said, taking a seat. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept on a bed this soft.”

Raphael's headache suddenly stuck again with a greater force than before, and he rubbed his temples. “What would it take for you to leave me alone?” he begged.

“I told you already. Tav took my contract away from you, so I’m bringing it back. I want you to be my patron.”

“And I said, I can’t do it. Find yourself another devil.”

“You say it like they hang out on every corner.”

“You’re literally in Hell!” Raphael groaned, absolutely not able to believe the conversation he was having. He wished the bottle in his hands was no longer empty, or that he had had time to get another one before this little irritant showed up. “I’m not even going to ask how you got here, but go get outside, I’m sure you can find a lemure or something.”

“I don’t want any other devil,” Mol protested. Then she continued in a quieter intonation. “I’ve heard you’re Mephistopheles’ son. The power you wield must be immeasurable.”

Something snapped in him that moment, and Raphael jolted from his chair, anger rushing through him, making him see flashes of red before his eyes. Crying in rage, he hurled the wine bottle at a wall, the green shards of glass exploding in every direction.

“I don’t have powers anymore!” he exclaimed through his teeth, unable to calm his heavy breathing, his heart thudding in his chest so hard, it seemed like it wanted to burst out. He felt like he was about to transform into his demon form, that his wings were about to spring upwards, claws stretch from his fingertips, but the transformation never happened. “So you either get out of here now, or I swear I will rip your head right off your shoulders.”

Mol looked terrified now, and on some level it really pleased Raphael. Yet, she still hadn’t moved, hadn’t started to run towards the exit as he demanded of her. “So they messed up both of our plans, haven’t they?” She said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Good thing I pickpocketed one of them. I think I have something that might be of more interest for you than my soul.”

That caught Raphael’s attention, his posture straightening, his eyebrow rising. His anger began to subside, even if only slightly. “And what would that be?”

“Say, Raphael,” she smirked. “Would you like to know a way to kill Zariel?”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The map laid on a small redwood coffee table looked old. The reddish tinted paper smelled of dust and smoke, yet the scent of sulfur was overpowering it, standing out even for a fiend’s nose that was used to it. There was no question about it, the map had been to one of the flying fortresses that served as Zariel’s stronghold.

Or, at least the paper part of it, because the blood the map was drawn with was much fresher, no more than a few weeks old, a month or two at best. A tiefling’s blood, as far as Haarlep was able to tell, but not Mol’s own.

“And you say you stole it from Tav?” Raphael hummed looking over it.

Haarlep’s former master was sitting in his oversized red velvet chair, his legs crossed. He still looked rather disheveled for his usual self, yet better than about an hour prior, the potion Haarlep had finally surrendered to him healing a good portion of his injuries.

“Yup, sure did!” Mol grinned proudly. “Can even swear it under a spell if you ain’t believing me.”

“What do you think, Haarlep?” Raphael turned to them.

Haarlep knew Raphael cared little for what they thought, he hadn’t even offered the incubus a seat upon their arrival. The only reason he’d invited them in his personal chambers was to attempt reading the child’s mind. Haarlep eyed him all over again in fascination. Was his former master really so weak now, he wasn’t even capable of dealing with such a tiny creature? It was truly a pathetic sight.

Then again, not that Haarlep was in any better position.

They wished they could leave. Not Raphael’s bedroom, but the House of Hope altogether. Even if from their very birth, their fate was to serve as a spy and a courtesan for the House of Mephistar, with not even a concept of freedom familiar to them, it would’ve been still a more preferable outcome to what they brought upon themselves now. They were a deserter likely to be hunted by their former lord.

But the worst part was that they didn’t even know why they did it, why even now they felt a desire to soothe Raphael, to make his defeat less agonizing. Not for Raphael's kind and giving personality, that was for sure.

Taking a deep breath, Haarlep pushed the depressing line of thoughts away, concentrating on the child in front of them instead. It was not as easy as they hoped, their hunger tugging their awareness in every direction. Finally, after almost an embarrassing amount of time, they managed to pull themselves together, peering into Mol’s thoughts.

“Damn right, I took this parchment right out of Tav's pocket,” she thought. “With my skill, it was a child’s play!”

She was a clever little imp, Haarlep had to give her that. Definitely still hiding—

Raphael shifted in his chair, switching his crossed legs, and the simple motion almost made Haarlep howl. Their body tensed up as if in preparation for a leap, their mouth starting to salivate, any trace of coherency leaving them, replaced by pure, almost palpable hunger.

That was strange, because they fed only recently. Surely, it was about time to start becoming peckish again, but not to this degree.

Raphael, it seemed, noticed their inner struggle, because he turned to look at them again, his eyebrow raised in a questioning manner.

“I need to feed,” Haarlep said directly into his mind using their telepathy.

Raphael opened his mouth, staring at them in disbelief. “Right now? You want to tell me that right now?!” he responded in shock, yet the blush that creeped to his cheeks looked oh so appetizing. “Snap out of it, concentrate on the stupid map. We’ll talk about it later.”

Greeting their teeth, Haarlep did their best to do exactly that, trying to remember what they were even attempting here. Ah, yes, right, they just finished reading Mol’s thoughts.

“She does seem to be telling the truth,” they said. There was something else that had caught their attention, but no matter how hard they tried to recollect what it was, the only thing that was coming to their mind was images of Raphael's hips. They weren’t even particularly good hips, if they were truly honest with themselves.

“Still, a secret entrance to the Bleeding Citadel,” Raphael hummed, looking over the map. It was not particularly detailed, shoving only some vague location near the Scab, depicting the Citadel’s Approach — a heavily fortified Zariel Fortress that was built there to prevent adventures from reaching the place. Then there was the Citadel itself and some rocky mountains around it, an X marking a spot to a side, several miles away from the main structure of the temple. “Seems like a very serious oversight for the purpose of the place.”

The Bleeding Citadel was a location in Avernus, infamous enough that every last imp knew about it. A holy site created by Zariel’s most loyal followers from the time before her fall. Legends told that a sword that once belonged to Zariel herself was held there, and the only weapon which could slay the archdevil once and for all. There was no real way to check if the legend was true, because the protection of that temple was stronger than any devil of Avernus. Only somebody pure of heart was capable of entering the fortress.

“Well, it’s not like I can confirm it for you,” Mol shrugged. “All I have is this map, and all I want in return for giving it to you is a deal that I will be your warlock when you get your powers back.”

Raphael opened his mouth to reply something, but Haarlep was suddenly unable to hear what his former master was saying, their head starting to spin, their legs becoming weaker. It took several moments for the ringing in their ears to subside, and when the swaying of their body stopped, they heard Raphael's voice calling for them, distant, as if Raphael was speaking through water.

“What is wrong with you today!” he complained, not even a note of concern for Haarlep’s wellbeing. “Pull yourself together.”

“Just,” Haarlep replied, shaking their head. “Need a second.”

Raphael was looking at them in disapproval, then sighed. “It is rather late. Why won’t you show our esteemed guest to our new Mistress of the House, then come back here so we could… discuss what’s going on with you,” he said, rubbing his temples.

***

Reaching out for the soul of Enver Gortash, Hope hesitated. Even if she didn’t agree with everything Yurgir said, she knew he was right about one thing — waking Gortash was going to spell trouble. The man had experienced a lot of suffering, and a great portion of it happened in the House of Hope. It wasn't likely he was going to react favorably to being brought back here after his death.

But it was also the right thing. Hope needed to do right things. Shaking her head and sending a short prayer to Ilmater, she finally touched his translucent skin, a small jolt of energy passing through her fingertips and spreading around his whole body in a glowing wave of gold.

And then he screamed, jolting forward, and into the stance of a man locked in a throes of battle. “I will not be killed, you will not take me!” he yelled looking around with wide eyes, full of rage and fear.

“Enver?” Hope called gently for him. “Please listen to me. You’re safe now! Or as safe as you can be. You know,” her voice came to a whisper, "in hell."

He stopped in his tracks, eyeing her with cautious curiosity, his body never losing tension. “Who are you? Answer me!” he demanded. Yet strangely, it was not the tone of a spoiled nobleman who was used to people pandering to his whims. There was resolve in his voice, as if he knew full well his demand could be backed up by brute power if not accommodated. That somehow made him sound opposite to Raphael, which Hope found rather refreshing.

Moving from her, Gortash’s eyes began taking in the surroundings, his angry caution turning into a full blown rage as recognition settled in them. “No! Not here!!” he screamed. “Not again!”

“Please, Enver, listen—”

Without any warning, he launched himself at her, yet she was prepared, raising a Shield of Faith around her body. Gortash’s unarmed hand collided with the barrier of light, stopping in its tracks.

“Raphael is not a master of this house anymore!” she tried again, getting straight to the point this time.

This seemed to be the right call, because it made Gortash stop, his posture changing to a more composed one, his black straightening. “Oh?” he smiled almost softly now, honest interest appearing in his eyes. “Please, do tell me more about it,” he requested, taking a step back.

And Hope did, explaining everything from how she was released from Raphael's prison, to how she took control of the castle. Gortash was listening to her carefully, as if he didn’t want to miss a single crucial detail, even if half oh her details was an unnecessary blabbering, she knew. Gortash's eyes were narrowing in a peculiar manner when she was starting to go off topic, and that was somehow helping her concentrate. At the part where Raphael lost his powers, Gortash grinned almost happily, an honest joy radiation from his spirit.

“So,” he said as Hope’s short retelling of the recent events was over. “And what are your plans exactly about my humble persona?”

Hope considered it, all of the horrible things this man had done, and the small footnote in the paperwork that came together with his soul. “My plan is to send the souls of innocents who do not belong here to the afterlife they deserve,” she said. “But you’re not exactly innocent. Say, why won’t you work some time as a gardener for me? This place can be prettier with you in it.”

Gortash was looking at her in complete disbelief, as if he expected her to burst into laughter any moment and tell that she was joking. Yet the moment never came. “I mean, I am flattered you find me pretty, but... Me? Gardener?” he said slowly. “Me, who knows the intricate detail of the inner workings of this castle, of every bit of infernal machinery in it, whose brilliant mind can help you reach goals you haven’t even dared to dream about.” His hand rose upwards as if trying to reach an invisible object hanging in the air in front of him, his finger grasping into the imaginary thing

Just for one precious moment, Hope's mind cleared almost completely of all the voices and shards of memories that were not her own, and she looked at him with a great deal of sadness. “Have you ever managed it? To reach your own goals?” she asked.

His hands fell, pain and despair touching his eyes again, yet his expression remained composed. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Yes, come in,” Hope called.

The door opened, and Haarlep appeared before them. They were grinning cheerfully, their posture carefree, while both of their hands laid on the shoulders of a child, who stood in front of them. Almost immediately Hope realized that, even while looking somewhat devilish, the child was not infernal in origin, at least not in the same sense as most people surrounding her nowadays. She was in fact just a tiefling.

“Good evening to you, Hope,” Haarlep said, gently pushing the girl forward, into the room. “We found a little stowaway impling,” they added, nodding at the girl, who looked less than amused by the situation. “She’s clearly tired and hungry, so why won't you extend our gracious hospitality and find her some food and a place to sleep?” Then Haarlp’s eyes moved to Gortash, surprise sparkling in them. “Oh, look at that! Our long lost chamber boy!”

Gortash almost recoiled from the incubus, his face twisting in clear disgust. “Well,” he managed to say, covering his face with the palm of his hand. “I am clearly in hell.”

Hope ignored their interaction, focusing her attention on the girl instead. “So, you're the intruder who came through our portals?” she asked, trying to sound as soft as she only could to make the girl feel safer.

The girl was clearly not impressed by her, however, looking her down, as if she was the one the flying castle belonged to. “My business is with Raphael, I owe you no answers,” she said, crossing her arms.

Hope raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what kind of dealings a child could’ve had with that devil. She couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen by the looks of it. Malnourished a great deal, but not starving, not tortured. “Well, could you at least tell me why you shut our portals off?”

The girl seemed genuinely surprised by the question, “Portals?” she asked. “I know nothing about any portals.”

That confused Hope, because if it wasn’t the intruder trying to sabotage their plans, she had not a single idea what happened. She only knew they needed the room, needed every gateway to work. She really hoped to avoid asking Raphael about it, but now it seemed she had no other viable option. Maybe she could ask other things of him. A great deal of other things. Maybe she could also find out something.

“Looks like your House of Hope is going into partial shut down,” Gortash hummed, and when Hope looked at him, she saw him staring at his own fingernails, as if disinterested. “Are you running low on souls powering it, perhaps? Portals are the first thing to shut down in this case, followed by an array of other systems. Next will be the canons, then the ability to fly, then the glamor that makes us hidden from any sort of divination magic. But,” he added with a chuckle, “there is good news as well. The previous owner here was a vain bastard, so the internal cooling, the thing that keeps the air inside at such a nice and comfortable temperature, while the rivers of lava are raging outside, will be the last thing to go.”

“You know all of that? The bits and pieces of the house?” Hope surprised.

“As I said, I’m well familiar with the inner workings of the place,” he nodded. “I could take a look at the engines for you, but... I thought you wanted me to be a gardener?”

***

“If there’s even a lick of truth to Mol’s words, it would give me a chance of regaining both my power and my status,” Raphael said, his hand undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Haarlep was watching the movements of his fingers impatiently, their body trembling with the amount of restraint it was taking not to pounce. The two of them hadn’t even touched each other yet, but their skin was already covered with sweat. There was absolutely no reason for them to feel this way, as if they had been starving for months, as if they were on a verge of passing out from the lack of nutrition.

A cold, sickly feeling was settling in the pit of Haarlep’s stomach, a terrifying suspicion that they silently begged the universe was not what they thought it was.

“Still, before we can even reach the Bleeding Citadel, we will have to pass through the Citadel’s Approach. It will be impossible to besiege it, as it is as fortified as Zariel’s personal flying fortress. We will have to find a more subtle way of getting in, we would have—“

It was taking way too long, and Haarlep wanted, needed, for Raphael to shut up. Grabbing him by the chin, they pressed their lips to his, their tongue sliding into his mouth with greed.

Despite their own concerns, they hoped to feel a relief of the delicious power of lust running into them where their bodies touched, but there was nothing. Not even a trickle. Frustrated, they groaned and grabbed Raphael by the shoulders, spinning him around and throwing him onto the bed.

“What in the Nine Hells had gotten into you?” Raphael gasped breathlessly, the air seemingly kicked out of his lungs as he landed on the mattress. “I’m more than certain I haven’t let you go hungry for that long, haven’t— Aaah!”

Haarlep didn't let him finish again, jumping onto the bed after him, straddling his hips. Their hands came to Raphael's shirt at the same time, and they tore it open, revealing blushing skin underneath, sprinkled rather substantially by coarse curly hair.

Sneering, Haarlep leaned down, their tongue lapping over Raphael's neck, tasting salt and dust. Their fingers made a target out of Raphael's nipple, playing with the nub until it hardened under the skillful ministrations.

And still, there was nothing.

And it wasn’t like Raphael wasn’t enjoying it. Giving up on finding out the reason behind Haarlep’s unusual approach, he relaxed into the pillows, allowing Haarlep to have their way. Small huffs and moans of pleasure were falling from his lips, and as Haarlep began rocking their hips against his, they were capable of feeling him growing harder with each moment, each touch.

And still, not a droplet of sustenance was offered to them in return for their trouble.

Anger, frustration, fear was swirling inside the incubus, making them want to be rough, to be inconsiderate, to take, take and take what should've been rightfully theirs. (Because really, wasn’t it how Raphael himself was?) And yet they didn’t allow it to themselves, choosing instead to restrain their temper, to hold Raphael the way they knew he loved. Because despite everything, they realized they couldn’t hurt him. They wished for him to feel good, even if they were getting almost nothing in return.

And that, as Raphael’s favorite rhyme went, was that, the answer as to why they disobeyed Mephistopheles’ orders and put themselves in danger. That was why when Hope asked if they wanted to learn cooking, a dish they knew Raphael was going to like was the first thing they thought about.

That was the worst of their fears coming into fruition.

***

It was cloudy outside, the fiery puffs of smoke tinting shades of green, making Haarlep believe an acid rain was going to start any moment. They always loved it when it rained, enjoyed the entertainment of watching occasional lower grade devils which didn’t have any resistances to acid melt as the skies were tearing open.

Raphael was asleep beside them, his naked form disheveled, his hair thrown about the pillow, some falling into his face that was still somewhat bruised as a single potion was not enough to heal him fully. All of it made him look nothing like the persona he’d built for himself over the centuries, but soft, vulnerable instead. But then, perhaps, it was exactly how he was now.

He didn’t even need to sleep, and yet here he was, snoring softly, so utterly exhausted from recent activities.

There was a problem now, however. No matter how long Haarlep was taking him apart that evening, they were left hungry. Even their kiss, that should’ve tripled Raphael’s arousal didn’t help even the slightest. They didn’t even think it worked and were glad Raphael was likely still too tipsy on wine to notice or remember.

If Haarlep wasn’t going to figure out a solution, they were going to die. A slow and agonizing death, if what they’d heard was correct. Not to mention their outburst of lust was rather minor this time, they didn’t even wish to think what was going to happen if they completely lost control.

Eating normal food was supposed to help with that, but it was a horrible solution in the long run, like feeding a tiger a vegetarian diet.

They could explain themselves to Raphael, of course. Not that it could really do anything for them, but make his former master laugh into their face. No, battling a Balor one on one seemed like a more preferable fate.

Biting their lip, Haarlep looked around the bedroom. This was the second time they’d ever been here, never invited to trespass upon Raphael’s personal space. Now this bedroom remained the only place that Raphael had left, and he had no choice but to allow Haarlep to be here if he wished to have a private conversation or sex.

It looked eerily similar to the boudoir, perhaps even lavisher. There were more of his portraits here, a few busts sculpted to make him look grander and more handsome. To find at least some solace in the situation, Haarlep got up from the bed, picking one of the smaller busts that looked the least heavy and hurled it out of the balcony. It fell a good distance, crushing against some rocks they were currently flying over. It was too far to see it in detail, but satisfying nonetheless.

Their eyes caught something as they returned inside the room, a curiosity on a side of a writing desk that was almost clear of any clutter, rarely used as Raphael preferred to work in the boudoir. It looked like a secret compartment, which in any other circ*mstances would’ve perfectly fit into the bas-relief of the wooden surface and became unnoticeable. Yet, it seemed it was not closed properly last time.

“What secrets do you still hide from me?” they hummed thoughtfully, opening it and finding a strange box inside.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Raphael felt surprisingly rested as he opened his eyes. Surely, there was some residue of his headache that clung to him from the previous day, but to his astonishment, it was a really fine morning.

He was also incredibly comfortable, cradled into something warm and smelling strangely of cinnamon and honey, which were not the types of scent he usually associated with his bedroom. It took him another moment to realize that this something was alive, breathing softly into his nape. A hand slid across his chest, moving lightly towards his abdomen, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“Somebody’s awake,” came a familiar, playful voice, that sounded both like Raphael’s own and completely different at the same time.

Raphael froze, realizing Haarlep had stayed in his room for the entire duration of his rest, and his face flushed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to remain composed. “I mean, why are you still here?”

He wasn’t sure why such a simple thing affected him in this manner, not with the amount of times they’d ended up naked in bed since Haarlep had sworn their loyalty to him. But it was the very first time Raphael woke up with the incubus. Somehow, that felt more intimate than anything they’d done together.

“Well, the room I usually rest in was repurposed into a kitchen. I can’t exactly stay there,” Haarlep hummed, pressing a kiss into the back of Raphael’s neck.

It felt so good, it sent a shiver down Raphael’s spine, making him wish to lean back into the embrace. He mused over his desire for a solid second, wondering if he could allow himself to relax, to pretend somebody in this horrid, unfair universe actually—

No, it didn’t matter. Allowing himself this kind of weakness was only going to leave him open when Haarlep eventually, inevitably betrayed him. Raphael knew better than that, had had time to learn his lessons times and times over.

“There’s always the dungeon,” he said, untangling himself from their embrace and getting off the bed. “I’ve heard Hope was redesigning it into an inn or something.”

The clothes that he was wearing the day before were laying on the floor, torn to absolute shreds by Haarlep’s sharp claws as if they personally offended the incubus somehow. Not that Raphael really thought he would’ve put them on, both because they would’ve required washing and also because he himself felt like needing a bath, his body sticky from yesterday’s exertions.

There was one in his personal chamber. It was a much smaller pool, yet Raphael all but shuddered in pleasant anticipation as he imagined himself sinking into the welcoming water.

“You’re insufferable,” Haarlep sighed, stretching on the bed, their muscles rolling beneath their skin in a way Raphael couldn’t help but find distracting.

There was something different about them, Raphael noted. Of course, the two of them still looked pretty much alike, but there’d been differences in their appearances from the start. Haarlep was leaner than Raphael, taller, with their facial features slightly more angular, which made it fairly easy for anyone to distinguish between the two. Now the difference seemed even more pronounced somehow, yet Raphael couldn’t determine why. Was it the shape of their horns that changed, or the form of their nose? Cheekbones?

“Well, the way you’re still here, I can only assume you enjoy suffering,” Raphael brushed it off.

“Maybe I just enjoy watching your misery,” Haarlep smirked, their eyes following Raphael all the way towards the pool, traveling up and down his body, so intensely that Raphael could swear he was able to feel their gaze as a physical caress.

The bickering between them was familiar, yet Raphael knew full well that if he was going to continue responding to the incubus in this particular manner, he was going to end up bent over the edge of the pool. He was not in the mood for that.

“I have something to ask of you,” he said instead, opening a valve with hot water to fill his bath. It trickled suspiciously slowly, and the water coming out of it was cold, warming only slightly as it continued to flow. “In a strange twist of fate, I’ve looked into the background of a… group of individuals that had saved the Sword Coast merely a few days ago—“

“The ones that kicked your ass?” Haarlep almost purred. “Yes, I remember them quite well.”

Raphael felt as if he was slapped across the face, both from the reminder about what happened and because of a thought that popped into his head. How did Haarlep exactly survive the meeting with Tav? Did they even attempt to fight off the intruders, or did they... do something completely different?

His mind conjured an image of the incubus and Tav rolling in the sheets, hands grasping into each other, and something vile bubbled inside Raphael. Of course if Haarlep was using his body, he would’ve felt it, but what if they turned into somebody else? Or even worse, Raphael knew the incubus had some sort of control over their telepathic abilities, they could’ve blocked him off while indulging.

“As I was saying,” he continued through his teeth. He knew Haarlep wasn’t going to answer if he asked this question directly, plus it would make him look as if he was jealous. “As it conveniently happens, one of them might be familiar with the layout of the Citadel’s Approach, having been stationed there previously. Luckily, she also happens to be back in Avernus now, and you could be the best candidate for tracking her down.”

Haarlep was giving him a curious look, their eyebrow raised. “Are you really willing to work with them, after everything?” they asked.

“Well, I don’t have to work with any of them. Karlach happened to bring a friend along. Somebody she rather cares about. If we put his life at risk—“

“You want me to kidnap one of them?” Haarlep hummed, placing his hands behind his head. “Not exactly my area of expertise.”

“Well, we will have to adapt,” Raphael pointed out, biting his lip. He didn’t wish to admit it, but if he wanted to return to his former position he would need to make more sacrifices. “We could hide and torture Wyll until Karlach agrees to give us what we need.”

Haarlep clicked their tongue. “What if we just ask for their help?”

Raphael stared at them, wondering if they were serious. “There is no way they would agree on that, no matter how you asked. You can’t charm both of them at the same time either. So kidnapping and torture it is.”

“Would you like a bet?” Haarlep chuckled.

Raphael turned to look away, annoyed at his incubus’ attitude. Instead, he checked the temperature of the water in the pool, finding out it was still lukewarm. There was something wrong with that, because he’s been running it for a while now, and by all logic it should’ve been already steaming. The House of Hope couldn’t simply just lose hot water, not unless someone was messing with—

The entire room shook under him, and he began feeling trembles coming from somewhere below. Something akin to an explosion came from outside the window, and Raphael ran towards the balcony, forgetting even that he was still completely naked. There, underneath the castle he was able to see smoke coming from one of the turbines, yet given his angle, it was impossible to determine anything else.

“Haarlep!” he yelled, hurrying back inside, finding a bathrobe hanging near the pool and throwing it over his shoulders. “Get me down there, right now!” he ordered.

***

The engine room was covered in smoke, but it wasn’t as bad as Raphael expected. It was still possible to see the entirety of the large circular area containing an endless array of pipes, valves and control panels, each bearing red glowing runes with vague descriptions of their purposes.

There were people in here, engaged in a heated argument, and at first Raphael thought they were under attack, that an enemy was sabotaging the engines. At the closer expectations, it turned out to be even worse than that.

“You can’t do that! This is not how the house is supposed to be operated!” Korrilla yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Unnecessarily,” Hope responded, taking a swing at one of the pipes with what looked to be an oversized club made of black metal. Raphael had absolutely no idea where the cleric found it, cause he’d never seen it before. “Enver here tried to convince me that we will be doomed to fall from the sky, that we need to consume poor souls to stay afloat, but we don’t need that! I’m giving all these souls hope! I’m landing!”

With that she hit the pipe again, finally breaking it off, steam and sparks coming out of it, scattering in every direction, and Raphael wished to both yell and cry about the damages to his place.

“By gods, I thought I came here to suffer for the rest of eternity,” said the man Hope nodded towards a second earlier, “but this. This is the most entertained I’ve been in years.”

Raphael immediately recognized his old servant, and also the recently inaugurated Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate Gortash. He was dead, of course, Raphael had heard the news of his passing. Partially translucent, his soul however was now sitting on one of the pipes next to Hope, and an amused smile plastered over his face. In his hands, Gortash was holding a small ceramic flower pot and an equally small watering can. Why he had such objects, or where they came from was a mystery to Raphael.

“I’m with the crazy lady, too!” Mol’s voice came from somewhere closer to the ceiling, and when Raphael looked up, he saw the girl hanging from a different pipe upside down like some kind of a circus monkey. “But mostly because no way I would’ve trusted that creepy lord guy. Better to crash the building than give him access to it.”

“Master!” Korrilla pleaded, as she finally saw Raphael. “Do something about this—“

She didn't finish her request, the flooring under their feet began shaking so violently, Raphael was almost knocked off his feet. He was lucky, as even without his devil powers, his reflexes remained the same as they used to. Yet, as he was focusing on shifting his weight not to end up on his rear, he saw Korrilla falling face first onto the stone floor. Haarlep behind him stumbled and almost fell, yet managed to jump at the last moment, getting themselves airborne. With a little less grace, Mol prevented herself from falling off the pipe by wrapping her tail around it.

The House of Hope began a rapid descent.

“Ladies and gentleman, and everyone in between,” Hope announced into a glowing orb that came out of a wall when she slammed her fist into it, her voice echoing over the entire room, and Raphael suspected it carried throughout the whole castle as well. He didn’t even know he had a device like that! “We are currently taking a planned, but slightly rough landing. I advise everyone to grab onto something! Preferably something solid.”

Raphael screamed, anger and despair of seeing the place he’d been calling his home for centuries being so unceremoniously thrown out of a proverbial window. Not willing to give it up, he rushed towards the control panel on the opposite side to where Hope was messing things up. Reaching for a set of levers that operated the house’s defenses, he started to bring up the shields.

It was not a difficult task, usually, a lowest ranking cambion was capable of operating it, but with a terror in his eyes, Raphael realized how little soul power was left in the engines. Still, he took every remaining bit, redirecting it into the sole purpose of raising a green glowing barrier around the entire premises of his home.

Hope jumped onto a different lever. It was a giant thing usually covered by two panels that had been torn sometime before Raphael even arrived here. Vaguely, he remembered that this lever was doing something, something corresponding with landing, but as he’d never had to actually land before, he couldn’t remember what it was.

Something burst under them, something shook, and suddenly they began slowing down. The room around them, meanwhile, started to transform, every wall beginning to slide down with a loud screech of metal grinding against metal, reshaping themselves into...

“Legs,” Raphael muttered in awe. His flying castle had landing gear.

And that was when they touched the ground. The house shook all over so violently that this time even Raphael's inhuman reflexes were not enough to allow him to remain standing. He fell to his side, his hip hitting the floor in a most painful manner, enough for him to see white before his eyes.

Everything was a complete mess for the longest of moments. Something cracked around them, something crushed, and Raphael thought that it was really the end of him this time. Yet, miraculously, as the clouds of dust began settling, he realized not only he was alive, the castle itself remained intact.

Still...

“What in the name of Nine Hells were you thinking!!!” Raphael screamed, getting up from the ground, rushing towards Hope, his rage fueling him, allowing him to ignore the pain. She was laying on the ground, too, and without thinking, he managed to grab her by the collar, lifting her up. “You could’ve killed us all!”

Hope raised her head to look at him, her eyes began glowing golden, and the next moment Raphael found himself thrown backwards, to the same spot on the floor he was laying merely a moment earlier. “Don’t touch me,” she said, sounding suddenly serious, her voice deeper than Raphael had ever remembered. “I knew perfectly well what I was doing!”

“I didn't know how to do half of that!” Raphael protested. His anger did not subside, but he kept his distance this time remebering he could do nothing against her. “You almost destroyed this place!”

“I might've pointed her in a direction or two,” Gortash shrugged. He was still sitting on the same pipe, completely unaffected by their crash, watering his flower pot.

“I didn’t destroy it!” she replied ignoring Gortash's remark. Her strange, deep voice disappeared, but she wasn't her usual cheerful self yet either. “You, on the other hand, drained the remaining of the power we had for the shield we didn’t need! We’re vulnerable now to anyone who comes knocking on our door. And people will come! Many people want to come and kill us.”

“Well, excuse me!” Raphael threw his arms into the air. “You should’ve come to me and let me know about your crazy plan, maybe in that case it wouldn’t have happened!”

“I think you’re forgetting, I’m in charge here now. I decide what I should or should not do! I owe you no warning nor explanation. Not after everything. You are the one who shouldn’t jump and insert yourself into my plan!”

“Yes, your nice, selfish, little plan that everyone around should be content about, no matter how much in danger it--”

Raphael stumbled over his words, his jaw clenching. It was almost poetic, really, a beautiful kind of irony he’d always been oh so avid to appreciate. That was until it was aimed at him directly, and suddenly it stopped feeling as delightful.

A touché, and Hope wasn’t even holding a fencing foil. Honestly, if she’d chained and tortured him instead, he still wouldn’t have felt as defeated.

Straightening himself and wrapping his robe tiger around his frame, thankful it somehow hadn’t flown off during the entire mess, Raphael slowly turned to the opposite direction and began walking away. As he reached the incredibly amused looking Haarlep, he stopped. “Get me that info from Karlach,” he whispered through his teeth, trying to grab onto the collar of their leather armor. Not in an intimidating kind of way, but because he felt like he needed to grab onto something. Yet, he realized the incubus was still naked, the armor on them was nothing but a glamor. “I don’t care how.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Haarlep had heard that before the Blood Wars tore Avernus apart, the first layer of hell used to be a rich and bustling place, filled with trade and flourishing cities. It was before their time, of course, and looking over the land now, when anything even remotely resembling structures was leveled to the ground, they could barely imagine it.

Still, there were bastions standing throughout the plane, some reminiscent of the ancient times, others built already after the war had moved here.

Haarlep flew over an enormously tall barricade towering over the dusty vermillion flatlands. It was made entirely out of parts and pieces of broken war machines, sharps metal claws and spikes sticking into every direction. Behind it, they saw several devils, mostly imps and spinagons dispersing in every direction towards metal fortifications scattered throughout an old battlefield.

“Halt!” said a kyton that stood guard near a maw of a cavern where Haarlep landed, his voice accompanied by the rattle of chains that covered the devil almost head to toe. “Who comes here and for what reasons?”

“Name is Haarlep, I came to speak to an acquaintance,” they responded.

The kyton nodded and pulled out a dark green orb from under the folds of his robes, aiming it at Haarlep. Immediately, the thing began casting a multitude of divination spells, only a few of which Haarlep was capable of identifying. They had no choice but to allow the procedure. While being fairly certain they could take the chained devil, Haarlep knew he wasn’t alone here. They could see all of the imps poking their tiny heads out of their hiding places, waiting to find out if the newly arrived guest was going to start trouble. Small as they were, there was a literal swarm of them.

Haarlep waited patiently until the kyton was done, wishing more than anything to move out of the red glow of the sky and its immense heat. They didn’t even realize how used they were to the artificially cooled rooms of the House of Hope. No matter how annoying and intolerable Raphael could’ve been at times, they couldn’t deny their life wasn’t as bad as a great number of other possibilities.

“Clear,” the kyton nodded, moving out of the way, letting Haarlep inside the cavern.

They had never been around Fort Knucklebone before. Mostly because they’d considered a company of marauders and scavengers to be below them, but also because they’d rarely been anywhere outside of the Mephistar, the House of Hope and a few occasional locations on Toril where they’d followed after Raphael out of sheer boredom.

This particular, underground portion was not the fort itself, however, but a storage area and what Haarlep could describe best as a cantina for the Knucklebone gang. The crowd here was rather untidy, with most patrons dressed in a variety of rags and tatters, dirty and smelling of urine and cheap spirits. They all looked like they’d seen their fair share of combat, be it with demons or rival gangs, yet the limbs they’d lost in the squabbles were now replaced with machinery, which made them look more intimidating. Still, most of the clientele in here were fairly low-grade devils, with only a single cornugon pouring the drinks at the bar, his enormous horns adorned by a variety of metal gears, hanging from them on stings, jingling against each other as he moved.

One of the patrons was standing out like a piece of sharp obsidian in a field of salt. Dressed in a rich blue dress and covered in gold jewelry and furs, she was sitting alone at the table, drinking from a crystal goblet, which Haarlep was certain couldn’t have come from this bar.

“Ah, Raphael’s little harlot,” Mizora practically purred, as Haarlep approached her. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Although, I expected you to look... different,” she smiled looking them up and down with almost a hungry expression. “It is a pleasant surprise.”

She’d expected them to look like an exact copy as Raphael, that's what she meant. Haarlep wasn’t. Maybe at the very beginning, they had been replicating their master’s form almost perfectly, but wearing that face was exhausting, and they hated seeing their own reflection in the mirror. And so, they were slowly adjusting it to their liking. Even more so in the last few days when they didn’t have to pander to that bastard’s whims anymore.

“I’m a shapeshifter, I can look anything I would like to,” Haarlep smiled.

“Your kind is truly fascinating,” she nodded.

She offered them a hand, a sly smile on her lips, and Haarlep took it, placing a kiss on her knuckles. They hated it, hated the humiliation this half-blooded fiend was putting them though, yet they also knew they couldn’t underestimate her. Perhaps, like Raphael, she was only a cambion, but unlike their former master, she was not sired by a devil lord, she was not given riches and slaves and flying castles on a golden platter. Everything she accomplished, her high stance in the court of Zariel, was the result of her own work, her cunning. That made her more dangerous than Raphael could’ve ever hoped to be.

Starved as they were, Haarlep also expected the physical touch to affect them in one way or the other. Even without it the arrant, irresistible sexual energy radiating from Mizora would’ve been enough to make their mouths water. Yet, not even the smallest part of them stirred at the contact, and Haarlep suspected it was not due to them eating every single pecan roll they’d baked. It appeared, Raphael was now the sole recipient of their hunger, and he was going to bear the brunt of it if Haarlep lost control. In any other circ*mstances, they would’ve found it hilarious, but the imminent possibility of their death made it difficult to appreciate the levity of the situation.

“In fact, I find you so fascinating, I might not even be offended that you invited me to such a dingy little hellhole,” Mizora added with another sigh.

“Apologies, I wish the circ*mstances allowed it to be in a much more luxurious setting,” Haarelp forced a smile as they took a seat opposite from her. “But as you might be aware…” they trailed off.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard. What a tragedy, really!” she said dramatically. “But what can we do, I suppose there are worse fates, worse places.”

With that, she beckoned an imp, watching with amusem*nt as the thing hopped towards their table with a bottle at least three sizes bigger than its body. The bottle was uncorked, and a dark scarlet, almost black liquid was spilling out of it with each bounce of the small devil’s body. The drink inside looked almost like blood, yet its droplets were sizzling as they touched the dusty floor.

With a comically wide grin, it jumped on the table, refilling Mizora’s cup with surprising precision, “Please enjoy, I will be here, ready to serve,” it squeaked.

It attempted to ask something of Haarlep as it gestured to its giant bottle, but they ignored the question, taking the thing by its wings and moving it off the table with disdain.

“Is but a temporary setback,” they smiled, leaning into the chair. Like everything else in the vicinity, it was made of hard, rusted metal with sharp edges, and was incredibly uncomfortable, but they did their best not to show discomposure on their face.

Mizora was watching them curiously over the rim of her cup. “Your master? Is he still, really?” she asked distantly, but there was curiosity in her voice, too.

The fact that she was aware of Raphael’s defeat was expected. That she knew about him losing powers was less likely, yet the possibility of it was not something Haarlep dismissed. But them being recalled from a mission, which they were sent to by somebody else, that was not something she would have possibly known. Either Mephistopheles or Raphael himself would’ve needed to inform her of that. It was more likely she was taking guesses and gauging their reaction, so Haarlep needed to make sure they didn’t slip.

“Merely a habit calling him that,” they laughed. “In fact, I almost turned my back on him. In the end, who could possibly desire serving a powerless, resourceless devil? Especially somebody as ignorant as him.”

“And yet, here you are. Curious,” Mizora raised an eyebrow. There was a real eagerness about her now, a kind one would expect from a person who thinks they have a finger on a pulse of everything in Avernus and its surrounding, yet finding out something they don’t know.

“Perhaps,” Haarlep nodded, looking distantly into the depth of the cavern, as if disinterested in the topic of their conversation. “He has a plan. And if that plan comes into fruition, he will be able to become, if not the ruler of all Nine Hells, at least the ruler of Avernus. Being a consort to somebody in such a high position hardly seems like something I should be running away from.”

Haarlep was not the best of liars, they were aware of the fact. Or at least their lies were not focused on words. Being able to seduce people with ease, they hardly needed to practice the skill. Even now, while they weren’t exactly lying, but speaking about probable scenarios and half-truths, they could only hope they sounded convincing enough.

“And I assume that was why you invited me here. Not to brag, obviously. You need something,” she guessed, taking another sip of her drink.

“Merely a trivial matter,” Haarlep shrugged. “Something I could find from a different source, of course.”

“Mm, yes, downgrading the importance of my help for a favorable to you price negotiation. How very… predictable,” she laughed.

They ignored her remark, continuing with the previous line of thought. “There are two individuals hiding in Avernus. Mortals from the Prime Material who arrived here recently, but quite skillful at staying alive and hidden. Yet, you must still have some connection to one of them. Your last pet, Wyll Ravengard.”

Her expression turned almost blank as she heard the name, guarded, and Haarlep hated that she was so good at it, they were not capable of reading her. They attempted to probe her mind, but could hear no thoughts, only rage burning in her heart.

She was staring at them for a long moment, considering. “Why would you possibly need him?” she asked finally. Her intonation was almost the same as before, if only a little more strained. “Surely not because you fancy the pup.”

“Not Wyll, no,” Haarlep shook their head. “But his companion could lead us through the Citadel’s Approach.”

Mizora raised both of her eyebrows this time. Then she began laughing. “Bleeding Citadel? Is that Raphael’s grand plan? Dear me, now I want to help you at least so I could have the pleasure of seeing him being smitten in a pillar of heavenly light when he as much as steps near the place.”

This was the time for Haarlep to give her a blank stare, trying to remain as calm and disinterested in her teasing as they could. Apparently, it was enough, because after what felt like a solid minute, her expression regained seriousness.

“He really does have something that could help him get in, doesn’t he?” she asked, leaning closer, over the table.

Haarlep only shrugged. “What if he does?”

There was another moment of silence, which lasted longer than before. It wasn't quiet around them, the cavern drowning in a cacophony of voices and sounds, starting with simple conversations and ending with the sharp clinks of metal goblets against each other, the shatter of glass. Still, it felt almost deadly silent in comparison to when Mizora was laughing.

“You know, you do look rather scrawny,” she hummed finally, switching the topic of their conversation instead of replying. “I mean, I knew Raphael is an impotent with his powers now,” she leaned even close now, practically hovering over the table, the low cut of her dress revealing a view that in any other circ*mstances Haarlep would’ve found more than alluring, her smirk turning predatory. “But dear me, to think that he struggles in that area, too. You poor thing! Say,” she added, her voice becoming so low, it was barely a whisper that resonated through Haarlep's entire being. “Why would you come here and take a nibble from me?”

Mizora had no way of knowing they couldn’t feed. They didn’t think that their hunger was visible somehow, there was nothing in their appearance that could’ve indicated that. Still, there was a reason for her probing, even if Haarlep didn’t know what it was for sure just yet.

They needed to tread more than carefully now, because she couldn’t find out about their problem. If she did, she would realize that Rapahel’s plan was holding together with spit and hemp threads and would never agree to help. They needed to keep her unaware of the citation until reaching Wyll and Karlach. Afterwards, it simply wouldn't matter.

Yet, they couldn’t refuse her either, as she could find it insulting and leave.

Haarlep reached for her cheek, gently running their finger down her cheekbone, until she almost trembled. “Oh, how much I would want that,” they murmured. “But not here, not now. You’re an exquisite meal, and I would never want to rush consuming it, unlike the scraps I’m used to.”

That seemed to be more satisfactory of an answer than Haarlep anticipated, her pupils dilating in a most telling way, her lips parting. “Perhaps,” she smiled, “when we are celebrating our victory. But... before that. You’re talking about me going against my own mistress, the price you need to pay me must be tremendous. So, Haarlep the incubus, a pet to disgraced prince of Cania, what could you possibly offer me?”

Mizora was incredibly informed about everything and everyone, she had to to survive. But she wasn’t the only one. In the end, even the most vicious and cruel of their kind were starved for simpler things, like a loving touch, a kind word. They all were ready to offer their most precious secrets in return for it. And Haarlep had been offered a lot of secrets over the centuries.

Still, the next part was a gamble, a leap in the dark that they hated to make but had no other option. “Your freedom,” they said.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

It was so quiet around the house that Hope was starting to become uneasy. There were no whispers in her ear at the moment, no rattle of chains. She missed the whispers; they had become somewhat comforting over the years of her imprisonment. Hope wondered when they were going to return.

From time to time, wind was blowing into the grand arched windows. While it was bringing relief to Hope’s auditory senses by making at least some kind of noise, the heated air it was bringing was less than comfortable. At least, they now stood in the shade of a nameless mountain, the temperature would’ve been almost unbearable otherwise.

Carefully, Hope kneeled in front of Korrilla who sat on the floor, leaning against the wall in the engine room. “Hey,” she called quietly, reaching out for her bloodied face with a wet towelette, gently pressing it against her lips. She almost expected her sister to slap her hand like before, but Korrilla didn’t, only glared at her with so much anger, Hope could hardly comprehend it.

“You f*cked up,” she almost spat, her tone venomous. “Now any devil can just waltz into here and gut each and every one of us.”

“I did what I had to, to save all these souls we were using as an energy source,” Hope replied firmly.

The House of Hope was not incredibly difficult to operate, especially after a good explanation from someone who knew their way around. She managed to land it without any issue, if only a little roughly. The only part of its engine she broke was the soul intake control, a part of the mechanism the castle was using to siphon souls from the river Styx each time they were flying over it. But that she did on purpose, because she firmly believed using souls like some sort of fuel was unethical.

“Save the souls?” Korrilla echoed in disbelief. “Can you even hear yourself right now? They are doomed to go down the Lower Layers, destined to be tortured for the rest of eternity! Burning them up in war machines is a blessing in comparison. Easy, swift, maybe even painless. So no, you didn’t save them. You damned them!”

Hope opened her mouth to respond, to argue with her sister, but not a sound escaped her. “I… haven’t thought about it that way,” she said finally, looking down at the floor between them.

“Of course you haven’t,” Korrilla replied. She grabbed the towel out Hope’s hands, and rearranged its folds to find a cleaner side, before pressing it to her face again. “And I’m the one suffering the consequences here. Again.”

Korrilla got the worst of injuries from their shaky landing, but even then, her nose wasn’t even broken. Still, Hope didn’t point it out, understanding her injuries was not what Korrilla meant.

“What happened to us?” she asked instead.

Hope didn’t mean to, she was simply intending to ponder about it in her head, about their childhood and about how close they used to be, how much they loved each other growing up. Yet, the words came rushing out of her lips without Hope intending to, without her even realizing she was saying them out loud until she saw her sister’s expression turning pained.

Korrilla laughed at the question. Not in amusem*nt, but in bitter sarcasm. “As if you have no idea,” she hissed. “You remember when we were twenty*, and I took some gutbuster from the pantry at home to share with some friends? It wasn’t even much, barely any left in the bottle. We wouldn’t have even gotten tipsy on it between a few people. And yet you had a need to come and snitch about it to mom and dad.”

“You mad about that? I was looking out for your health!” Hope protested. “You know that, right?”

“No, I’m not mad about that! Not only about that!” Korrilla retorted, her voice becoming louder. She wasn’t quite yelling, but there was anger in it now, too. “You were like that your entire life, forcing everyone around to follow your personal standards, your personal morals, no matter how absurd they could’ve been at times. You were always right and haven’t even stopped a single time to see if you were hurting people around. That’s exactly what happened here and now, nothing has changed!”

Hope was looking at her with her mouth agape, her eyes staring to tear. All these years and she’d never considered she could’ve hurt her sister somehow. Moreover, multiple times. And still. “Was it enough to sell me to Raphael?” she asked, surprised how her own voice sounded, low and bitter.

“No,” Korrilla shook her head, her response immediate. She didn’t even need to think about it. “But I’m not a good person. Perhaps I was once, a long time ago, but I’m not now. See, unlike you, I can admit to my faults.”

With that, she got up from her spot and turned around. She stopped for a moment, as if waiting for Hope to say something else, to stop her. But Hope had nothing to respond to it with, she let her sister walk away, finding herself alone in the now silent engine room.

Well, almost alone.

“Well, that didn’t go well,” a voice came from somewhere behind her. She almost thought one of her imaginary ones returned, but it was way too solid for it.

“How long are you planning to hang out in here, I thought I assigned you to the gardens?” Hope asked without turning her head, recognizing the voice at last. “You shouldn’t haunt the engines. You’re a soul, not a ghost.”

“Right,” Gortash responded, finally stepping out from behind the pipes. “Because the Hells are famous for their gardens.”

Hope was still kneeling near the spot where her sister sat only a few short moments earlier. She wanted to order Gortash to do as she said, but after what Korrilla said, a doubt was starting to bud in her. Now she was wondering if it was going to help or hinder her ability to run this place.

“What should I do?” she asked. The question wasn’t aimed directly at Gortash, more to a vastness of space around her. “I just want her to be good, you know. I want everyone here to be good.”

Gortash chuckled at that, and the sound of it was surprisingly gentle. “Well, ‘good’ is such a vague term. She can be good at following orders. And if she’s not, you could simply ignore her, continue with your plan until you stumble on something that can give you an edge over her and will allow you to manipulate her to do your bidding,” he proposed.

“That’s horrible,” Hope replied, finally turning around to gape at him.

Gortash only shrugged at that. “Yeah, but it stands to demonstrate a point,” he said, raising his pointing finger upwards. “Nobody in this entire house will ever share your views. We are all devils and sinners, after all. So, you have a choice. Keep struggling trying to change everyone’s mind or—

“Or be corrupted by all of you,” Hope finished his sentence, leaving Gortash now to stare at her in disbelief.

“I guess you have three choices. But by gods, you’re a stubborn one,” he said, shaking his head. “What I meant is, you need to accept that people are different. Even devils are different. Some need a gentle word to get them on your side, some need a leash, others — a handful of coins under the table. You can't simply shove everyone under one umbrella and call it a day. And sure, most of my wisdom doesn’t apply to you, but...”

Hope considered it. She still wasn’t sure of Gortash advising her, but it wasn’t going to hurt to at least think about his words. “Why are you helping me?”

“Why not?” Gortash shrugged. “I'm not an idiot, I know there’s nobody up there who wishes to even attempt to bring me back to life, so I’m stuck in here. It’s in my best interest to help. You’re a kind person, Hope,” he added, approaching her, his hand gently falling on her shoulder, “but you lack leadership skills. I could help you. I could teach you.”

His honeyed words were suddenly filled with vile, Hope could hear though it, clear as day. “Thank you,” she said nonetheless, because if she thought too hard about it, she would’ve realized how utterly alone she was. How unprepared for the reality of dealing with everyone now leaving under her roof.

And she would start hating it. And if she did, it would mean she allowed Raphael to win.

Gortash smiled at her. “You’re very welcome,”

***

Mol was not screwed. Of course, the vast majority of her plan went to absolute sh*t, but she was positively used to it. In fact, she thought quite highly of her ability to improvise and get out of the stickiest situations. Besides, this wasn’t even the first time she found herself in Avernus, surrounded by devils, with every possible exit cut off. It was surely going to be fine. She just needed to hold off a little longer, find what she actually came here for, and sooner or later somebody was going to reactivate the portals in that large room where she first appeared. She just hoped that nobody was going to discover her little lie before that.

Even then, she could always just go to the dwarven cleric lady and pretend to be an innocent lamb tricked by Raphael.

Another one of her lockpicks snapped in half and she swore under her breath, her tail leashing against the floor. She had had only one set of picks left, so she couldn’t allow herself to fail again. Sticking her tongue out in concentration, she aimed the thin metal rod with a crooked end into the keyhole.

“Little button, little button, so small I could push you with my finger and smush your body into the carpet,” came a voice from behind her, and Mol spun around, her back hitting the wall with a loud thud.

She’d seen this creature before, several times she’d almost stumbled into him wandering the corridors of the castle. Each time, Mol was doing everything to stay out of his sight, knowing full well how strong and dangerous a rage devil could be. The thing was enormous, towering above her like a large mountain, so how he even managed to sneak up on her like that was a mystery.

“What does it look like?” Mol grinned, suppressing the urge to tremble in fear. Scary as it was, she’d gathered enough information by now to know this particular orthon was currently taking his orders from the dwarf. Mol had no idea why but was sure it meant he wasn’t going to outright kill her. She could use that. “There’s a secret door here, and I’m trying to open it.”

The orthon looked up from her and at the section of a plain wall in the room that looked like a library, which unlike any other area of the house somehow remained pristine clean, even after their incredibly rough landing. He was staring at it for a long moment, frowning and squinting his eyes, but no matter what, it didn’t seem like the orthon was able to see it.

“No matter,” Mol shook her head. “Just trust me, it’s there. And imagine what kind of treasures could be hiding behind it!”

Treasures were not Mol’s main concern. Not that she had absolutely no interest in them and was definitely going to pocket any valuable item which looked light enough to safely carry out of this place.

“So, you’re stealing?” the orthon raised an eyebrow, yet his intonation was more curious than angry. And he hadn't yet reached for his weapon.

“Stealing?” Mol huffed, trying her best to demonstrate displeasure. “That’s such an inaccurate term! As I see it, the place no longer belongs to Raphael, which means none of the treasures in it belong to him either. Hope took control of the castle, yet she didn’t have time to establish a claim on everything in it. So, as of yet, anything beyond this door belongs to nobody and is just sitting there, waiting for somebody to take ownership.”

The orthon gifted her with the widest of grins, his every sharp tooth on display. “Oh, little button, I do like the way you think! Let me just…”

With that, he started to back away from the door, his entire frame leaning forward, which made him look like a bull that was ready to charge. With horror, Mol realized it was exactly what he was planning to do, managing to jump out of his way only at the last moment. The enormous devil rushed past her, the entire weight of his body colliding with the wall with a loud crash.

Cracks formed around him, some of the stone veneer breaking off in chunks and falling onto the floor, revealing solid metal underneath. Yet the door remained intact, unmoving from its place.

“Let me just try it again,” the orthon said, shaking his head.

“I assure you, it’s utterly useless,” came a third voice from somewhere deeper in the room. “That section of the wall and the door are pure adamantine. The only thing you will accomplish is making a mess in my archives. Again. I’ve spent half the morning cleaning here!”

Both Mol and the orthon turned around at the same time, and Mol saw a tiefling sitting in a chair on the opposite side of them. It didn’t look like he just entered the room. Still, the fact Mol managed to miss him was not surprising either: dressed in a red robe, sinking into the plush red upholstery of the chair, with a book in his hands that had an equally red cover, the tiefling was practically blending into his surroundings perfectly.

“And I assume you know how to open the door?” Mol asked, crossing her arms.

“Perhaps,” the tiefling replied, turning a page of his book as if completely disinterested. “But I could just let Hope know about the secret room and earn a favorable predisposition.”

“Or I could ask my friend here,” Mol tapped the orthon on the hip, as it was the only area she could reach, “to flatten you against that chair. It would take days for them to find the red, bloody stain that would be left of you,” she grinned.

“Ha!” the orthon laughed. “I do like that little button! And I'm Yurgir, by the way,” he introduced himself.

This time the tiefling turned to them, his face twisted in an expression of complete horror. “Well, uh, perhaps, we could come to some sort of an arrangement?” he proposed meekly. “Say, mere ten percent of your findings? Fifteen, and I will not mention it to anyone? Unless, of course, I'm being tortured or something.”

“Ten,” Mol nodded. “And not a copper more.”

The tiefling nodded frantically and hastily got up from the chair, rushing to one of the bookshelves. There, he began rearranging old, heavy looking tomes, until something behind the shelf clicked rather audibly, the wall near them sliding open with a dull mechanical sound.

The room behind it was not big. If Mol was honest with herself, it was difficult to even call a room, because it was the size of a closet. Only instead of coats and boots, it contained two rather large chests and several smaller red and blue silk sacks, filled to the brim.

“Oh, what a nice find!” Yurgir laughed, so deeply that almost the entire room trembled with the sound of it. Kneeling down, he opened one of the chests, and his smile only grew wider. “Nice find indeed!”

Mol had to stand on her tiptoes to see behind the large devil’s shoulder, but when she did, she could help but gasp — the chest was completely filled with soul coins.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The rocky slopes of a mountain range before them were nearly barren. In places, red moss was covering the soil that was more or less shaded from the harsh ambience of the sky. Some spiky vines were sparsely appearing over more illuminated surfaces, looking dried up and dead. Still, Haarlep knew it was better to avoid approaching them, as their thorns were coated in one of the most potent poisons in all the hells.

“Well, I’m sure this is the place,” Mizora sighed, tilting her head.

Casually, she approached the only oddity in the landscape around them, poking one of the three dead devils on the ground with a tip of her boot. With an expression of utter disgust, she tipped its head, just enough to reveal the face, then shrugged with indifference.

“I suppose we just follow the trail of corpses,” Haarlep narrowed their eyes. They didn’t add that they hoped not to end up like these three, even if it was a prominent thought in their mind. These devils were erinyes, each one of them had a good chance of taking them down in a one-on-one combat.

There was a cavern entrance nearby, a dark and narrow passage leading deeper into the mountain, and when Haarlep focused they could swear they were able to hear water running somewhere under the ground. It was a perfect place for two mortals to hide.

They made several steps towards the cavern, eyeing the sharp edges of mahogany obsidian that was forming it. They were going to need to be really careful squeezing into it, if they didn’t want to injure themselves in the process.

As it turned out, they didn’t even need to attempt getting inside. A sharp edge of a blade touched their neck, the pressure of it enough to scratch skin, yet not enough to draw blood. “You must be insane to follow us here,” said Wyll, stepping out from behind a boulder. Then, as his eyes slid past Haarlep and onto Mizora, the stern in his intonation changed into unmistakable anger. “What do you need here?”

“Hello to you, too, my favorite pup!” Mizora smiled almost warmly. Moving a good distance away, she found a lone rock near the three dead bodies and gracefully took a seat on it. “Believe it or not, I really don’t need anything at the moment. In fact, I could’ve just left, but I’m oh so curious to see Rapahel’s incubus asking for your help. I wonder,” she hummed, bringing her pointing finger to her lips, “would they beg on behalf of their former master? Perhaps they would even get on their knees?”

Wyll’s attention returned to Haarlep, his blade pushing even harder against their neck. “You. I remember you,” he frowned. “Rapahel’s… servant? Lover? Actually, I don’t want to know that. What I want to know is what you can possibly want from me?”

Haarlep swallowed thickly. Being threatened was not a new experience, nether was it a pleasant one. Although, if they were honest, they thought they preferred it to Mizora’s diminishing attitude for simply being who they were. Being threatened at least felt a little more respectful.

“My, why won’t we put that thing away? A devil’s honor, I mean you absolutely no harm,” they smiled awkwardly, glancing at the blade. They tried to sound as sincere as possible, at least for the sake of their own hide.

Not that they wanted to underestimate Wyll, but the Blade of Avernus was not the real threat to them at the moment. At least, he wasn’t the main one.

Haarlep still couldn’t see her, but they felt another set of eyes on them, another mind burning with fury, ready to strike the moment they made as much as one wrong move. One of the erinyes that was still in the periphery of their vision was cut in two, yet her face was frozen in a twisted delight, as if she didn’t even have time to realize the danger before she was killed.

“A devil’s honor? Really?” Wyll laughed. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so. You aren’t even technically a devil.”

“I need help,” Haarlep signed finally. “And I also think you will be completely on board with assisting me. It will be… a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Wyll’s gaze shifted for a split second to somewhere above, which confirmed Haarlep’s suspicion about where his death could possibly come from. The pressure of steel against their neck lessened, yet the weapon itself stayed stubbornly pointing in its direction. “Very well, but be quick in your explanation.”

And Haarlep was. They explained the situation as clear and truthfully as they were only capable of. They told about Mephistopheles cutting Raphael off from power, about Hope taking over the flying castle and rendering it inoperable. Then they explained about the Bleeding Citadel, about Zariel’s sword and the child who brought them the map.

Wyll was listening with interest, and when Haarlep explained the danger the inhabitants to the House of Hope were currently in, the pain in his expression was unmistakable. Yet, it was the part about the tiefling girl that caused the most reaction. Not from Wyll, but from his companion that Haarlep knew was able to hear their conversation.

“Mol is here? In Avernus?” came Karlach’s voice, exactly from where Haarlep figured she was hiding. The next moment, the owner of it herself jumped off a small cliff above Haarlep’s head, the ground shaking from the force of her collision with it. “f*ck! What was she thinking?!”

Finally, Wyll’s blade lowered, and Haarlep was able to breath out a sign of relief. Their skin was still stinging from the scratch it left. “Well, the girl wants to be a warlock, so...” they trailed off, rubbing their neck.

“A warlock you say?” Mizora perked up from her spot. “Why won’t I take the poor, little orphan under my wing? I’m sure we will get perfectly along. Will be best of friends, really.”

“Don’t even think about it!” Wyll responded sharply.

“Ah, I see saving the world hasn’t changed you, pup, you’re the same old stick in the mud,” Mizora sighed.

“That's not good, Wyll. We gotta get Mol back home,” Karlach pleaded, ignoring Mizora altogether. “Even if she’s safe with Hope for now, it doesn’t seem like things are gonna stay that way for long.”

“I know, and we will,” Wyll agreed, shaking his head. “But... wouldn’t that mean helping Raphael with getting his dirty hands on something that might make him the ruler of Avernus?” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Dammit! It’s always like that with devils!”

“Yeah, but would it really help?” Karlach shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, he’d still need to get close to Zariel to stab her. If everything the incubus said is true, if he really is powerless, that might be an impossible task. Besides,” she added stretching almost lazily, and Haarlep noted there was a gash on her side. Not large enough to be life threatening, but surely enough to hurt her a great deal. Still, the ease in which she was managing to hold her large axe in only one hand despite the injury was formidable. “We could just go and visit Hope and help Mol anyway, without getting ourselves into some dumb bullsh*t for Raphael. Who’s there going to stop us?”

“That is a good point,” Wyll agreed.

Haarlep stared at them for a long moment, their jaw dropping. They honestly didn’t consider that as a possibility, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid. Even taking into account how distracted they were at the moment by their own... situation.

They had to convince Wyll and Karlach to show how to get through the Citadel’s Approach. They had to help Raphael. Not because they wanted to be the kind of knight in shining armor that people from Prime Material so loved to write tales about, not to prove themselves to their former master. But because they’ve seen Raphael without a goal, they knew how low he could succumb. With nothing motivating him to move forward, he wasn’t going to move at all. Haarlep was never going to save him in that case. And Haarlep’s own survival depended on saving him.

“No, I need you to help me,” they said, horrified as they both remembered Mizora’s teasing about getting on their knees, and also because they were starting to realize they were actually ready to do it. “Please.”

“Give us a one f*cking reason why,” Karlach demanded. She turned in their direction, gripping her axe now with both of her hands, not in a threatening manner, but rather to demonstrate the seriousness of her stand.

Haarlep only had one chance at this. They had to tell the truth. The entirety of it. At this point they even didn’t care Mizora was going to hear it. She’d already done what they needed from her, she’d brought them to the two mortals, so it didn’t matter. “Because,” they said, then closed their mouth. They tried to open it again, but couldn't, the words refusing to form for the first time in their memory.

Both Wyll and Karlach were staring at them, waiting, and the air of expectation alone was making Haarlep’s back sweat more than the heat of Avernus ever could.

“Because,” Haarlep tried again, looking between the two, deciding who was more likely to kill them for what they were about to do. And then they did the best thing they thought they could to explain themselves — they took a step forward and, before Wyll could react in any manner, leaned in and pressed their lips to his.

Either in surprise, or to voice his protest, Wyll opened his mouth, which was exactly what Haarlep hoped for, their tongue sliding in. As they weren't really interested in kissing him, they retreated almost instantly. Yet, as it was done, they also couldn’t deny how amusing it was to see the man’s expression. Confusion, shock, anger, all mixing up into a single grimace, as he glared at Haarlep.

“What in the nine hells?” he gasped, wiping his lips with his sleeve. It wasn’t a particularly easy task, the leather of his armor only smearing the saliva across his face.

“I was trying to demonstrate a point,” Haarlep replied. “To answer your question in the most believable way possible.”

“How is that answering any questions?” Wyll demanded, his voice filled with anger.

Once again, he raised his rapier, starting to close the distance between them, and for a split of a second Haarlep thought they messed it up completely and were going to have to flee. Yet, to their surprise, Karlach’s hand landed on Wyll’s shoulder, stopping him before he could do anything.

“Ugh, I know that was very… messed up,” she said. She was obviously trying to sound admonishing, and part of her really seemed upset at the situation. That part took a single step forward, to partially insert herself between Wyll and the incubus, which from the side could’ve looked almost unintentional. The other part of her sounded almost wistful, however, and as Haarlep noticed her eyes kept darting to Wyll’s lips, they had a clear guess as to why. “But, Wyll, shouldn’t you be throwing yourself at them right now?” she pointed out.

Wyll frowned, looking at Haarlep almost horrified now. “I don’t really feel any different,” he admitted, somewhat relieved. “But what does it prove exactly?”

“Well, you see,” Haarlep began their explanation, but was suddenly cut off by a rather loud laughter that came from Mizora.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, practically wiping a tear from her eye. “I can’t even be mad at you for lying to me!” She stood from her spot and made several steps towards the rest of them. “A curse most cruel to succubi and incubi, one that prevents them from feeding on anyone but one unfortunate soul, from being able to use their charm. Also,” she smiled, her finger coming to run down Haarlep’s arm, making them want to step out of her reach, “an answer to your question as to why he oh so desperately needs your help. It appears, our Haarlep here... is in love.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Raphael had a plan. It was not the same level of grandeur and significance as when he tried to get his hands on the Crown of Karsus, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. It was, no matter how tiny, a window of opportunity for him to start reclaiming everything he’d lost in the span of merely days.

Stepping out of the tub, he picked a towel and did a hasty job of drying himself. It felt almost obscene to finally be clean and comfortable, the lukewarm water that he’d been previously so upset about now bringing relief from the heat which engulfed his entire house.

Finishing with that task, Raphael made his way to a mirror which was mounted to a wardrobe door, and looked over his naked form. Most of the bruises that were left on his body from his fight with Tav faded after drinking the healing potion. There were fresher ones, left by Haarlep’s fingers where the incubus had held him a little too forcefully the last time they laid together. If Raphael was honest, these ones didn’t bother him as much. On the contrary, if he didn’t think too long about it, he could pretend Haarlep simply desired him enough to lose control, instead of simply used him to satisfy their hunger.

Lying to himself was harmless if he knew full well it was a lie.

But that left him with another thought to muse over. Haarlep wouldn’t have been able to leave as many marks if Raphael was in his true, devil form. Yet, turning into his usual self was also something he was not capable of achieving no matter how many times he’d tried. To tell the truth, he didn’t even know how much of a devil he still was, unable to feel any inkling of infernal nature within himself. The idea of being stuck like this — this human — for the rest of eternity was a terrifying one.

He wasn’t sure how his father managed to take away his ability to use hellfire. Mephistopheles was the one who created the corrupted energy from the core of the hells, but he wasn’t the one who personally granted the ability to use it to devils. Hellfire was Raphael’s birthright, his ability to manipulate it was akin the way mages used the weave. Mephistopheles couldn’t just snap his fingers and shut it down, he had to do something to Raphael personally to prevent him from accessing it. Something to his body to weaken it.

But when? Something in Raphael’s mind clicked in, as he remembered about another piece of information he’d collected for that vampire spawn that was traveling with Tav. The Rite of Profane Ascension.

He took a step towards his desk to look for the scroll with details about the ritual. He wished to compare them with his own contract with Mephistopheles, one that provided him with a spell, allowing to ascend by consuming the remaining souls from the broken pillars in the foyer. His bare foot, however, landed on a sharp chunk of marble, a remnant of one of the busts that fell during their landing, shattering across the floor.

It wasn’t the sharpest piece he could’ve stepped on, but the thing hurt like the hells, making him almost howl from the intensity of it, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. On his unscathed leg, he managed to jump towards the bed, falling onto the still crumpled blankets, swearing under his breath. He laid there for a solid minute, grimacing in pain, holding his foot. Then, as it began subsiding, he sat back up, eyeing the room with disgust.

Only a short time earlier Rapahel’s private room was almost pristine clean. Now, after their incredibly contemptible landing, every single item of Raphael’s belongings that wasn’t securely attached to the walls or the ground was scattered over the premises. There were chunks of stone and dust covering the lavish red carpet, papers and scrolls thrown about under his desk and bookshelves. There was a splat of red smeared across one of the walls, broken green glass laying underneath it, but that was Raphael’s own doing.

Still, no matter the origin of the mess, somebody had to start cleaning around here.

Raphael knew that he could no longer order it, that without a fear of punishment nobody was going to obey his commands. “Yes, your nice, selfish, little plan,” his own voice echoed in his head. Back when he said it, it was to point out how terrible of a leader Hope was, instead he realized how much his words applied to himself.

Still, maybe he could prove that not everyone around him hated him, that he could accomplish something even without powers, without the need to order people around. Maybe he could prove to Hope how much more suitable he was to run this place.

Grinning almost ear to ear from determination, Raphael stood from the bed. Immediately, he fell right back into it, as his second foot found another piece of sharp garbage.

***

All of the debtors that only recently used to be Rapahel’s servants and housekeepers were staring at him with disdain and horror. Most of them didn’t seem particularly pleased to be in their former master's company. Even the ones who were irreversibly broken, who stood there casting their eyes down in fear were wistfully glancing towards the doorways. Yet, there was a spark of curiosity in there, too, and that was what gave Raphael hope.

“I understand that our previous arrangements might not have been entirely to your... satisfaction,” Raphael was saying, walking back and forth the dining hall, his hands locked behind his back. Or more precisely, he was walking down a portion of it, because of how large the area was. “But I think we all can try and look past our prior grievances and attempt to look into a brighter future.”

The hall was rather quiet, so even the tiniest of snorts that came from the back of the small crowd sounded very audible. Raphael’s first reaction was to find who it was, to punish them, hurt them again and again until even the thought of such an impudence was stripped from them. Yet, as he stepped towards the sound, he remembered that he no longer was able to do it. He couldn’t do a thing against people mocking him short of starting a literal fist fight, and even then there were at least twenty of them, while he was alone.

In the end, he decided he was gracious enough to let it slide.

“As I was saying,” he continued, trying to unclench his jaw. “We all live under the same roof, in the same house. And who would like to live in such a dirty place?” he asked, gesturing around the mess. “I’m well aware that I can no longer demand this of you. But I can ask. I can say 'please'!” he said, emphasizing the word in the most sincere way he could manage.

“Besides,” he continued, “if you return to your previous stations, it will give you a way to occupy the time, to give your existence a purpose! So what do you say? Will you help me with this?”

Several debtors looked at each other and almost stepped forward, unsure what to do, their habit of serving Raphael kicking in. Yet, as they saw others turning around and starting to walk away, they decided to follow them instead.

“How about you clean it yourself?” one threw into Raphael’s direction.

“You have hands, don’t you?” said another.

“Woof this, bastard!” barked the one Raphael used to make pretend to be a dog, before she gave him a middle finger.

With that, all of them started to disperse, ignoring Raphael completely, making him see red in anger from the humiliation and from his own powerlessness. And also because of his own stupidity. What was he even thinking, hoping that he wasn’t actually hated by everyone around? Deep down he knew it was untrue from the start.

He almost reached for an empty pitcher laying on the table in the center of the room, wishing to throw it at somebody when a small, quiet voice came from somewhere below him.

“I, ugh, I would like to return to my... previous station?” said the voice, and when Raphael looked down he saw a small gnome woman standing next to him, bowing meekly.

“Of course!” Raphael smiled, his anger almost immediately forgotten from even this tiniest triumph. “Remind me, however, what was your previous station?” he asked, as he wasn’t able to even remotely recognize her.

“Well,” she replied in almost a whisper, rubbing her hands together. “I was looking. Watching. I was watching you and the other master. Who is sometimes a lady. Together in that big bedroom. But there’s no more bedroom, and I would love to know where I should go now to continue watching.”

Raphael stared at her in utter shock, his eyes becoming wider with each word coming out of the gnome’s mouth, his face starting to burn so badly it almost made him dizzy. “Do say, who was it that appointed you to this station?” he inquired, rubbing the bridge of his nose, surprised he was still capable of forming words.

“Oh, that was the other master. Who is sometimes a lady.”

Raphael stared at her for a long moment, unsure if he wished to run away or snap her neck in half. Not that he was particularly prudish, but there were times he was allowing himself the level of vulnerability with Haarlep he wasn’t willing for anyone else to see. He was going to have a very serious conversation with his incubus.

Finally managing to take his jumbled feelings under control, he sighed and kneeled in front of her. They were alone now, every other debtor disappearing from the sight. Perhaps, this was not the outcome Raphael was hoping for, but it also meant that nobody was going to interfere.

“Say, why won’t you let me do something more fun with you?” he smiled wolfishly as he leaned closer, whispering right into her ear. “Please, allow me to find out how much of a devil I still am,” he added, lifting her face up by the chin.

She didn’t resist, only gasped slightly as Raphael opened his mouth, a shiver running down her entire body. Then her own lips parted, faint green flame lighting in her eyes as her soul began moving upwards, towards Raphael.

He wasn’t a human, he really wasn’t. He was still capable of consuming a mortal soul, a delicious taste of its power touching his lips, seeping into him. Next, as Raphael expected, came memories, bits and pieces of life of the soul’s owner. What he didn’t expect was being their center.

Not of the first few. Those ones were flashes from her childhood, short and fuzzy as she barely remembered them. Then a few from the time she worked as a maid in a brothel, her tendencies to peek emerging during that time.

Only after that Raphael saw himself, much brighter and in more detail. He was bent over the writing desk in his boudoir, his cheek pressed against its redwood surface. There were pages of parchment in front of him, blood-red ink soaking into the paper, dripping down onto the floor as the inkwell tipped over. Some of it even got on Raphael’s face, yet he paid no mind to it, too distracted, his moans of pleasure filling the room.

Raphael remembered he had been attempting to work only a few short moments prior. Yet, he was interrupted by his incubus, who was now thrusting into him from behind at a luscious pace.

They didn’t even bother to properly undress him, just undid his belt buckle and pulled his pants down barely enough to have access. Still, the angle this debtor was looking at them at was perfect to see every single detail with clarity. That was of course if she was really looking down, where they were joined.

She wasn’t. Instead, her gaze was aimed at Haarlep’s face, and Raphael couldn’t help but shiver. He’d seen Haarlep’s expressions during sex, a variety of them that ranged from deep concentration to playful teasing. This, however, was nothing of the sort. Haarlep’s eyes were half lidded, a softest smile was touching their lips as they were looking down at Raphael with such a tenderness, Raphael had never expected from his lover.

“Is that what love looks like?” he heard the debtor’s voice in his mind, her thoughts passing to him, and his eyes widened.

He began pushing the debtor away, his shock too strong to continue. A slap across his face came at the same time, the pain of it sharp enough to bring him to reality.

He was back in the dining hall, sitting on the dirty floor in front of the unlit fireplace. The debtor was laying on her back a few feet away, coughing and gasping for air. She looked a little pale, a little sickly, yet Raphael didn’t think he had time to consume enough of her soul to leave lasting damage.

Next to her stood Hope, who was glaring at Raphael in anger, her features twisted in the severity of it. “I and the hero who defeated you, we spared your life!” she cried. “We gave you a second chance! And this is what you do?”

Somewhere deep in Rapahel’s mind there was an argument to that, but he couldn’t say a word, too stunned by the memory, by his still aching from the slap cheek. All he could do was stare at her with his mouth agape, blinking slowly as if hazed by some sort of a spell.

Hope made another step forward, she was on him completely, and for a moment Raphael thought she was about to hit him again. Yet, a broken sob reached Raphael’s ears and the next thing he knew, Hope was falling to her knees, her forehead landing onto his shoulder.

“I don’t want to hate you,” she gasped, her frame shaking as she cried. “Even after everything, I refuse to hate you…”

Raphael didn’t reach out, didn’t wrap his hands around her on some strange impulse, yet neither did he attempt to push her away as his reflexes were screaming to do. Some small part of him wished to consider how utterly insane Hope was, and maybe realize that he had managed to break her after all. Just not in the way he intended.

Yet, all he could do now was to sit there in shock, staring aimlessly in front of himself, unmovable to the point he was barely breathing. “What does love even look like?” Raphael though.

***

Karlach was staring at them, the expression on her face reflecting her utter disbelief of the situation. “Alright,” she said, blinking slowly. “I don’t think I can fully wrap my mind around the idea of a fiend falling in love, but… Raphael?” she asked dumbfounded. “Out of absolutely anyone in the universe, you fell in love with Raphael? Really? I mean… really? ”

Haarlep gifted her with a blank glare. “Believe me, you are not asking something I haven’t asked myself at least a hundred of times,” they sighed. “He is a rude, spoiled, egocentric bastard, but…”

But...

Haarlep remembered the moment that changed their life. It wasn’t when Mephistopheles ordered them to spy on his son, although it was definitely the beginning of the end. No, it happened when Harlep was recalled from their mission.

Three rest cycles had passed since the group of heroes who stole the Orphic Hammer from their master departed. Their visit left the House of Hope in almost shambles, yet Haarlep cared little for the physical state of this place.

A scroll in hand, they sat near the bed, looking at the unconscious, feverish body of their master for one final time. Or, their former master, they thought, clenching the written orders in their fist.

“You shall hurry,” said an imp who delivered the scroll. It was a fancy thing — fine leather wrapped around a golden umbilicus, a seal of His Lordship’s unholy symbol broken when Haarlep opened it. “Lord Mephistopheles doesn’t like to wait, you really shouldn’t anger him. You know how... volatile he can get!”

Haarlep grinned widely. After everything, after having to deal with this pampered brat for so long, they were finally free. Standing up, they spread their wings, stretching in preparation of taking off. They took a step towards the balcony, then stopped for some reason, their eyes falling onto Raphael again.

Their former master had reversed to his human shape and spent days like that, just laying in bed unconscious. His battered and bruised skin was covered in sweat, which made it glister in the light of candles. He was breathing heavily, trashing in the sheets from time to time as if his slumber was full of nightmares, of monsters far greater and scarier than himself.

Haarlep hated him. Or at least they were sure it was the feeling they’d used to have for him at one point in time. But given how many second thoughts were floating through their head now, they knew it was no longer the case.

They hated him until the moment they did not. They pandered to his every whim, used everything in their arsenal to get under his skin, only to discover how truly lonely Raphael was, how starved for any scraps of affection. How all of his narcissism, his conceit was nothing but a mask that covered his insecurities.

Haarlep had used it to a great degree, manipulating Raphael to reveal any secret they wished, yet they haven’t even realized that they got used to it, too. That without seeing it happen, their pretend affection was starting to grow real. And with that came the realization that the main source of their hate for Raphael was not because of his status or arrogance, but because of how little of that affection he was willing to give back to them.

But it was over now, it was all over.

Turning away, Haarlep made another step towards the balcony. The walking was difficult, and their chest was suddenly starting to feel too tight, their vision blurring. Reaching out for their face, Haarlep rubbed their eyes, noting their finger becoming wet. Were these tears? Were they crying? Was that what it felt to cry?

A sound came from Raphael. It was a mumbled gibberish at first, but he sounded desperate in his dream. “Ha... r,” he muttered again. “Haarlep...”

Something inside them snapped, like a bow string that was pulled too far. The scroll with their orders from Lord Mephistopheles falling from their grip, the clank of it against the stone floor sounding like a bolt of thunder in Haarlep’s ears.

“Is something the matter?” the imp inquired, the usual squeakiness of its voice almost gone for a moment.

“Yeah, I'm not returning,” Haarlep replied, unable to believe they were really saying it, moreover, really meaning it.

The imp was watching them silently for a while, its eyes glowing almost white with intensity. “Then I must go and deliver the news of your betrayal to our lord. I wonder what consequences this will lead you to,” the creature grinned, straightening its spine and flapping its wings, disappearing in a burst of hellfire, leaving Haarlep alone in the room with a man who had become their greatest downfall.

And now here they were, asking the people who by all means should’ve been their enemies for help, because it was the only way they saw they could survive this entire ordeal.

“...but I do believe he’s capable of becoming something more than his ambitions. He simply needs a push in the right direction,” Haarlep concluded with a sigh. “At the end of the day, he’s as much a human as he’s a devil.”

Wyll looked at them with almost pity. “Trust me, I’ve dealt with enough cambions to last me several lifetimes,” he said, glancing in Mizora’s direction, who only smiled sheepishly at the attention. “Raphael doesn’t seem like a man who would honor his human side in any way.”

“Hmm,” Haarlep hummed, reaching out for the satchel that hung on their side. From there, he extracted a simple, unadorned box that Raphael had kept with so much care. “Then why does he have this?” they asked, passing the box to Wyll.

The human accepted the container with caution, as if he’d expected the thing to blow up. After a quick glance over its surface, likely to make sure it wasn’t actually trapped, he slowly lifted the lid. “Is that...” he said bewildered, pulling out a single picture from inside.

It was a small portrait of a woman. Brown, almost black wavy hair was coming down below her shoulders, adorning her beautiful face. Her eyes were darker still, her gaze almost piercing the viewer, giving her air of nobility. Her slightly dusky skin was making her seem like a Rashemi or Gur, but Haarlep knew neither of these ethnicities were around when Raphael was born. The woman in the picture was Nathereese.

“His mother,” Haarlep nodded.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Hope felt utterly alone. It was the strongest she’d ever felt like that, worse even than during the years she’d been chained in the underground prison. At least then the reason for her loneliness was explainable by her isolation. Now it was only due to her own inability to properly interact with people.

She was walking down the main corridor that now seemed too empty, too quiet, with nothing else but voices in her own head to keep her company. It was somewhat reassuring to have them back, but she also understood it was probably not a good thing to be comforted by distant screams and crazed laughs that nobody but her could hear.

A sound of another set of footsteps came from the opposite end of the corridor, and a moment later Yurgir appeared in the field of her vision from behind the curve. Out of every devil in the entire castle the orthon was the only one willing to follow her lead, so the sight of him was almost as reassuring as the voices.

“Yurgir!” she smiled, realizing how perfectly timed his appearance was. “It's good to see you! I mean, not that we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I do like seeing you. You’re strangely nicer than most devils. But never mind that! I will need you to keep an eye on Raphael for a while. I just stopped him from killing—“

There was that tiefling child sitting on the orthon’s shoulder, fitting on it perfectly, like the spot was specifically made for her small frame. In her arms, she was clutching a rather large bag of… something.

“What do you have there?” Hope asked curiously, realizing Yurgir was carrying a similar bag.

“Well,” Mol replied, leaning on the orthon’s head as if it was an armrest. “I don’t really think it’s any of your business.”

Taken aback by the rude remark, Hope switched her attention to Yurgir, looking at him quizzically, hoping for any kind of clarification. Yet, he only shrugged in response. “Sorry, whatever she said.”

“Excuse me?” Hope raised an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re forgetting who is in charge here,” she reminded them. “If you would like to have some secrets, you sure can, but you shouldn’t talk to me that way. It’s not nice!”

“Ugh,” Mol groaned. “I did like your style, but now you just sound like a temple daycare nanny. Well, bad news though, you don’t seem to be in charge of anything here to me. So how about you go preach to some toddlers or something?”

Hope could do nothing but gape, completely at a loss about how to proceed. Once again, she looked at Yurgir, silently asking him for support.

The big devil only sighed. “Listen. I will do what you ask of me, I will keep an eye on Raphael so he wouldn’t try killing anyone again,” he said. “But don’t expect this little alliance to continue for long. Let me be brutally honest with you, Hope. I’ve been helping you because I enjoy seeing the bastard who tricked me suffer. It entertains me, and it will likely entertain me for a bit longer.” He shook his head then. “But I’m a mercenary. I need to be paid for my loyalty. If you have something worth my while, I’ll be there anytime you need. Otherwise…” he trailed off, starting to turn around, away from her. “Sorry, nothing personal.”

“I…” Hope began, looking at the orthon in shock. She didn’t know what else she could add, what else she could do to convince him to keep helping her, what she could offer. “…understand,” she finished finally, because she did. Nobody owed her anything here, nobody respected her enough to choose her side out of their own free will.

Her vision was starting to become blurry, and she had to turn away not to let anyone see her like that while she was trying to take a hold of her emotions. Not that Yurgir was going to be able to notice, as the large devil had already started to walk away, chatting about something with the tiefling on his shoulder.

“You know, you might need to turn down rudeness a bit,” Hope was hearing him say distantly. “It will go a long way if people around you are convinced you’re harmless, will make them less expect you to strike.”

Mol was replying to him, but Hope was no longer able to hear her. Taking a few shaky steps towards a wall, she leaned on it and closed her eyes.

She really was a nobody here. And she had no idea how to fix this situation, because no matter what she was doing, it all turned out to be wrong. Listening to Gortash felt like the best solution to her problem, but she didn’t think she could. Not even because she knew she couldn’t trust him, but because she simply wasn’t sure how to implement what he advised.

No, she needed to come up with a better idea, needed to ask for help from somebody who could actually help her. Taking a deep breath, Hope began moving again, this time with a purpose.

***

The door to Korrilla’s quarters was no different than any other one on this floor. It was made of solid wood, probably oak or walnut, given how heavy it looked. There were some small metal ornaments decorating it: abstract patterns and vines around the hinges, which didn't even have a trace of rust, cleaned and polished on the regular basis.

Hope realized that she’d been staring at the door for way too long, studying it to stall for time. Biting her lip, she finally raised her hand and knocked, feeling how hard her heart began beating in her chest from anxiety.

There was no answer for a moment, but she was able to hear some sort of commotion from the other side, somebody was moving around the room. So Hope waited, standing there, shifting her weight from one foot to another and clenching her fists.

Finally, the door opened. It was merely a slip, but Hope was able to see her sister and a sharp steel of a blade pointing in her direction. It was a sad way to live when you expected danger coming even from outside your own bedroom, Hope thought.

Korrilla eyed her with an air of both distrust and annoyance, then lowered her dagger. “What do you want?” she asked coldly as she fully opened the door.

“Can I come in? I want to talk. It will be better to talk inside. But it’s fine here, too, if you want,” Hope began, her words making Korrilla roll her eyes.

“Fine, just don’t touch anything,” she replied before stepping out of the way, allowing Hope to enter her room.

It was a small space, Hope noted, barely bigger than a storage closet or an armory which were common alongside the main corridor of the castle. Inside of it was just enough room for a bed, a wardrobe, a writing desk, a single small bookshelf and a chest that stood in the very corner. Nothing from the furniture was standing out as particularly fancy or expensive either. Even the rug and curtains that partially covered a modestly sized window were rather plain purple, without a single trace of ornament or pattern.

It appeared, Raphael wasn’t in the habit of rewarding any of his servants with good accommodations.

“Although, if you came to berate me about something,” Korrilla added, dropping onto the corner of her bed. “Then just get out, I don’t wish to deal with you.”

“No, it’s not that, I swear!” Hope protested. “I… I wanted to ask for a favor,” she said immediately, trying her best not to rant about her concerns in a single breath, as her mind demanded her to do. “It’s a big favor, but I don’t want to ask anyone else. I don’t trust anyone else. I shouldn’t be trusting you either, but I have to?” she continued nonetheless. “I have to.”

Korrilla tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, watching her intently. “A favor? After everything?” she laughed dismissively. “Sure, entertain me. But remember, I’ve lived with devils for years. It might cost you.”

“I need you to take over as a leader of the House of Hope.”

Korrilla opened her mouth and stared at her in obvious surprise. Hope waited for a long moment for her to say something, anything, but the only change of her facade was a single blink.

“After a very long consideration, I realized that I might not be the most suitable person to give out orders. And even considering what you did, you’re still the person I trust the most to take over,” Hope continued explaining herself.

She’d expected her sister to jump at the opportunity almost immediately. Korrilla had always been the most ambitious out of the two of them, after all. What Hope didn’t expect, however, was for her sister to start laughing. It wasn’t a triumphant kind of laughter either, but a snide and snarky one.

It ended almost as abruptly as it started, and Korrilla’s expression returned to cold indifference yet again. “Get out of my room,” she ordered, pointing at the door.

“But,” Hope protested in surprise, tears that she was trying to contain for a long time starting to gather in her eyes yet again. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed finally.

When she was released, when she fought alongside the hero, she felt like she could accomplish anything. Now the rush of it was gone, and she just wanted home, wanted to be a kid again, wanted her parents to be alive, and her sister to love her.

“Of course. You’re just a little princess who for the first time found yourself not surrounded by an adoring crowd. It has barely been a tenday and here you are, running away with a tail between your legs,” Korrilla laughed again, yet this time she turned to look away, and Hope could see that she was trying to hold her emotions, too, yet she couldn’t tell for sure if it was pain or rage. “Grow up.”

Hope’s vision remained blurry for another moment, then tears started to run down her cheeks. “I thought you would like that. I thought—“

“You thought,” Korrilla interrupted her. “You just thought. Because you know me oh so well!” she sneered. “Well guess what. I don’t want power. I don’t want to rule anything. And the least thing of all, I don’t want to be in charge here!”

Something inside Hope’s chest began hurting, and this pain was one of the strongest she’d ever experienced. This was not how she imagined the conversation to go. Surely she was preparing herself for the probability Korrilla was going to be cold and disdainful, but outright refusing?

Yet, it wasn’t the reason why Hope’s chest felt as if her heart was pierced with the same dagger Korrilla was still holding in her hand, casually this time, unthreatening. It wasn’t the reason why she’d finally broke down crying.

For the very first time, Hope understood that she really didn’t know her sister. She had just kept creating versions of Korrilla in her own head. First it was the fearless older sibling that loved her more than anything, then it was the traitor who was corrupted by Raphael and her own pride. But now she saw she had no idea who Korrilla really was or what she wanted. She’d never even attempted to find out.

The world trembled around Hope and she almost fell to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she managed barely audibly. “You needed me, and instead I hurt you. I could’ve talked to you, I could’ve tried to find out why you were the way you are. But instead… instead, I’ve been… hurting you the whole time,” Hope cried, her voice breaking into mingled sobs. “I…”

And that was it. That was the real reason she came here today. Not to ask Korrilla to take over, but to apologize. And yet she was not able to do it until the very end because of her own pride. How hypocritical was that?

Korrilla was watching her closely for a long time, her gaze almost burning holes in Hope’s skin. Then, dagger still in hand, she slowly got up from the bed and walked to her bookshelf. There, she dug around some dusty looking tomes and journals, until she pulled out a bottle from behind one of them.

“I’m not forgiving you,” Korrilla said, bringing it to her nightstand, opening the seal with the dagger, then finally putting it down. “But I don’t ask you to forgive me either,” she added, finding two shot glasses from one of the drawers.

“The gutbuster?” Hope hiccupped, wiping her eyes. “You know, I don’t really drink anything that heavy,” she added. Then she caught her sister’s almost annoyed glare and hurried to add, “…usually. I don’t usually drink anything heavy.”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.” Korrilla shrugged as she filled the glasses, offering one to her sister and taking one for herself. Without even a pause, she emptied her shot in a single go, her face twisting as if in pain.

Hope accepted her glass and followed her sister’s example, the hard liquor burning her throat almost painfully on the way down, then settling inside as nothing but a pleasant warmth. It was incredibly strong however, and merely a second later Hope felt dizziness spreading around her body, more so than she’d expected given her dwarven resistances.

“That’s…” she began, trying and failing to keep her face straight. “That tastes absolutely horrible,” she confessed, covering her mouth.

Korrilla smirked at that. “That’s the point.”

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

This should not have been difficult. Every last peasant was perfectly capable of cleaning, and Raphael was so much more than some mediocre mortal. He should’ve been brilliant at making his surroundings spotless as he was brilliant at anything else he really set his mind on.

A bucket with soapy water at his feet and a rug in hand, Raphael began his endeavor. It was going perfectly great at first, too. The very first swipe of the rug against the polished stone removed almost all of the soot from its surface, leaving it spotless. The second one, however, was not as good, the streaks of dirt following the movement of the rug. Swipe number three just smeared the grime across the wall.

Raphael dipped the rug into the water, trying to clean it off, before attempting to repeat the notion, yet ending with the same result of only the first brush of his hand really cleaning anything. Was he supposed to rinse the rug after only one sweep? How long was it going to even take to clean the entire wall?!

Not to mention, when he looked down into the bucket, the water inside was already starting to become murky, which made him wonder about the frequency of its replacement.

“This is honestly just sad to watch,” came Mol’s voice from behind him, and when Raphael spun to glare at the tiefling, he saw her sitting on a chunk of rock from the broken rolling boulder trap, her face practically drooping from boredom.

“Then why won’t you come here and do this instead of me?” he proposed, gritting his teeth.

“Well, it wasn’t she who was told to do this,” Yurgir pointed out with a smirk. The large devil was sitting on the floor, completely unbothered by the state of it, leaning on his crossbow. It wasn’t loaded, so he wasn’t risking accidentally shooting himself, yet Raphael knew that even without a bolt, the crossbow was a formidable weapon. He’d seen Yurgir smashing his enemies with it like with a club.

Huffing in annoyance, Raphael returned his attention to the wall, trying to clean it in a circular motion this time. The more caked into the stone dirt was now scraping off somewhat better, yet the rug was also leaving even more smears.

“Besides, I’m doing this because I’m tired of the mess and not because I was told,” he added. It was absolutely a lie, but it was easier to pretend it was his reason, because otherwise he felt too humiliated to perform any kind of physical labor in front of an audience. Especially considering said audience used, if briefly, to be serving him.

He couldn’t see neither Yurgir nor Mol, but he felt their gazes on his back, and somehow, he thought they weren’t particularly convinced. Still, they didn’t say anything out loud, so Raphael was willing to accept it as a victory.

At least Haarlep wasn’t here. Raphael didn’t think he would be able to survive the embarrassment if his incubus saw him right now. And he for sure couldn’t have fooled them about doing this out of his own fruition.

Raphael’s cheeks burned suddenly, because while he expected his mind to conjure an image of Haarlep teasing him about his misfortunes, it instead provided him with the version of them from his debtor’s mind. This Haarlep only chuckled at him before wrapping one of their arms around Raphael’s waist, while their second one reached for the rug in a silent offer of help. Their frame was solid and reassuring, pressing against Raphael’s back, radiating warmth and comfort that had nothing to do with their usual intent of feeding.

Raphael wanted to slap himself, away from his own thoughts. What was he even doing daydreaming something so completely outrageous, like some kind of young maiden? His debtor was simply delusional, looking at what was nothing but plain and emotionless — although very physically gratifying — sex through some kind of romantic lens. She’d probably just imagined Haarlep’s loving expression, and Raphael saw what she believed was there and not what it really was. That was it, the simple and logical explanation.

Trying to stop recollecting that stupid memory, Raphael began scrubbing the wall even harder, yet somehow it made the dirt smear even to a greater degree.

“You have never done this before, haven’t you?” Mol sighed after a while, and as Raphael glanced back, he saw her leaning forward and resting her chin on her own hands.

“Why would I?” Raphael replied with annoyance, even though he was grateful for the distraction. “I’m not some sort of a servant.”

“I thought full-fledged devils were not particularly fond of cambions. I guess being Mephistopheles’ son made you kind of important in the Hells then,” Mol shrugged, somewhat disinterested.

“Oh no,” Yurgir sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Kind of important?” Raphael responded practically spinning on his heel, his back straightening. “I’m the prince of Cania and a rightful heir to its throne! Every devil in the frozen domain used to bow in terror and show proper respect, looking forward to the day I was going to kill my father and take his place!” he proclaimed clenching his fist in front of his face.

Of course it was not true from the start, and the amount of times Raphael had been beaten to almost a brink of death for being a half fiend as a child was too great for him to count. But that only prompted him to become stronger, until one day he killed every single devil who attempted the next round of abuse. It’d made Mephistopheles chuckle and that was probably the highest of praises he’d ever received from his father.

He’d gained his respect.

Still, Mol didn’t look particularly impressed, looking him up and down with appraisal. “Aren’t you a little too old to be a prince?” she asked.

Raphael gaped, staring at her in disbelief. His face began burning again, yet this time it was with exasperation. “You little brat,” he spat angrily, throwing the wet rug into the bucket, the dirty water splashing all over the floor and his pants.

With purpose, he strode towards the tiefling, who jumped behind Yurgir, giggling in delight, which made Raphael believe annoying him was exactly what she intended.

“Seriously?” Yurgir raised an eyebrow, as Raphael tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze behind him too and grab Mol by the tail, yet even he somehow seemed too amused by the situation for Raphael’s liking.

“It will just be a moment,” Raphael cut him off, leaning over his shoulder instead, reaching for the girl, who managed to duck to the orthon’s other side at the last second, dodging his hand.

“Oh, please, just don’t strain your back,” she practically wheezed, jumping across Yurgir’s lap as Raphael had finally made it behind the orthon. “I heard it’s a common issue at your age,” she added, her words almost making Raphael see red.

“I’m going to skin you,” he warned. “With my bare claws. I’m going to keep you alive while doing it, too, so you could feel the very last bit of it.”

With an air of triumph, Raphael finally managed to take a hold on the girl’s shirt, wishing to yank her upwards by the collar like a kitten. Yet, as he forgot about the lack of claws in his human form, his grip ended up not strong enough, and she easily weaseled her way out of it.

“Well, if you do that, I won’t be able to give you this magic scroll,” she grinned, pulling the aforementioned object out of her pocket.

Raphael stopped in his tracks. He had to lean his head to the side to eye the thing from behind of Yurgir’s head, the orthon’s large horns blocking half of his view. “What is it?” he asked, squinting his eyes in an attempt to detect the threads of weave around it. While there was definitely something magical about the scroll, in his weakened state, he wasn’t even able to sense how potent the magic was.

“Something that will help you with the cleaning,” Mol replied, smirking and resting her elbows on Yurgir’s shoulder guard. “Unless, of course, you wish to continue doing it by hand,” she added with a shrug.

“Give me that!” Raphael ordered, reaching for a scroll.

Mol clicked her tongue at that, moving it out of his reach. “Really? You know you will need to pay me for that? Do you have anything you have to offer?”

“Offer you?” Raphael huffed. “Why would I offer anything if I can just take it by force?” He asked, grinning and lunging to grab for the scroll one more time.

As if on purpose, Yurgir chose that moment to move his head, and the time it took Raphael to try maneuvering around his horns cost him a precious second. Because of that, Mol had time to both pull her hand away and jump backwards. Grinning ear to ear, she bolted down the corridor.

“I am getting the scroll from you, even if it is from your dead body, you little rascal!” Raphael yelled and followed her suit.

To his surprise, the tiefling was incredibly fast. Not only that, but her smaller body allowed her to easier maneuver around the obstacles that were still thrown about around the area, her prehensile tail working as an extra limb to help her go over rocks and take sharper turns.

Raphael, meanwhile, had the opposite problem. Used to his own tail and wings for when he needed to move fast, he felt like a particularly clunky hellboar who couldn’t steer his movements. Not to mention, after merely passing the dining room and reaching the doorway to the foyer, he was starting to run out of breath, his throat beginning to sting from rapidly inhaling the harsh air of Avernus.

Still, he was glad the foyer was exactly where Mol decided to run to. Smirking to himself, he stopped at the door and closed it behind his back. There was of course another exit out of this room, but it was designed for creatures capable of flying, because even while the castle was on the ground, there was still at least thirty feet drop down.

Mol was effectively trapped in here with him now.

It seemed that she noticed the fact, too, yet instead of giving up that trivial game of cat and mouse, she began fleeing towards the other entrance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child,” Raphael called for her. “There’s nowhere you can run to now. Just do us both a favor and hand it over.”

“Ha, no way!” she responded.

Without even slowing down, she darted out of the second doorway and to the side, where Raphael knew was a very narrow patch of rocks, which was a part of castle’s foundation and was protruding from under its walls. On this side, it was not enough to fit an adult, but apparently enough for somebody as small as her.

Groaning in annoyance, Raphael followed her. He couldn’t exactly step outside, but he could poke his head out to see where she was headed. Except instead of worming her way somewhere towards the living quarters that were situated below the main floor and above the prison, as Raphael expected, he saw her stuck on what appeared to be a loose boulder. Trying to hug the outside of the wall as closely as she could, Mol was moving her foot towards the next platform as slow as it was possible.

The castle’s foundation was cracking under her, some loose rocks falling down onto the ground the deadly distance below. It was also rather windy outside, the hot bursts of air blowing the clouds of dust from the mountain slopes surrounding them, giving the girl a clear disadvantage on her attempt of careful movement.

“Well now, what do we have here,” Raphael smirked, admiring the child’s terrified expression. After everything she’d put him through today, that was truly a pleasing view for him. “Frankly, I don’t even care if you fall to your death,” he shrugged, sounding almost unbothered if not for the fact he had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. “But I must admit, climbing down to retrieve that scroll of yours will be an inconvenience for me. So how about we make a deal of sorts, a mutually beneficial arrangement of you will…” he proposed, offering her a hand.

“Fine!” Mol rolled her eyes. “Whatever it will take to shut you up,” she groaned and reached out to grab it.

She was still a little too far out of his reach, and leaning even a slightest bit in his direction, made the rock under her feet shake dangerously. It appeared Raphael had no other choice, but to step out of the door and onto the ledge, too. He was so close now, his fingers almost touching Mol’s. Another careful inch forwards, and he was finally able to grab her hand.

It happened very fast from there. Something under him gave way, and before Raphael had time to even understand what was happening, he found himself falling downwards, pulling Mol by the hand after himself. His mind didn’t even register it as some sort of danger, until he started to rapidly flap his wings only to be reminded that his human form didn’t have them, until he heard Mol’s panicked scream.

To die like that, accidentally falling off his own home, after everything was… terrifying.

A pair of hands wrapped around him, his face pressing into a shoulder that was clad in fine leather, and the next moment he was yanked almost painfully upwards. Heart pounding in his chest, Raphael held onto his savior as tight as he only could, which on the flip side earned him a grunt of displeasure.

“You're going to break my ribs,” said Haarlep as they started to fly upwards, rather slowly and with great effort, having to carry the weight of two additional people.

Still, their words were followed by an almost uncharacteristically warm chuckle that sounded too close to that bizarre fantasy Raphael had had earlier. It also came right into his ear, and so he turned his head away not to hear it again. It made the situation both worse and better somehow. His face was now pressed into a warm neck, which was slightly damp with sweat, yet still smelled of cinnamon and something flagrantly sweet, something that made Raphael want to press his lips into it so he could taste the skin so graciously offered.

There were layers of clothing between them, and the air around was hot, yet the heat radiating from Haarlep was almost searing in comparison. Raphael tried to lean further into it, completely uncaring if the incubus was going to notice it or inquire for reasons behind it in the future. Something at the back of his mind was screaming at him about how strange his behavior was, yet it felt so good at the moment, that Raphael couldn’t care less.

Haarlep cleared their throat, and Raphael realized that they had successfully returned to the solid ground of his foyer. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been just standing there, clutching the incubus for his dear life, but given that Haarlep needed to call for his attention, he could only guess that it’d been a while. It also took an embarrassing amount of time to pull himself away, his heart still beating rapidly, but this time fear had nothing to do with it.

Instantly, he realized the situation was even more disastrous than he was prepared for, because they were not alone. Wyll, Karlach and, least of all he’d expected, Mizora were staring at him with different degrees of amusem*nt imprinted in their expressions.

Raphael was never going to recover from this.

At least Mol was still too shaken by the experience and paid no attention to him. Holding onto Haarlep by the hem of their shirt, she stood completely motionless, her eyes open wide.

“Ha!” Raphael exclaimed triumphantly, snatching the scroll that was still sticking from the girl’s pocket, regaining some of his composure in the process. “I think I’ve won this round.”

***

Raphael was staring at a pristine wall. Or, more precisely, he was staring at a patch of the wall that looked as clean and perfect as the day the castle was built. It wasn’t a large patch, merely a circular area approximately 6 feet in diameter. He didn’t even need to measure it; he simply knew the mechanics behind the spell he just cast on it.

“Prestidigitation,” he muttered in disbelief. “A cantrip. Who even puts cantrips on a scroll?!”

“It was cheap,” Mol shrugged, eyeing the same patch.

“You were ready to die for this?” Raphael asked, pointing at the wall.

“I just wanted to get something neat out of selling it to you,” Mol explained, crossing her arms. “I said it was a magic scroll that would help you clean. I never said it would be a good help,” she added.

Raphael sighed, noting how well her way of thinking made her fit with the rest of the devils. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose, surprised their conversation didn’t manage to give him a headache. On the contrary, something about it even seemed rather amusing to him.

“Besides, like you’re the one to talk, you were the one who decided to chase me,” she pointed out.

The absurdity of it all suddenly caught up with him. On better days it would’ve probably made him angry and annoyed, but he was too tired for that. Instead, his mind latched onto the idea of how hilarious it all was, making him suddenly chuckle — quietly at first, then louder, until it turned into a real, full blown laughter. It wasn’t bitter either, but a rich, uncontrollable thing that bubbled from within him, coming out in bursts, each stronger than the other, until tears began gathering in the corner of his eyes.

He couldn’t remember when was the last time he laughed like that. He wasn’t even sure he ever did.

It also seemed rather infectious, because next to him Mol started to laugh, too, almost doubling over and falling to the floor as she clutched her stomach. It was a mirthful sound, one Raphael could never imagine hearing in Avernus, moreover from a child. It was something he was sure would have offended a great deal of Hell’s habitants, if they only heard it.

Yet, for some reason, Raphael found that he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Part 2. The Path of Thorns

There was tea on the table, canned jam that Raphael vaguely remembered picking up somewhere decades ago. Various kinds of cheese were imported from Arabel and there was also some kind of puffy pastry that brought distant memories of Raphael eating it, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recollect where exactly it came from. All of it was kept fresh by the stasis field of the house’s pantry. At least it used to while the castle had power. Now, all of the food stored in there was likely going to go bad in a matter of a tenday if not sooner.

Still, that was a problem for future time, and for now the table in the dining room looked incredibly appealing. Of course, not to the level of sumptuousness Raphael used to when he desired to dine, but it was a rather cozy setup.

The atmosphere around the table, however, was an absolutely different matter.

Yet, somehow, Raphael was in a strangely uplifted mood, so he wasn’t heeding any mind to the awkwardness. Reaching out for a piece of baguette, he began spreading it gingerly with the jam before sending it into his mouth and taking a bite, the sweet and slightly sour taste of cherries tingling at the roof of his mouth in a most pleasant manner.

“Do you even need to eat?” Karlach asked, letting out a sigh of disapproval.

“Of course I don’t!” Raphael smirked, taking another bite. “Unlike you, mortals, who need food to survive, I eat out of vain delectation.”

“Delec-what-tion?” Asked Mol.

Out of any other person present in the hall, she was the second one besides Raphael who seemed undisturbed by the atmosphere. Can of apple jam in her hand, she was eating it straight with a spoon, not even bothering with the variety of breads presented for the purpose of jam spreading.

“He just wastes food, Mol,” Wyll replied with a sigh.

“Well, excuse me,” Raphael responded, feeling strangely unbothered by the accusation. “I guess letting it go stale and rot is more preferable to you,” he added glaring at Hope who was responsible for their inevitable food shortage in the future.

“Never mind that,” Hope said cheerfully, completely ignoring Raphael’s remark. Bringing a fine porcelain cup to her lips, she took a sip of her tea with an expression of peace and calamity which would’ve annoyed Raphael if he’d been in a worse state of mind. “But what brings the tree of you to our humble home?”

“Ughh, you don’t know?” Karlach surprised. Both her and Wyll were looking over the table with unmistakable hunger, but also with distrust, even if it was Hope who organized their little gathering. “These two want to get through the Citadel Approach,” she explained, nodding at Raphael and Haarlep. “To obtain the Sword of Zariel.”

“Huh, like the Blood Citadel?” Yurgir whistled, crossing his arms. The large devil did not seem interested in food, standing next to Mol instead, his presence reminding Raphael of a guard dog for some reason. “I heard the place holds treasures beyond anyone’s comprehension. Surely, it’s just an exaggeration, but it sounds like it should be based on something.”

“Impossible to get into for anyone with even a touch of infernal in their blood, of course,” Mizora added. “But, if they really found a way in, I’m all ears.”

The other cambion was lounging in her chair, leaning into the backrest. She also did not touch the offered by their current hostess refreshments, but there was an imp with her that kept offering everyone a drink from a rather large bottle in its tight grip. Neither her, nor the unfamiliar imp’s presence here was particularly thrilling to Raphael, but Haarlep reassured that she wasn’t going to double cross them, and Raphael was desperate enough to believe his incubus.

Hope looked over the table in confusion. “No,” she shook her head. “This is the first time I hear about it. Then again, I don’t manage to hear a lot of things here. Not sure I had time to adjust. You know, to hear things.”

Bringing Hope up into the equation was not something Raphael had planned. In fact, he’d expected Haarlep to simply get the Approach’s plans or schematics, or at least some verbal descriptions of the place, so they could reach it in secrecy, even from their annoying and, if everything is going to happen according to plans, temporary roommates. He did not expect Haarlep to actually bring the people who were directly responsible for his demise into his home.

But it was ok, Raphael was fully capable of adjusting. He was a master tactician, after all, he was going to find a way to trick Hope into allowing them to explore that particular venue. He just needed to figure out a way of wording his explanation in a very particular manner that even somebody as dense-headed as Hope would consider a great idea.

“But I think it is a great idea!” Hope continued, offering him a smile.

“I’m sorry, what?” Raphael blinked, taken aback by her reaction so much that he couldn’t help but contend it, even if it meant he was literally arguing against himself. “You don’t even know why we wanted to go there!”

“Bewildering as it is, I can’t help but agree with him,” Wyll shook his head. “These are strange times indeed.”

“The pup is agreeing with devils!” Gasped Mizora in a mocking surprise. “I definitely do not regret sticking around for that.”

Hope, meanwhile, exchanged a glance with Korrilla, who gave her a short but firm nod. That interaction was more than a little strange, given that only several days prior Rapharl remembered hearing Korrilla complain about how much she hated her sister. There must’ve been something that transpired between them since then that Raphael didn’t know about.

“I know that it might seem strange to you,” Hope said, casting down her eyes. “To tell the truth, my first reaction was to attempt arguing, but arguing didn’t get me anywhere so far. In fact, the only thing it led to was us being stranded with no power to protect ourselves if Zariel decides to drop on our heads. So we are going to change it,” she added, looking up and over the crowd that gathered in the dining hall. “You want to get the sword? It sounds like something that can help protect us. Yurgir said he was interested in being paid, so I’m sure there will be enough treasures to cover his services. And Mol needs to go home to Baldur’s Gate, where we can send her if we find any sources of strong magic along the way to power our portals.”

Silence hung around the room as everyone was staring at Hope. In turn, she locked her eyes with Raphael and the amount of determination he was able to see in there was almost overwhelming.

“Well, it all sounds great, but there’s also the entire issue of getting through the Approach first,” Karlach reminded. “And let me tell you, I’ve heard about parties who could cast wishes and miracles being wiped out in there…”

“And that's why we've invited you here,” Raphael nodded with a smile, making a sort of circular motion with his hand, as if he was introducing Karlach to the rest of the group. “You have been stationed there for some time, you must know some tricks, some secret passages that will allow us to, perhaps, avoid the fighting altogether.”

Karlach bit her lip as she thought about it. “We could go around some of the rooms, using ventilation shafts and I am aware of some secret passages,” she nodded after a moment. “But we won’t be able to avoid everything. Ugh, somebody have a quill and some paper or something?” she asked, standing up from her chair, looking around.

Out of habit, Raphael almost reached out into the air to summon what she was asking for, yet before he made a fool out of himself, he remembered that he couldn’t do even that. To his surprise, it was Mizora who provided a solution. Only instead of pen and paper she summoned an illusionary board behind Karlach and, as the tiefling cautiously reached out for it with her finger, she was able to leave a faintly glowing blue mark on its surface.

“Sooo,” Karlach drawled. “There are several things in the entire stronghold that will cause us issues. First of all, we do need to get to the place first,” she said, drawing a rather large square in the corner and a squiggly line across the entire board that was attached to it, which Raphael couldn’t even start imagining the meaning of. “There are patrols around the area, and while we theoretically can take down most of them, fighting would definitely get the entire place on high alert. Thankfully, there is a way,” she announced with a grin, turning away from her stage squiggle. “Zariel rarely stations mortals there, but the guy who runs the place, General Zungs, is famous for enjoying lavish meals. They have regular deliveries scheduled there.”

“And so you think we all could sneak inside in a food cart?” Korrilla raised an eyebrow.

“Well, inside, around it, you name it,” Karlach confirmed with a nod.

Raphael rubbed his face. It was only the beginning, and yet the plan did not inspire any confidence. He just hoped the rest of it was going to be a little more… substantial. Then something else caught his attention. “General Zungs?” he frowned. “It’s strange, I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”

“What, would you know every General in Avernus?” Karlach tilted her head.

“Yes?” Raphael replied, completely dumbfounded. “Names, weaknesses. I have some good incriminating materials on most high ranking officers in Zariel’s army.”

“Well, I haven’t personally met him… or her?” Karlach confessed scratching her chin. “But they’d been running the place for more than a decade.”

“Marvelous,” Raphael shook his head, making a mental note to try looking up any information about this mysterious devil. If he had any luck, he was going to dig out some dirt to use to their advantage.

Karlach squinted her eyes, looking at him with suspicion. “Well, anyway. We will be able to get inside pretending to be a food delivery, but we still have to be cautious of them raising an alarm,” she continued. Then she tried to erase her squiggle by smearing it with her palm, leaving a large glowing smudge on the illusionary board. Next to her, Mizora rolled her eyes and recast her spell, the board behind Karlach turning prestine clean again.

“Because we’re pretty much screwed, if they do. The good news, there is a way to power it down in the control room right here,” she explained, painting a square surrounded by more squares with a circle inside of it, and at least this time, Raphael could understand they represented different rooms. “Getting inside it, however, will be tricky. There’s a vault door separating it from the rest of the facility and the only key to it is on General Zungs at all times. It’s not a big deal, really, as I’m aware of a different entrance. We will just need a few Reduce Person scrolls and we would be able to get there through an underground ventilation shaft.”

Karlach turned to the board again, staring to depict a large room behind the few that were already on the board, when Mol cleared her throat.

“Why exactly would we need scrolls for that?” She asked, leaning over the table.

“Well, because the ventilation shaft is small, and all of us are not,” Karlach responded, sounding as if she was confused over the nature of the question.

“Small, as if I would fit in there?”

“Well, yes, theoretically.”

That was an incredibly good point from Mol, Raphael realized. “If she can fit, then we won’t need to waste time looking for scrolls,” he nodded. “The less magic we use the less chances it will get dispelled.”

“I’m sorry, did I get it right, you wish to bring a child into a citadel full of devils who are specifically tasked with killing any intruder?” Wyll asked him, sounding strangely baffled for some reason.

Confused as to why the proposition received such a reaction, Rapahel frowned. It took him another moment to remember he was dealing with mortals here, who had strange customs about protecting their youngs. “I wasn’t the one who proposed it,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “If you haven’t noticed it quite yet, my wishes are not exactly anyone’s command at the moment.”

“I am going!” Mol said firmly. “It’s not like I’ve never dealt with devils before!”

“You’ve never dealt with them out of your own choosing,” Wyll tried again.

“Well, if I’m reading the situation correctly,” Mizora said as a matter of fact, “it seems to me she is dealing with devils out of her own choosing right now.”

“Besides,” Mol added with a smirk. “You will need a rogue, won’t you?”

“No offense, but I've seen your work. I don’t really think your level of skill is quite there just yet, little button,” Yurgir pointed out, placing one of his fingers on the girl’s shoulder.

“We have Haarlep for traps and locks,” Raphael said, nodding at the incubus who was rummaging through the buns and cookies, refilling their plate. “There’s not a single safe in the house they haven’t gone through.”

“Master kept leaving me alone for such long periods of time,” Haarlep smiled brazenly and without a hint of shame. “I needed something to occupy myself.”

“Fine, but I’m still going!” Mol continued to push. “I can help with traps if I won’t be the main rogue. And you will need somebody small too!”

“Alright, let’s circle back to it later and proceed to other issues first,” Raphael proposed, feeling like if he wasn’t going to step in and de-escalate the situation, it was going to end in a kind of argument that was going to dampen his mood. “If anything, we can take the imp with us. Haarlep can easily control up to six or seven of these things,” he added, pointing at the currently sole member of its impish kind who was in the process of refilling Korrilla’s mug from the seemingly endless wine bottle. Suddenly in the center of everyone’s attention, the imp stopped midway, staring at Raphael with its large yellow eyes, a strange gurgling sound coming from its throat.

“Well, alright,” Karlach sighed. “Up to problem number three. There is a barrier that surrounds the Bleeding citadel and goes above it. It’s also the reason we can’t just fly towards the Citadel from the other side of the approach. I do know how to power it down…” she trailed off.

“But,” Raphael prompted, because there’s always been a ‘but’ when it came to situations like this.

“To power it down we will need one of the key-swords which are carried by several Pit Fiends patrolling the area. And yes, I did say Pit Fiends. As in plural.”

Raphael expected they were going to deal with one of the most vicious kinds of devils inhabiting the Hells in their little adventure. If he had his powers, he was certain he could’ve taken one, maybe even two if he’d had support of his cambion servants. Now it was not an option. Of course, they still could probably defeat a single Pit Fiend, but looking over their group, he could tell it with absolute certainty, it was going to be neither quick nor quiet.

“Can we charm it?” he considered out loud turning to Haarlep.

His incubus froze midway while stuffing a rather substantial piece of a pastry into their mouth, looking at Raphael almost terrified. It was a rather strange picture. Not them being scared, because Haarlep was afraid of a great number of things, nor was it about them eating sugary treats, because Raphael was well aware of their sweet tooth as well. It was that eating with such a ravenousness, as if they were even capable of being hungry for food, was strange.

“You want me to try seducing a Pit Fiend?” They asked shocked, after finally finishing chewing.

Raphael rolled his eyes on that, somehow both scandalized and irritated by the idea more than he expected to be. “I’m not proposing that you flirt with it! But your ability to… to put suggestions into people’s head, to manipulate is much stronger than others of your kind.”

“Why thank you,” Haarlep smiled impishly. “That’s not gonna work, however. Unlike you, Pit Fiends have strong mental resistances. There’s a very low chance I succeed, and if I don’t, we will immediately be discovered.”

A silence hung around the table as almost everyone present stared at the two of them with a different degree of disbelief or annoyance. That made Raphael want to either facepalm, or step on Haarlep’s tail under the table. Maybe both.

“And that's way more information than I ever hoped to find out,” Wyll sighed. “But anyway, what actual options do we have about stealing a sword from a Pit Fiend without it noticing and warning his friends?”

Raphael's mind began racing, old bits and pieces of random knowledge about magical items and rare, potent potions coming forth. There was nothing that he could remember from the top of his head that could’ve helped, but he had a rather extensive library here still, he was sure if he sat down for a few evenings, something might’ve turned up.

“We could just get one somewhere other than a Pit Fiend,” Mizora suddenly proposed. “Those swords are being made somewhere.”

“Somewhere like Zariel’s stronghold?” Wyll shook his head. “Because really, that sounds like a much easier place to get into,” he pointed out sarcastically.

“Oh, pup, you’re ever so dense!” Mizora laughed. “But no. Think about it, we are in Avernus. If something is being built somewhere, that something had also been stolen and resold and stolen again way ahead of us. We just need to find it.”

“And how do you think we do that?” Raphael asked. “If you really think Zariel would allow such a loophole, I question your knowledge of her.”

Mizora hadn’t answered him, only grinned mischievously and moved her gaze to Karlach who suddenly bit her lower lip.

“sh*t,” Karlach muttered, sounding both desperate and irritated. “If an extra one exists somewhere, Florenta might know about it… it’s uh… an old acquaintance.”

“She’s such a delight to be around!” Mizora laughed, which immediately told Raphael that it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience, whoever this Florenta was.

“I suppose I could take a hold of her,” Karlach sighed unenthusiastically. “In the meantime, we still have one last big issue. And here I really have no idea what to do. The final push to the Citadel is guarded by large mechanical contraptions. We need to find a smith or an engineer who knows their way around infernal engines to take them down. The only person I know about is back in Baldur’s Gate, unreachable.”

“Infernal engines, you say,” Raphael mussed, raising an eyebrow. “By a strange twist of fate, we happen to have somebody who knows their way around them right here, in the House of Hope.”

“But?” Karlach asked. Because of course, there’s always had to be a ‘but’.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Gortash had always considered himself a good judge of character. He had to, to achieve any kind of success in rising above the absolute trash he was born into. Because of that, he only needed a moment conversing with Hope to know she had a few screws loose.

Not that it was particularly surprising, given everything Gortash had gathered about her so far. She couldn’t have been a prisoner for too long, as she hadn't been here yet when he lived in the House of Hope. Still, Gortash did not have a firsthand knowledge about the effectiveness of Raphael’s tortures, as the devil had never personally delivered punishments to him, leaving that kind of dirty work to Gortash’s jailer, Nubaldin, instead.

Hope’s predicament, however, was now playing in Gortash’s hand. Whatever malaise was inflicted upon her, was making her particularly trusting, which he could use to manipulate her. For now, he was going to be a helpful friend who assisted Hope in keeping control. Eventually, he himself was going to take over the entire house.

He just needed to play along with whatever crazy idea she had. And if it meant he needed to pick up gardening, so be it.

Except, Gortash knew close to little about the subject at hand, besides the obvious facts, like seeds sprouting into plants if placed into soil and watered. And also, that the Avernus was the worst possible place for the plants to grow.

There was an open space in the area that previously served as prison, which was partially leading to a ledge outside the castle. It was decently illuminated and close to their self-replenishing water reservoir that functioned even without outside power, connected to a basic Decanter of Endless Water. All things considered, Gortash assumed this was as best conditions for planting as he could get in the Hells.

On his hands and knees, he plowed a small trench with a hand device he was certain called a hoe, wondering if he needed to ask Hope for some reading materials on the topic. On another hand, it wasn’t like he cared to succeed in this particular venue, simply needed to pretend he cared about it enough to bring Hope to his side.

That was exactly how he was found by a very unexpected group of visitors.

“Gortash?!” came a surprised and a rather familiar voice, and when he turned his head to glance in its direction, he saw his old employee, one who was also responsible for his death, gaping at him with shock.

At first her surprise turned into amusem*nt. “Oh, I was told you were here, but I couldn’t fully believe it!” she laughed without sounding even remotely amused.

“Ah, quite a surprise for me, too, I can assure you,” Gortash replied in a cheerful manner, reaching to adjust the very first planter Hope had given him so it would stand slightly less askew on a rock.

“Dead. In hells. On your knees and tending to flowers!” she continued laughing, more and more strained than before. “Exactly like I’ve dreamed about for years!”

“Well, glad at least one of our dreams came to fruition, dear,” Gortash sighed. He honestly did not expect this kind of complication to his plans and had to think carefully of how to deal with it.

“Oh yes! This is just f*cking fixes everything, ain’t it?” she exhaled, the pretend amusem*nt in her tone changing into rage, flames around her body bursting to life, engulfing her. “You bastard!” she practically yelled starting to charge.

“Karlach stop!” Hope ordered, and there was power behind her words, a spell accompanying the command.

The raging barbarian stopped in her tracks, her axe half-risen above her head. It was obvious she still could understand what was happening around her yet couldn’t move an inch of her body. “Let me just do it again. I’m sure it will finally feel good the second time!” she pleaded.

“You promised!” Hope reminded. “You can’t break a promise to me like that!”

There was a man with them, too. Duke Ravengard’s son, Gortash recognized. What Wyll was doing here, he couldn’t tell for sure, but given how carefully he approached Karlach and placed a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the still raging flames that visibly hurt him, Gortash could guess the two had gotten quite close after their little adventure of stopping the Elder Brain. “It won’t feel any better, I can assure you,” he said gently but firmly. “And Hope is right, there’s no reason to break a promise over someone now so insignificant.”

“And here we go with random insults,” Gortash sighed. “I honestly expected a little more class from somebody of your stature, Wyll.”

Wyll looked at him sharply but didn’t reply. Instead, he focused his attention on Karlach, whispering something to her that Gortash couldn’t hear.

A moment passed, and the fires around Karlach started to subside, her axe lowering. “I can’t believe it!” she groaned finally. “I’m gonna need to work with the bastard who ruined my life to help a f*cking incubus sort out their love life!”

“We’re doing this for Mol, not for them,” Wyll told her.

“And to be fair, you did ruin my life, too,” Gortash pointed out, gesturing vaguely at his partially transparent form. “And working together? I understand I will likely have no say on the matter, but if you could at least fill me in on the details…” he trailed off.

And they did. Hope was doing most of the explanation, even if it was obvious she knew the least about the situation, and with each of her words, Gortash saw an opportunity presenting itself clearer and clearer. Of course, it was still difficult to call it a plan, but he was certain something was going to form in his mind eventually.

And then his two killers left. Hope was turning around to follow them but stopped. “I wanted to ask you something else,” she said looking back at him. “If we find you parts, do you think you could fix the soul siphon?”

On that Gortash raised an eyebrow. “For you, my Hope,” he smiled, reaching to cup her cheek in almost a loving manner, surprised at the same time by the fact that she hadn't pulled away from his cold touch. “I will do anything.”

***

Raphael seemed in a surprisingly uplifted mood. If Haarlep was honest, they expected to return to a complete disaster with a partially destroyed castle and some lethal casualties after a massive brawl among its inhabitants. Or at least to their former master loathing in another bout of self-pity after drinking himself to an almost oblivion.

Instead, Raphael was lounging in his bed, flipping casually through the pages of a book the name of which Haarlep couldn't read, unable to understand Netherese. There was a soft smile on his face, and he even hummed some unfamiliar melody under his nose.

What could’ve possibly happened in their absence, Haarlep hadn't the slightest of ideas, but they were going to take it as a good sign.

“Do you think longer hair would suit this form better?” they asked, looking over their fully unclothed reflection in the large mirror that stood near Raphael’s wardrobe. Their smaller, feminine shape was looking back, familiar yet slightly different, black hair reaching now below their shoulders.

Raphael glanced up from his book, his eyebrow rising quizzically. “It’s fine I suppose,” he shrugged.

“You barely even looked,” Haarlep pointed out, pouting.

“Because I liked how it was before. The new nose and hair make you look nothing like me.”

Well, it seemed that the other changes Haarlep had done to this form were noticed as well. “And the breasts didn’t?” they asked, not even attempting to hide sarcasm from their tone, straightening their back to make the aforementioned body part more prominent.

And if by accident, Raphael’s eyes fell onto Haarlep’s chest, a barely noticeable blush rising to his cheeks. “That’s…” he tried, obviously doing his best to look up at Haarlep’s face again yet failing miserably. Well, Haarlep couldn’t really blame him, their breasts did look great after all. “If you no longer care what I have to say about your appearance, why won’t you just turn into yourself?”

It was Haarlep’s turn to be taken aback. Turning away from Raphael and towards the mirror again, they bit their lip. “It wasn’t particularly appealing,” they replied. It was not the entirety of the truth, of course. The entirety of the truth was that after so long of not seeing their true form, they couldn’t even remember what it looked like, only that they were not particularly fond of it, of its smaller stature.

And it was probably Raphael’s better mood speaking now, because instead of agreeing, the cambion simply shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad.” Then, before Haarlep could even process his words, likely noticing what he just said, Raphael hurried to add, “Obviously not as good as my own beautiful face you’ve been wearing this whole time, but you know...” he trailed off, trying to return to his book.

Rolling their eyes, Haarlep decided to ignore the last remark. Not that the first part of Raphael’s statement was of any comfort. Truth be told, Raphael himself had never seen their true form, he just didn’t realize it. They didn’t want to mention it now, however. Not because they were worried Raphael would become curious, but because they were afraid he wouldn't care.

No, for now Haarlep needed to focus on picking something else, something that Raphael was going to appreciate, admire even. That in mind, they looked over their form once again, an idea beginning to form in their head. The hair framing their face started to change again, growing longer this time, almost reaching their waist, cascading down their shoulders in waves.

“What do you think about this?” they asked, looking this time at the reflection of Raphael in the mirror rather than the real him.

To Haarlep it seemed he was almost ready to brush this hairstyle off as well. Yet his expression changed midway, the indifference turning into surprise and curiosity. “It’s, umm,” he began, and Haarlep could’ve sworn they heard something akin awe in his voice. “It’s very nice, actually, I wouldn’t mind if you kept—'' then a recognition settled in. “You went through my desk, didn’t you?” he demanded almost angrily, and for a moment Haarlep wondered if they made a mistake, going a little too far copying this particular hairstyle.

“Well, in my defense, you didn’t hide it very well,” they said, raising their hands. It was obviously not the best of responses for what Haarlep was trying to accomplish. Realizing that, they looked down. “I’m... sorry, I just wanted to ask you about her. She was a beautiful woman.”

Raphael huffed at that. “You must be a fool to think I would discuss this with you.”

“Who else could you possibly discuss it with?”

“Absolutely nobody. I have no desire to, thank you very much. And please change to something else, I don’t want to even think about sleeping with someone who looks like my mother, for crying out loud.”

It was almost laughable how Raphael had no quarrels with sleeping with somebody who looked like a clone of himself, but such a simple thing like a hairstyle was apparently where he was drawing a line. Of course, they didn’t say it out loud, even if the desire to mock his former master was great.

Still, they wished to find out more, make Raphael talk. In the past it wouldn't have been an issue. They could’ve simply charmed him, made him want to tell his every secret as they were distracting his senses with pleasure. Now it wasn’t going to work. Not only Haarlep’s powers were depleted due to their hunger, the topic was also so vastly different from Raphael’s usual braggings about own grandeur and plans of world domination.

“I had a mother too, you know,” they said as a matter of fact, staring distantly into the mirror, somewhere between their own and Raphael’s reflections, as their hair began changing once again. This time they went with a little shorter option, slightly curlier, too, but not overly so.

To anyone who wasn’t a fiend, that confession would have sounded absurd. Because of course other people had parents, that was how they were appearing in the world. Most fiends, however, were spawned from the souls of sinners, the kinds of sins they committed in life, corresponding to the type of devil or demon they eventually became. Of course, even fiends were capable of pairing up and producing offspring in a more conventional way, but those cases were rare and far in between, with the majority of children dying off anyway, incapable of protecting themselves in the harsh environment of Lower Planes.

“Huh,” Raphael responded, and by his intonation Haarlep could see they piqued his curiosity. Then a frown appeared on his face. “A baby incubus, that’s not something I even wished to ponder about,” he said. “What did they even feed you? Actually, never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

“You really believe lust is the only emotion my kind is capable of feeding upon?” Haarlep sighed.

“What, don’t say you were nurtured on love, or something as foolish as that,” Raphael laughed.

Haarlep obeyed the request, not saying anything, staring at Raphael silently instead, turning to face him directly again. Raphael tried to stare him down in return, but in the end it was him who averted his eyes.

“Would it really be such a nonsensical notion that my kind is capable of love?” Haarlep asked. They didn't mean their parents now and given the way Raphael narrowed his eyes at the statement, they thought he understood it.

Raphael stared at them closely for a moment, then smiled and began reciting a poem, his voice almost singing through the lines. It sounded familiar even if Haarlep couldn't quite recollect its origin, never bothered to pay attention to the lessons in Faerȗnian literature his former master had always been so fond of.

“When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutored youth,

Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.”

"Your kind is quite good at convincing they are," he added at the end with a sigh.

That was true of course, Haarlep themself used to do exactly that in the past. And Raphael, no matter how ignorant he could've been at times, was capable of understanding it was all a pretense. Until of course it no longer was, and Haarlep was dying from centuries of their own lies.

“Still, I suppose, you were lucky to be given a chance to have a semblance of a caring parent.”

“I suppose,” Haarlep agreed, annoyed slightly at how Raphael moved the topic in its original direction. “I still remember little of my parents. I know they were trying to hide in the limbo between the Hells and the Abyss to give me a chance to survive. Eventually devils found and killed them, and I was taken as a prisoner to Mephistar. Pretty standard stuff, huh.”

Raphael nodded, his lips turning into a thin line. For a long moment, he was completely silent, staring now at his book, yet Haarlep could see his eyes completely still, not dancing across the lines of text printed in there. “No, I don’t know a lot about her,” he said finally, closing the book and placing it onto the table near the bed. “But you know, how when you consume somebody’s soul, you get glimpses of their life, their memories,” he continued his voice so quiet, Haarlep almost though he imagined it.

“Yes, I do,” Haarlep replied. They understood what Rapahel was talking about, mortal mothers of cambions were their first victims, the first souls they drained in order to appear in this world. Stepping away from the mirror, they moved in the direction of the bed, slowly, carefully, as if afraid any sudden movement was going to spook Rapahel, preventing him from finally opening up. “Do you... do you remember something from that day?” they asked, taking a seat next to him on the bed.

“Not much,” Raphael shook his head. “I was a newborn after all... but... some bits and pieces of her memories stayed with me. I was one of the first cambions in existence, she had no idea her fate was already sealed. I suppose it was not surprising that she wished to keep me.”

It was obvious Raphael had never spoken about this before, had never been this honest, his usual patterns of speech breaking apart from uncertainty, his tone unrecognizable. Yet, it didn’t seem he was forcing himself to talk. In fact, Haarlep was certain he'd truly wanted to tell this to somebody for a very long time but was terrified to do so. More so than he was afraid of his father, or his own death.

“What if she knew about her fate?” Haarlep asked. “Do you think it would’ve been different then?”

“I don’t know,” Raphael shook his head, and something about his intonation told Haarlep he was about to close off any moment, withdraw back into the relative safety of ignorance and denial. “Anyway—”

“Can I see?” Haarlep pleaded, interrupting whatever excuse he was about to give. “Please?”

Raphael dared to look up again, staring at Haarlep with defiance for the longest of moments. And then, miraculously, it was gone again, deflated, giving way to this unfamiliar vulnerability. “Fine,” he nodded once and closed his eyes.

Afraid to even breath, Haarlep leaned closer, reaching for Rapahel’s mind to establish a telepathic link, finding absolutely no resistance to their own presence in his former master’s head. It was dark in there at first, some thoughts jumbled together, scattered across his mind. Haarlep even thought that they were able to feel a small trace of anxiety that didn’t belong to them, even if emotions were not something Haarlep’s telepathy was capable of picking up.

And then they saw it. A vague image of an ancient city flying through the clear blue skies. Some kind of terrace around them was made of pristine white marble decorated with gold and silver. Luscious trees were growing around the terrace, hiding them in the coolness of their shade.

There was a man next to them, and unlike the surroundings he looked somber. Dressed in an elegant dark purple and black garb, he was evincing an air nobility, yet Haarlep couldn’t say they had even the slightest of clues about who the man was.

“You must listen to me, for once,” he pleaded, addressing the owner of the memory Haarlep realized they was seeing. The man was speaking in Netherese, but as they watched it though Rapahel’s own recollection, they could understand him. “You’re carrying a monster, an abomination. We have doctors who can remove that... thing out of you. Even this far along. We can forget it ever happened!”

The woman, Raphael’s mother, laughed at that. “I’m carrying a child, no more and no less,” she replied firmly, her hand landing onto her own stomach, which had already begun to show roundness. And suddenly a soft and warm feeling enveloped them, that made Haarlep feel safe and at peace. “My child. One who one day will be able to choose his own destiny, who will decide his own fate, unbound by the morality of Hells with his humanity, yet carrying the strength of his father.”

Her answer did not seem to please the man, yet he didn’t argue either. “Then I only hope you will not grow to regret it.”

There were bits and pieces of other memories, too, but either because they were too vague, or because Raphael didn’t feel like continuing sharing, they all began fading away. Soon Haarlep found themselves back in Raphael’s bedroom, sitting on their former Master’s bed, leaning into him, so close they were breathing the same air.

“She... she loved you,” Haarlep whispered, looking up, finding themselves suddenly staring into Rapahel’s eyes, able to see every freckle in them.

This was it, likely the only time in his entire life Raphael had ever experienced being loved. Not that Haarlep had it much different, but they at least got to meet the person who offered them this sort of affection. Still, without these experiences, no matter how insignificant they seemed, Haarlep doubted he’d ever be here now, in this situation, stuck caring for a man whom they used to despise.

They wondered if Mephistopheles knew about it, if he sent Haarlep to his son because he was aware of this similarity. So many fiends considered the ruler of the Eighth Layer insane, but there’d always been a method to his madness.

“Is that what you think it was?” Raphael asked, his hand coming to rest on Haarlep’s bare hip. It wasn’t a sexual gesture, more like there was no other place to put it comfortably while sitting together in such close proximity.

“It’s what I know it was,” Haarlep responded, reaching out, laying their own hand over Raphael’s, their fingers running down his knuckles with a kind of tenderness they hadn’t even expected from themselves, a gesture tearing a soft gasp from Raphael’s lips, which sounded neither of pain nor of pleasure.

Raphael exhaled, slow and measured, his expression shifting through a myriad of different emotions, none of each Haarlep had ever seen there before. “Maybe,” he exhaled without breaking eye contact.

It was impossible to tell for sure which one of them moved first, closing the gap, only that the next moment there were lips on the corner of Haarlep’s mouth, moving slowly against them. Perhaps, it wasn’t a kiss in any normal sense, both of them cautious of Haarlep’s saliva, but it was as close to it as they could accomplish. Still, it left Haarlep breathless, their head spinning from this simple touch that felt more intense than even the filthiest of things they’d ever done.

It didn’t stop there either, because together with that strange, and unfamiliar tenderness came something Haarlep didn’t expect. It was barely a trickle of emotion, but the strength of it, the taste of it, left them shaking.

That was. It was... they were feeding.

It was too little to sate their hunger, barely a tease of a meal, but oh, what a meal it was. The sweetest, most delicious thing that they’d ever tried, which made them instantly addicted, craving for more.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. Rapahel shut himself out, pushing Haarlep away, leaving them practically gasping from loss and disappointment. “Change back,” he asked, his expression turning completely blank. “Please,” he added, likely remembering he could no longer order the incubus.

Haarlep huffed, trying to suppress their hurt and disappointment. “Is it the nose, or the hair that’s the problem?” they asked, forcing themselves to chuckle, while every last bit of their strength was aimed at not to scream in frustration.

“Neither,” Raphael replied, clothing his eyes. “It’s me.”

For once in their entire partnership, Haarlep didn’t feel like arguing.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

“So, a dumb question,” sighed Karlach. She sounded more annoyed than anything else, but Haarlep was able to hear pity in her voice, which they could totally understand. They pitied themselves, too. “Why won’t you just, you know, tell him?”

Haarlep glanced at her woefully, then his gaze returned to the source of all his problems. Raphael was walking through the desert ahead of them. It was obvious he was doing his best to project an air of leadership by staying ahead of their procession, but he looked so utterly miserable, Haarlep could only describe his attempt as a failure. His favorite doublet was discarded, left back in his chambers, his white shirt was soaked in sweat and sticking to his skin. Still, it was almost admirable how he continued to walk on his own two feet. How he complained only three times in the last ten minutes about Mizora’s teleportation spell that missed their destination by several miles as she’d only seen their destination once.

“Here’s a question for you,” Haarlep responded, moving their eyes to the next person at the front of their lines that happened to be Wyll. The human did not seem particularly comfortable with their environment either, but there was significantly more spring to his step, as if he was much more used to traveling in this manner. “Why won’t you tell him you’ve been drooling over his pretty, little ass for a while now?”

Karlach made a strange, strained sound that was something between a gasp and a hiccup. “How did you...” she began, her voice dropping into an almost whisper. There was quite a distance between them and the two men in question, nobody was going to hear them, so the precaution seemed rather unnecessary. “Never mind. That’s just different.”

“How is that different?” they asked.

“Well, for once, I’m not literally dying from it,” she pointed out.

Haarlep pouted, realizing there was a point at least in a part of her argument. “I did tell him,” they said finally. “Well, heavily implied to be precise, but I’m certain he understood the implication.”

“And?” she asked, and for the first time Haarlep could hear interest in her voice. Well, they had a feeling that sooner or later she was going to warm up to a good gossip.

“He thinks I have ulterior motives, and that I am lying to him, obviously.”

“Obviously?” she surprised, a little louder this time, enough that the servant imp whom Mizora stole from the cantina and who now was hopping happily near its new mistress turned its head to glance in their direction.

Haarlep caught themselves halfway through rolling their eyes again. Not to completely insult the only active listener to all their problems, they pretended to look over their final destination instead: the ruins of an old flying fortress that towered over their heads a few miles ahead. No longer soaring through the red skies of Avernus, it was driven into the ground, looking like a blade of an enormous sword made of pure obsidian. Partially destroyed in an old battle, showing obvious signs of decay, it was still an impressive contraption.

“So, your friend who lives there, Florenta,” Haarlep spoke again. “You’ve known her for a decade, isn’t that right?”

“Well, a little less, given she was somehow transferred to intelligence, but yeah,” Karlach confirmed. “And she hasn’t been living here the entire time either.”

“And if this Florenta would’ve suddenly told you she had feelings for you...” they trailed off.

Karlach made a face that was partially disbelief and partially revulsion. “Uh boy, it's some sort of a trick question, ain’t it?” she asked. “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean.”

Haarlep nodded. “And you’ve only lived in hell for ten years. Raphael has been dealing with devils for over two millennia. There’s a specific mindset one must develop to survive here. The kind that leads to trust issues your mind can’t even start wrapping around.” The kind that turned a person paranoid, one that made them ask their lover to become a copy of themselves. Not really because they weren’t capable of finding another person appealing, but more because they couldn’t trust anyone else to see their real desires, their real needs.

This time Karlach looked at them with even more pity in her eyes. For a moment they walked in complete silence disturbed only by occasional gusts of wind rushing past them, picking up fine sand from the ground. “Well but you’re like, literally have proof,” she said finally, as if only now realizing the fact. “Like, you could demonstrate your powers are gone.”

Haarlep had considered it. In fact, they knew that if all other options were going to fail, exposing the entire truth was exactly what they would have to succumb to. They would have to plead and beg and get to their knees if needed, self esteem be damned in the face of survival. Besides, Raphael had been on his knees plenty of times for them in the past, so surely it wasn't going to be that bad.

“He’s not ready to hear it,” Haarlep replied. “He’s horrible under pressure and will just freak out more than anything.”

Karlach moved her eyes from him and to the completely oblivious to their conversation Raphael, eyeing his back. “Do you think he would just... you know, leave you to die?”

Haarlep’s lips pressed into thin line. They didn’t even wish to consider the possibility, especially given it wasn’t all that far-fetched. Thankfully, they weren’t given any time for it, because the sandy flat of the desert suddenly ended, giving way to an almost smooth, glass-like surface that was surrounding the fallen citadel. It was of the same reddish tint as the sand, as if it somehow solidified under pressure and was blending in perfectly. So much so, that Haarlep almost tripped, not expecting the density of the ground to change.

“Well, looks like we have arrived,” Mizora smiled brightly, dismounting from her Phantom Steed, the faintly glowing unicorn-like creature dissipating into the thin air. There was also not even a droplet of sweat on the sorceress's skin, not a wrinkle on her dress. “See, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh, shut it,” Raphael groaned, trying to catch his breath. By now he was even in worse shape than earlier, his human face red with exasperation, and he was clutching his side as if in pain.

Haarlep’s man was kind of pathetic. It was even a little embarrassing. Still, they found themselves staring at his exhausted form with tenderness, and realizing that shook their head, switching their attention to the gates of the citadel instead.

The entrance leading further into their destination was obviously not part of the original construction. It looked like a hole was blasted into the sidewall then random chunks and pieces of metal and obsidian were used to construct the arches around the opening. They looked clunky, not aesthetically pleasing, but at least stable in their build. Between them stood a gate. Unlike the arches it didn’t look constructed on a spot from garbage, and it was also newer, composed of lighter hue metals and wood.

At the first glance, there weren’t any guards here, but Haarlep noticed a small movement above them, a gray head covered in long barbs peaked over the rocks, watching them carefully for a moment. “Clients?” its wheezy voice greeted them. “Or foes?” the barbed devil inquired.

Suddenly, there were cannons aimed at them, appearing practically out of nowhere as several panels on the otherwise smooth walls slid open. A flickering blue and white light was emerging from their bores and the air around started to crackle, making hair on Haarlep’s body stand on end.

“Whoa, hold your horses there, knucklehead,” Karlach called out, raising her hands. “I’m Karlach, I came here to see Flo.”

The devil squinted its black eyes, then turned to look somewhere behind it, obviously relaying the received information to somebody else. Then, without any additional words, it disappeared from sight completely. Thankfully, together with it, the large magical cannons slid back into their places, the panels closing shut to cover them. The ground under their feet began shaking ever so slightly, the gate opening before them.

From there it led them into a dark corridor with a row of everlasting torches burning on each side. Their flames didn’t flicker, at least not in a way the real flame did, and their light colored the metal walls and floor shades of blue, making the atmosphere of the place almost ominous. Then again, Haarlep suspected it was exactly the thought process behind the choice of decor.

It was cooler in here, too, the magically chilled air blowing through the vents on the ceiling, yet Haarlep didn’t find themselves relieved. Not with all the years of training as a spy screaming at their inner senses about the deadly traps around. Of course, they were currently powered down, but they were more than likely to kill them all in an instant at a press of a single button in somebody else's hands.

After a little bit of additional walk, the corridor was opening into a large room, circular in shape. It was completely empty, save for a single throne-like contraption, built from what looked to be a broken grille of an infernal war chariot. On the throne, no matter how uncomfortable it looked from the side, slouched a woman with pale blue skin. Several sets of spiked black chains were wrapped around her body, spikes digging deep into her skin, yet seeming not bringing any discomfort to their owner. Another four long chains were rising from behind her back, moving around her like living things with the mind of their own.

“When you said you had a sort-of-a friend here, this is not what I imagined,” Wyll whispered, leaning closer to Karlach. “That’s a kyton!”

“She’s called the Garrotter,” Karlach responded in the same hushed manner. “I have no idea what else you could have imagined.”

Florenta looked over their bizarre group curiously, yet strangely coldly. “A deserter,” she hummed thoughtfully as her eyes stopped on Karlach. “You surely have some guts to show up here after everything.”

She didn’t move, but her sentient chains inched closer in their direction, filling the room with chilling clinks of metal, the spikes on their ends turning in their direction as if they were snakeheads. There was another movement around two balconies under the ceiling on the sides of the room, but Haarlep couldn’t see neither the kind of devils hiding in thee, nor their number.

“After everything? Excuse me?” Karlach protested in surprise. Her voice was firm, but she obviously didn’t miss the threat of their situation, her hand reaching slowly for her axe.

A deafening silence fell in the room, the air becoming so tense it felt like a single drop of a pin was going to start a fight. A fight where Haarlep was going to be completely useless, and with no place to hide in the wide-open chamber.

They were trying to look over the throne one more time to see if there were any nooks or crannies which were big enough to fit an incubus, when Florenta started to laugh. It wasn’t a triumphant kind of laughter, nor was there anything delicate in the sound. It was like somebody was sharpening their claws against metal, while simultaneously skinning a hellboar alive. It also came so unexpectedly, it startled Haarlep to the point they had to hold an undignified yelp, their hand coming to cover their mouth.

“You should’ve seen your face, Karlach!” Florenta wheezed, slapping her hand on her own knee. “This is f*cking hilarious!”

“Yes, very funny, Flo,” Karlach responded blankly, visibly relaxing. “But I guess jokes are on me, I should’ve expected this.”

Getting up from her throne, Florenta sprightly moved towards Karlach, and to Haarlep it looked as if she was ready to give her a hug yet stopped at the last moment. “So surprised to see you here,” she grinned. “Have you received my care package?”

“Ugh, don’t mention,” Karlach shook her head. “Like, seriously, don’t.”

Next Florenta turned towards Mizora, her smile turning forced, her chains coming closer to her body as if to guard her. “Ah, Mizora, I see you graced me with your presence as well.”

“Why, my dear, always a pleasure,” Mizora responded, and there was so much vile in her voice that it immediately told Haarlep there was some sort of history between the two. A very unpleasant kind of history. “I see you moved up the ranks nicely from the front lines.”

“Well, what can I say, Lady Zariel was able to see my vast talents as an information broker.”

“Oh, I’m sure that was the reason,” Mizora laughed, yet her laughter sounded angelic in comparison. “Probably that also was why she sent you to this hole in the middle of nowhere,” she added, suddenly finding something really fascinating in her own claws.

Florenta glared at her, and for a moment it almost seemed like she truly considered violence, her otherwise empty white eyes flaring yellow. Then, somehow, she managed to take hold of her emotions. “And I assume you’re Raphael,” she said, turning her attention to the other cambion. “Rumors of your demise spread so fast around all nine layers of hell.”

“I can imagine they are,” Raphael agreed with a short nod of greeting, which was neither disrespectful, nor indicated his acceptance of Florenta’s status.

“Although, some people even claim you’ve died in your own home, while others believe you’re a prisoner there now.” The kyton smirked, tilting her head as she eyes him appraisingly.

No matter the other flaws Raphael had, he was smart enough not to play into an information broker’s hands for free, however. “Well, perhaps I have died. Perhaps I am now a prisoner there,” he smiled coyly, spreading his hands. “It’s been a little hectic period of my existence.”

“I see,” Floranta said simply. Then she moved her eyes around the rest of their group, yet, either because she deemed it unnecessary, or because she didn’t think Haarlep and Wyll were worthy of her attention, she proceeded to ignore them. Returning back to her throne, she flopped onto it, as if it was made of softest cushions. “So, what can I do for you,” she asked, rubbing her hands.

“First thing first,” Karlach began, “I need to know if you will sell us out.”

Suddenly, Florenta’s expression became incredibly curious. “Oh, it’s that kind of visit,” she grinned, a row of sharp teeth gleaming white in the dusk of the room. “I really can’t promise such a thing, you know that. But...” she added, raising her pointing finger into the air. “If it will make you feel better, Zariel herself rarely demands reports from me. I mostly trade with bounty hunters, so the kind of information they are seeking is about those with bounties on their heads. And, surprising as it is, out of all people currently associated with Raphael only one fits such description.”

Karlach gritted her teeth and looked over the rest of them almost apologetically. “Gods damming,” she groaned. “I’m more than sure it’s Zariel wanting me back.”

“Actually,” Florenta responded. “It’s not you. It’s some incubus by the name of Haarlep.”

Haarlep felt goosebumps covering their skin, a shiver of terror running down their spine. They did their best to suppress any sort of reaction, hoping it was enough. Still in their feminine form, they knew it was impossible for Florenta to realize she was talking about them. And, to their relief, not a single person in their group decided to turn around and look in their direction, pretty much exposing their identity. Even Mizora, who could’ve done it for mere personal amusem*nt reacted with nothing but a barely notable raise of her eyebrow.

“Haarlep?” Raphael surprised meanwhile, gaping at Floranta, forgetting for a moment about composure in the face of his bewilderment. “Who in the Nine Hells would need them?”

“Oh, it’s a big one, too,” Florenta nodded. “And get this, Mephistopheles himself placed it. Whatever this incubus of yours did... well, it really didn’t sit well with the Lord of Cania.”

This time the information almost made Haarlep sick to their stomach. Surely, they expected Mephistopheles to be angry at them. Maybe even send somebody to either retrieve them or, more likely, kill them as they’ve never been a particularly valuable asset. Yet, placing a bounty, moreover a big one, meant that half of Avernus was going to be on their ass.

“Tell you what,” Florenta continued. “I have several... errands that I need to run. Explain to me what you came here for, I will decide which of my errands will be the most suitable for the information and for a proper non-disclosure agreement on my part. Will do it all correctly, contract and all.”

“A devil contract is a sure way of getting yourself in more trouble than it’s worth,” Wyll pointed out, turning to Karlach to address her directly. “Are you absolutely certain we won’t be able to find this information the other way?”

“Oh, Wyll, you would know everything about it, won’t you?” Mizora laughed.

“It’s fine,” Raphael said. “I will personally look over the contract. I will make sure it’s as fair as possible.”

“I’m going to just assume you’re very good at all this contract business,” Karlach sighed.

“You wound me by a mere implication that I might not be, my dear,” Raphael responded, placing his hand over his heart in a dramatic manner.

“Well, in this case,” Karlack nodded, her attention returned back to the kyton. “Do you remember, back in the day, we were stationed at the Bleeding Citadel Approach? The sword the pit fiends were carrying there, we need to get our hands on one of them.”

Florenta was staring at her curiously, considering her words for a long moment. “That’s an extremely interesting request,” she said finally, her intonation more serious than it’s been during their entire conversation. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to try to get to the citadel.”

“Well, I’m afraid that's a little bit confidential information,” Raphael replied.

Florenta’s serious facade cracked once again, but this time more in a more pretentious manner, as if she really didn’t mean to sound serious in the first place. “Oh, but of course it is,” she said. “Except that you won’t find them. I won’t even need to look through my personal archives to know it. Only four of these swords were ever created, and all four are in use.”

That was honestly something Haarlep should've expected, something all of them should’ve expected, and still it was a difficult thing to hear. No, their little plot couldn't have ended so fast, not when Haarlep was so close to getting from under Raphael’s skin and into his heart.

“Oh, don’t make such sour faces,” Florenta chuckled. “There’s another way. I can find you the schematics of the sword, and all you will need to do is find the star metal they are made of. More than that, I can even tell you where you can find some. And, it just happens I have the perfect little favor you can do for me in return as a payment.”

“And what that favor might be?” Karlach asked.

“Oh, just a prank I really wanted to pull on somebody for a while now,” Florena grinned ear to ear, rubbing her hands together. “And it’s going to be absolutely hilarious.”

Then, she rose from the throne one more time, turning her back to their group. It would’ve been a terribly trusting and foolish gesture for anyone but a kyton, whose chains remained pointed in their direction, as if watching them. “Hey, Malachar!” she yelled to one of her barbed devils. “Bring me our special squid ink bombs. That stupid bitch needed to think twice before double crossing me.”

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Being dead was a strange experience to say the least. Gortash felt neither fatigue, nor hunger, yet the other day he’d managed to bump his head on a low hanging pipe in the engine room and felt as much pain as if his soul was still attached to his mortal body.

He could see through his own fingers, ghostly and translucent as they were, yet he was still capable of picking apart intricate parts of a mechanical contraption before him. He knew he would've had a lot of difficulties manipulating solid objects if his soul was in the Prime Material. His hands would’ve been passing right through them, until he learned how to control it. Here, in hell, the laws of existence were different, however, and Gortash was as solid as anyone else around him.

“As I suspected, there’s nothing dangerous about these so-called bombs,” he said finally, looking over one of the explosive devices they received from their informant. It laid on the kitchen table, which was a new addition to the boudoir, completely taken apart.

“So-called?” Karlach raised an eyebrow.

What was even stranger than his experience being dead was his experience being in the presence of his killer. He fully expected holding some sort of a grudge against Karlach, but to his own surprise he felt almost nothing. He knew from the start she was going to hate him for what he’d done, knew she would want revenge. That knowledge was a price he’d prepaid in advance selling her away to Zariel all these years ago. Like a simple business transaction, two people at a market exchanging goods and services.

Would he try killing her if circ*mstances allowed it? More than likely. But it was going to be done out of convenience, rather than an action dictated by emotions.

It was obviously not the same for Karlach. Judging by her distrustful stare, she was still unsatisfied with the results of their little deadly match, looking at him as if ready to pounce and destroy his soul completely, if Gortash as much as made a single wrong move. She would’ve probably attempted it by now again, if not for Hope who sat next to her, solemnly watching their interactions.

“Well, what is the purpose of a bomb?” Gortash asked.

“I dunno, explode? Seems like what they do,” Karlach responded unenthusiastically.

“Deal as much damage as possible,” Gortash corrected. “And these things...” he added gesturing over the stack of four bombs, “Well, maybe if one of the panels comes loose fast enough during the detonation, it could leave a bruise if it hits somebody.”

“What about the liquid inside of it?” Raphael asked. Unlike the rest of them, who stood around the table where Gortash was working, the cambion was lounging in one of the fancy, expensive couches to the side — reminiscent of what this room used to be prior. He was obviously pretending he was simply being decadent, yet Gortash could swear he’d never seen his former master so tired before. “It looks like the things were designed to splash it all over the place.”

The idea of working with Raphael was a little more annoying than anything else. The bastard no longer had powers and was fast on his way out of his own house, even if he didn’t know about it yet. Still, if Gortash was going to be given a chance of seeing him die in the most painful way possible, it was surely going to make his day.

“Yes,” Gortash confirmed with a nod. “It was my thought too — splashing poison. Except,” he added, dipping the tip of his finger into the container of a gooey black liquid. “This is, as far as I can tell, just squid ink. Nothing more. Nothing less. A prank. Will be one big pain in the behind to clean it off. And good luck washing it off clothes.”

“Well, you did mention your friend was a prankster,” Haarlep reminded. They moved close to the table, and leaned in, sniffing the substance. Then they wrinkled their nose as the fishy smell of the ink hit them.

“Yes, I did,” Karlach replied. “But Florenta’s pranks are… way meaner, you know. There are usually lost limbs involved, or dead pets. This is just,” she said gesturing over the parts of the device, “something I would’ve done as a kid. Would’ve gotten me into a hell of trouble, sure, but not… not dangerous.”

“There might be something mixed into the ink,” Wyll proposed, the man himself standing a little to the side, leaning on a column. Like Raphael, he was also pretending to act casual, yet Gortash didn’t even need half of his tactical brilliancy to clearly see Wyll was in a spot that would allow him to be in a flanking position with Karlach if a fight was to break out. “I remember Astarion mention it once, that a best way to hide a poison is in very fragrant food.”

“Allow me to try,” came a small voice from somewhere below the table, and when Gortash looked down, he saw an imp fidgeting from one foot to the other. “I’m a natural sommelier, my taste is exquisitely refined!”

Haarlep laughed at that. “Sommelier, ha! A bit of a tall order for a kind of hole Mizora picked you up from. But sure, impie, come and have yourself a taste,” they offered, picking the thing up by the scruff of its neck as if it was a kitten and placing it onto the table.

The imp ignored the obviously abasing tone of the incubus and stuck its entire finger into the canister, before bringing it to its lips and having itself a good lick. “Mhhm, yes, it’s as I thought,” it nodded, sounding very serious. “Some kind of herb is mixed into the ink.”

“What kind of herb?” Hope asked curiously.

“I dunno,” it shrugged. “Not anything people usually add into drinks, that’s for sure. Not poisonous though.”

“Do we have anyone here with skills in alchemy?” Hope asked, turning directly to Raphael.

He glared at her in response, yet it looked more vexed than angry. “Sure,” he replied. “The Archivist is rather decent with it. A useful little sh*t, if not for his absentmindness.”

“Very well,” Hope nodded. Walking towards the table, she picked the glass reservoir and screwed it shut with the lid that came with it. Then she brought it to Rapahel and practically shoved it into the cambion’s hands. “A very important task for you. You will need to take it to him, so we would know exactly what was mixed into the ink.”

Raphael blinked in confusion, staring at the bottle that he was suddenly holding. “I’m aware that not everyone was graced with an impeccable memory,” he said, “so I’m just going to remind you that he no longer follows my commands.”

“I didn’t ask you to order him to do it.” Hope shook her head.

“What did you ask me to do then?” Raphael gaped at her with disbelief. “Ask him politely? Tell him ‘please’?”

Hope didn’t respond to it, only stared at him intensely, until Gortash could swear he could see a bead of sweat rolling down Raphael’s temple. She hadn’t even seemed all that intimidating before, but watching their short interaction now, Gortash realized he didn’t really want to ever end up on the receiving end of that stare.

“Alright, fine!” Raphael groaned, his intonation so irritated as if he was just given the most unpleasant task of his life. With that, and a very audible grunt of discomfort, he rose from the couch and stomped out of the boudoir, grunting something incoherent under his nose.

“That I just must see,” Haarlep grinned cheerfully, clapping their hands. Without any additional word, they followed their master, disappearing in the corridor the next moment.

“What a prick,” Karlach exhaled after a long moment of silence, her hands crossing over her chest. There was no real hatred behind her words now, but there was something else, something Gortash was not able to decipher.

“I think he’s making a lot of progress,” Hope said, shaking her head. “Losing powers was a good lesson for him, I just really hope he will learn from it.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually trying to defend him,” Wyll sighed. “No matter what Haarlep thinks, this man is going to turn around and betray all of us the moment he gets even a fraction of his powers back. I wish I could say I’m sorry for that incubus, but the fiend probably had killed more innocent people than we can count during their life.”

“No, I’m not defending him. Although maybe it looks like it from the side. Maybe from my right side. It’s just,” Hope replied, looking away. “There’s a part of me that understands why he did things he did.”

“There’s a part of me that understands my parents selling me to the bastard. It was either that or all of us starving. There’s not a part of me that ever wished to forgive them for it,” Gortash spatted. The next instance he understood what he said, and almost recoiled from his own words. Not that they were untrue. On the contrary, this was something that gnawed on him for a very long time, yet he’d never dared to say it out loud, moreover in the presence of other people.

Yet, as the confession was out of his mouth, he also realized that he really wanted Hope to know, to realize how wrong she was. He had no idea why it was suddenly important to him, why the idea of somebody else going through an experience so similar to his, yet ending so utterly different from him, was so intriguing.

A bigger part of him regretted it, of course, because Karlach and Wyll were there as well. They stared at him in utter shock, as if it came like some sort of a surprise, as if they couldn’t even imagine Gortash going through any sort of hardships in his life. He knew full well that sometimes even a small, and seemingly irrelevant information had a potential to be turned against him. Even if he himself couldn’t see how at the moment.

Then something else happened that Gortash hadn’t expected. Hope walked towards him, placing her hand over his arm. “I had no idea somebody could do something so horrible,” she said as if she’d never been betrayed by her own sister, as if she’d never met somebody who would imprison and torture people for years. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughed at that, realizing that he’d done it to cover up his own confusion. There was genuine pain in her voice, real concern and compassion. Surely, he’d elicit these emotions from people before, Karlach being merely one of many, but any other time it was done with a purpose, with intent. A sad story there, a grieving look here, and people were falling for it like gullible fools. This, however, was the first time it happened by accident.

“No need,” he said, turning away as if to look over the parts and pieces of the explosive device that were still carefully arranged on the table. “Just don’t cry when you inevitably end up back in the dungeon, tortured. I’ve never been fond of tears.”

***

They’d been on the march for a very long time now. Tracking down a castle that could fly was not an easy task. It was seen in this general area of the Avernus less than five rest cycles earlier, but given the thing’s speed, it really could've been anywhere else by now.

Snarl was ready to give up, the bounty be damned, especially given that his companions were starting to become cranky and violent, starting meaningless squabbles among themselves several times by now. Even Alocar was starting to stare at him as if he was questioning his decisions and leadership skills. And if Snarl was going to lose the loyalty of the nessari, his entire group of bounty hunters was going to go down in flames.

He needed a win, and he needed it now.

As if fate itself was listening to him at that particular moment, his eyes suddenly caught a sight of something white among the reddish-brown vastness of the rock fields. Approaching the strange pile of rubble, he eyed it with distrust. It looked like a statue of some kind was crushed into tiny pieces, as if somebody smashed it with a hammer. No, Snarl thought, as he carefully flipped a piece with his boot, a well-known face of Lord Mephistopheles’ disowned child staring at him from a chunk of marble. Not crushed with a hammer, fallen from somewhere high.

“Looks like we’re on the right path, boys,” Snarl grinned triumphantly to his group.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

If anyone would’ve asked Karlach to describe the most bizarre experience of her life mere days earlier, she would’ve struggled with the task. Not because she hadn’t had strange experiences, but because there were so many of them it was simply difficult to choose. Starting from losing her heart to being injected with an Illithid tadpole, to fighting an Elder Brain, her life was generally very surreal.

And yet, she was certain nothing could’ve compared to what was currently happening around her.

Worried about what her old acquaintance could’ve been up to, Karlach came to the archive to check on the Archivist’s progress. She found him doing exactly what she’d imagined him to do — working with a collection of jars and vials, heating some liquids over a burner, pouring them from one container to another. Not having any experience with alchemy, she had no idea why the Archivist was completing these tasks, but it looked impressive from the side.

Both Raphael and Haarlep were here, but she’d expected it. The devil was sitting on the couch with a book, which Karlach was sure came from one of the rows and rows of bookshelves in the vicinity. In fact, there were so many of them in here that she wondered why Raphael was calling it the archive rather than a library.

Once again in their Archduch*ess form, Haarlep was sitting next to him. They weren’t exactly cuddling, but there was barely an inch of space between the two, and Haarlep’s tail was wrapping around Raphael’s leg in a casual manner.

If only they were anyone else in the world, Karlach would’ve thought they looked cute together.

“So, you’ve got any smut?” asked Mol, whom Karlach did not expect to see here. The girl was walking down the length of a wall, pulling out random tomes from the shelves to check on their covers before disinterestedly returning them back. Near her, on the floor, sat Yurgir who for some reason was following the young rogue everywhere she went. Karlach had no idea about the reasons behind it, but knew it was another thing she needed to look out for.

“I have an impressive collection of books,” Raphael replied flatly, without even tearing eyes from his own reading. “Some of them do happen to depict sexual acts, yes.”

“Oh, he got a few extra filthy ones!” Haarlep added, grinning ear to ear, their ears perking up with interest. “I have recommendations!”

“Whoa, there,” Karlach protested, raising her hands. “Mol, aren’t you a little too young for it? You’re like nine? How about you wait a few more years, yeah?”

“I’m thirteen,” Mor replied in an incredibly defensive manner, which told Karlach people had often been assuming her to be younger than she was.

“They are books, Karlach,” Raphael said almost at the same time and with the same level of indifference. “They are not going to hurt her. Well, I did use to have some that could, but a friend of yours robbed me senseless of anything that was potentially valuable,” he added sarcastically. “Real hero that one.”

Karlach wanted to reply with something snarky but couldn’t come up with anything that sounded funny on the spot. “You’d just use them for some evil scheme anyway,” she said instead.

“Ya all dumb.” Mol shook her head meanwhile. Rolling her eyes, she returned to digging though the shelves, finishing almost an entire row before stumbling onto something that caught her attention. “Oh, I wasn’t able to make Raphael embarrassed about his smut, but this one is real blackmail material!” she exclaimed triumphantly, pulling a thinner tome with pictures of small animals on its cover. “Is that a children’s book? You read kids’ books?”

That did cause a reaction, the cambion’s eyes snapping towards the girl, blush rising to his cheek. He tried to cover it up, to speak collected and calmly, but it was too late now, his secret exposed. “I don’t understand what part of ‘collecting books’ evades your comprehension, little miss.”

Karlach could barely pay attention to it, however, her eyes glued to the familiar cover. “Is that the Wind in the Misty Forest?” she asked giddily as she marched towards the girl, forgetting for a moment about her dangerous surroundings in a fit of excitement. “Oh my gods, it is! My mom used to read it to me when I was a kid, it’s so good!”

“Just for your reference, the story is originally from an old Netherese legend,” Raphael commented. “The tome has a historical value. Did you know, the Misty Forest itself used to be of a theological significance to the Netherese empire?”

“It has talking badgers eating cakes! That’s the only historical value I care about,” Karlach pointed out. “Mol, did you read it?”

Mol stared at her in utter disbelief, as if she just proposed the most outrageous thing possible. “Obviously not?” she shrugged.

“Please, read it!” Karalch urged, pushing the book into the girl’s chest. “It’s very good, I promise!”

“I ugh,” Mol responded, biting her lip. For a long moment, she held her eyes locked with Karlach’s as if trying to win some sort of a staring contest. Then she averted them, and suddenly all of her usual bashfulness was gone, deflated into nothingness. Now, a small, lost child was standing in front of Karlach. “I can’t read well,” she confessed.

Karlach blinked, trying not to show her disbelief. Of course, Mol was an orphan who’d been surviving without any adult supervision for years — first in Avernus, then on the run, then in the city’s underbelly. Yet, she’d always been so self-reliable, so full of confidence, it was difficult to imagine her lacking in any kind of basic skills. “I can read it for you!” Karlach proposed suddenly, excited at her own solution to the problem. “It’s not that long.”

It didn’t look like Mol completely trusted that idea. Still, she seemed to be curious enough that she followed Karlach towards a different couch on the other side of the entryway into the room, settling herself beside her, hugging her knees in a defensive manner.

Karlach, meanwhile, couldn’t stop grinning, suddenly excited to share something so precious as one of her favorite childhood books with Mol. “Ok, you gonna love this,” she said, opening it and starting to read out loud.

She almost got to the part where the main furry character decided to leave his home and go on the cozy adventure to meet all other furry little characters, when Mol yawned. “I know why your folks were reading you this garbage,” she said. “They just wanted you to fall asleep fast.”

“Excuse me?!” Karlach protested, feeling suddenly hurt and annoyed at the same time.

“It’s not the book that is the problem,” Raphael commented. “It’s the presentation that's lacking.”

“It was rather dry, to be honest,” Yurgir agreed from his spot. He was perching his elbows on his knees, which somehow made him look sleepy, too.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Karlach protested, pouting.

“It wasn’t?” Raphael asked. “If I knew you could read like that, I’d snatched you out of Zariel’s grip a decade ago to be my main torturer. Look, you made the Archivist unable to concentrate on his work. He’s shaking, the poor thing.”

The Archivist, who until this point was trying to subtly look over his shoulder, hurried to turn away with a nervous twitch. There was sweat gathering on his temples despite the room being relatively cooler than any other area of the castle due to either the lack of windows or some other trick of magic. “I’m not shaking,” he offered meekly, even though Karlach could see the liquid in his vial jiggle slightly in his hands.

Their exchange also made Mol giggle, which in turn caused Raphael to smirk, pleased with himself.

“Fine, you think you could do better?” Karlach said, closing the book, staring Raphael down with a challenge.

“Without a doubt,” Raphael responded, matching her daring tone.

“He can!” Haarlep confirmed, clapping their hands enthusiastically. “Please, please, please, let him do it!”

Karlach was strangely intrigued by such an avid reaction from the incubus, yet still rather doubtful. In the end, she decided that letting Raphael try wasn’t really a bad idea. Worst case scenario, Mol could actually enjoy listening to it. Best case — Karlach could have another reason to poke fun at him. “Great, here you go,” she grinned, getting up from the couch and bringing the book to the cambion.

Following her suit, Mol moved to sit next to Raphael now, but on the other side of him from Haarlep. Judging by her amused expression, she too was ready to tease if the situation arose. In fact, knowing her, that was likely her primary reason for giving the story another try.

“Just please don’t lean on me,” Raphael warned, opening the book and trying to find the spot Karlach had left off on. “I don’t like when people do that.”

“No way,” Mol replied, wrinkling her nose. “You probably smell like an old man up close anyway.”

Raphael glared at the girl, as if he could make her combust with a mere look. Perhaps, he was even capable of doing it before losing his powers. In the end, it seemed like he decided to let the comment slide and began reading.

And, to either Karlach's surprise or to her disappointment, he was actually good at it. There were emotions in his voice, dramatic pauses, different voices for characters, and soon despite herself, Karlach found herself almost mesmerized by the devil.

And it wasn’t only her who got under his spell, because after a while Karlach was able to see Mol’s usual aloof mask dropping, genuine interest sparkling in her eyes. The Archivist completely stopped what he was doing as well, turning in his chair completely to pay attention to the story. Of course, it meant that it was going to take more time for him to determine what was in the ink, but the poor guy did deserve a break from time to time. Even Yurgir seemed to be paying attention, his large form leaning against the bookshelf, making it creak dangerously under his weight.

Raphael was also loud enough that his reading attracted the attention of other inhabitants of the house. Both Hope and Korrilla were passing the archive on the way to the living quarters and came here to listen instead. After around twenty minutes, Wyll came to check on Karlach. He looked even more surprised by the situation than anyone else, but as he took a seat next to Karlach, he slowly began relaxing listening to Raphael’s soothing voice.

Mizora almost interrupted him when she arrived, attempting to talk over Raphael out of some twisted need for attention, yet it was a delight to see her confused expression as she was immediately shushed by almost everyone in the room. It was obvious she wasn’t used to not being the center of attention, and she looked genuinely thrown aback. So much so that instead of angrily stomping out of the room like Karlach expected, she just quietly sat down on one of the empty couches.

The story itself was not exactly the same as Karlach remembered. Of course, most of the plot was unchanged, but a few names, a few locations mentioned there did sound different. On top of that, Raphael was also the type who loved to insert his own commentaries into the text, “He just jumped into the river to save his friend? Without first agreeing on the kind of payment he would receive for it? What a waste!”

“People do that for their friends,” Wyll responded to it. “It makes them feel good.”

Or, “Did you know, this book was the reason behind the discovery of the old ruins in the Misty Forest? In the original version the Badger was describing an old Natherese Temple of Tyche, the old goddess of fate.”

“Yes, thank you for the history lesson, professor Raphael,” Haarlep chuckled at that, their intonation teasing.

Yet, no matter how entertained everyone seemed, after a white Raphael’s words began slurring. His voice was starting to get quieter, his eyes beginning to close. He was obviously doing his best to stay awake, but failing miserably at that task, beginning to nod off in and out of consciousness, until falling asleep completely, the book still open on his lap.

Karlach expected Mol say something about it, to tease him again for being an old man, yet she herself was blissfully asleep by now, her head falling onto Raphael’s shoulder as she slumped against him completely.

And that was it, the oddest thing that ever happened to her. Once again, she found herself in Avernus but instead of suffering and fighting, she stumbled upon what she could only describe as a strange slumber party. Listening to the son of Mephistopheles reading an old children’s book.

And it wasn’t the first time Raphael had read it, Karlach was sure of it. Perhaps not out loud, but he was more than familiar with the plot. She couldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t imagine any of it as she’d seen his home before he lost powers, she’d seen the way he treated his servants. She’d seen Hope chained in the prison. And yet here he was, asleep and cuddled up with a child and his lover, who while wasn’t asleep themself, was resting peacefully against Raphael’s other shoulder.

He looked so human now, it was almost frightening how much Karlach wished to believe Haarlep, to believe Hope that he could genuinely change.

“'I don’t like people leaning against me', my ass,” she muttered dumbfounded.

“I thought devils didn’t need to sleep,” Wyll pondered.

“It’s the most efficient way to rest,” Korrilla responded. “But they never do it unless absolutely certain of their safety, preferring to just sit relaxed for hours instead.”

“Well, some of you are starting to feel at home,” Mizora pointed out in a mocking manner, nodding towards Yurgir. The orthon was now completely slouched against the shelf, his large horn pressing into the spines of several books, leaving a rather notable scratch across all of them. He too looked completely out now, soft snores coming from his open mouth.

“What are you doing here by the way, Mizora?” Wyll asked. “And I don’t mean right now. I mean, really. Out of all people, you’re the one I could least imagine helping. What is it in here for you?”

Mizora only smirked at the question, “You wound me, my pet,” she replied. “I'm all about altruism these days!”

“You see, she is in a very unique situation,” Haarlep said, quiet enough not to wake Raphael. “Her contract—”

“Shut it, harlot!” Mizora hissed, a real anger in her voice. In one fluent motion, she stood up from her spot and stormed towards the exit. “That’s none of your business, so drop it, or I’m returning to Zariel and stopping this small adventure of yours before it even began,” she added before leaving the room.

A silence hung in the archive, interrupted only by Yurgir’s snores that were slowly increasing in volume and a quiet bubbling of water coming from the alchemy table. There were hundreds of thoughts rushing through Karlach’s mind, but she wasn’t sure which one she wished to voice.

“Well, that’s weird,” the Archivist commented after a moment.

“What, are you familiar with Mizora's patterns of behavior?” asked Korrilla.

“What? No!” he replied awkwardly. “My tests are done running, I found what herb was mixed into the ink. And it’s weird.”

Getting up from her spot, Karlach was near the table in a stride, followed immediately by Wyll and the dwarf sisters. She almost expected some kind of a revelation in one of the vials, but they were just different color liquids, labeled with pieces of paper with strange formulae she couldn't comprehend.

“And? What is the plant?” Hope asked.

“Just petals of dried Fey Flower,” the Archivist answered, still looking confused. “There’s no real use of it that I can think of. It’s not poisonous, it doesn’t improve flavor. It doesn't even look all that pretty if you ask me. Just weed.”

“Well, there’s a use for it,” Wyll responded solemnly.

“Yeah, the bombs are Hag's Bane,” Karlach nodded in agreement.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

When Raphael awoke from his sleep this time, he felt genuinely good. There was still haziness in his mind, as it refused to completely rouse into consciousness, every muscle of his body calm and relaxed. He was no longer uncomfortably hot, feeling instead a cool breeze on the bare skin of his shoulder. The pillowcase under his cheek was fresh, and his nose was picking faint scents of citrus and tropical flowers. But, most importantly, for the first time since he’d opened his eyes after his battle with Tav, nothing was hurting.

There was a movement under the sheets that covered half of his body, gentle hands caressing his hips. Someone slithered closer, familiar lips pressing into his abdomen. “Haarlep,” he huffed in content, uncurling himself fully before rolling onto his back and spreading his legs to allow them better access.

Immediately, he was rewarded with an amused chuckle from his incubus as they adjusted to his new position, and the lips on his stomach began descending down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Then, the touch disappeared for a moment, but before Raphael had a chance to complain, a hot tongue landed on a completely different part of him, already hard after a good rest, his hips buckling on their own accord.

He almost expected Haarlep to tease him, yet it seemed his incubus was particularly greedy this morning, because after only a few licks Raphael felt himself sinking into a warm mouth, Haarlep humming around him with delight.

It was truly incredible to be waking up like this, and Raphael almost regretted their previous sleeping arrangements with the general lack of his incubus in the early hours in the past. It felt so right that he didn’t even wish to consider the future where he would once again have separate beds for sex and resting.

I became even better, as Haarlep rose above him, blankets sliding off their body, revealing plump breasts and slim waist of their current form. “My-my, did you know it was me, or would you spread your legs like this to anyone?” they teased, their lips stretching in a predatory smile.

The filthy question sent a shiver of excitement down Raphael’s spine. For a moment he considered challenging Haarlep, so he could wind them up a little, yet he knew if he chose that route, they’d be stuck in the bedroom for hours. Tempting as it was, they didn’t have that much time. “Even if I couldn't recognize your touch, who else out of the entire house would have decided to sneak into my bed?” Raphael responded instead, rolling his eyes.

“Well, I don’t know, the amount of people who would’ve wished to do it to strangle you is rather substantial,” Haarlep chuckled, before moving higher and straddling him in a single, easy motion.

“That’s the most unusual body part to choose for strangling,” Raphael pointed out, trying to sound solemn despite his evident amusem*nt, as well as an even more evident moan of pleasure as Haarlep sheathed his entire length in a single go, their head falling backwards, mouth opening soundlessly.

By this time, Raphael was completely awake, and the events of the previous night started to catch up with him. He remembered vaguely how he'd been gently shaken awake in the archive and ushered to the bedroom, where he all but stumbled into his bed. He’d fallen back asleep before his head had a chance to hit the pillow, but it seemed Haarlep had also undressed him sometime after that, because now he found himself completely naked.

“What about the ink?” he asked, even though speaking was becoming difficult, his sensations intensified by Haarlep’s own as they used Raphael’s likeness for the act, riding him with unashamed eagerness. “Did that slacker, the Archivist, figure it out?”

Suddenly Haarlep stopped in their tracks, their eyes snapping to Raphael’s face again. “Really?” they asked in a bemused tone. “You’re going to talk about this now? Like, you couldn’t even give me ten to fifteen minutes of your precious time?”

“And why can’t we combine business with pleasure exactly?” Raphael inquired, trying to nudge his hips up to prompt his incubus to continue.

“What’s the point of even doing this, when your mind is miles away and not with me?”

“Oh, please don’t start that now. You’re here to feed, I don’t have to pretend to be all lovey-dovey with you for it.”

He realized it was a really wrong thing to say before he even finished speaking, because Haarlep’s expression changed into a stone-cold mask. “Excuse me,” they said as they started to get up off of him, their voice almost trembling suddenly, genuinely hurt. “If that’s what it is, I’m just going to go f*ck my own hand. Same level of nutrition, but at least it cares if I feel good.”

Raphael stared at the incubus, unable to believe his ears. Anger was his first reaction, so he grabbed Haarlep by the wrist to prevent them from leaving and spun them around, ready to give them a piece of their mind. Only that anger dissipated quickly, as they found themselves unable to come up with anything to say in response. Because really, it was difficult arguing with the truth.

“You‘ve been needing sex almost every day,” he tried to explain instead, feeling like a complete idiot now. “Not that I’m against it, it’s just getting a little difficult to be completely in it.”

“So,” they laughed bitterly, “I guess Mol is correct to be calling you an old man then?”

“Well, now you’re just insulting me.”

“And you implying that I only sleep with you to feed is not insulting in your opinion?”

“I...” Raphael began, but once again found himself at a loss for words, fighting suddenly a strange and unexplainable feeling of shame.

With shame, however, came some sort of pridefulness, which overcame Raphael almost completely. That was a more acceptable in his eyes emotion, and so he embraced it, pulling Haarlep towards himself, until the incubus stumbled forward and fell back into his arms. Then he used the momentum of this fall to roll both of them around, finding himself on top of Haarlep now.

“Raphael?” Haarlep blinked as they were now the one pressed into the pillows, their expression full of awe and astonishment.

He’d never heard his own name falling from Haarlep’s lips like this before, like a plea and endearment at the same time. It took him by surprise, did something to him, stripping him of the last of his anger and annoyance, leaving him with nothing but breathless desire. Now, he wished for nothing else but to hear it again and again.

And so, without a word of preamble, he slid down the length of their body, pushing their legs apart with his elbows. Leaning in, he pressed his mouth to their sex, tasting the sweetness of it that was both unusual and familiar at the same time.

It was incredible to feel Haarlep react, their body trembling under him, their breathing starting to come in sift gasps. Hands came to lay on Raphael’s head, fingers finding a purchase in his hair. It was a sensation almost reassuring in its familiarity, yet Haarlep was not pulling nor pushing him against themselves, just holding onto him with a strange, uncharacteristic tenderness.

And then, after a short while, Raphael felt Haarlep tense, becoming so still they weren’t even breathing. The grip on his hair tightened ever so slightly, before their entire body shuddered and they cried out his name again, even sweeter this time than before.

Raphael caressed them though the org*sm, until their head fell back onto the pillow, their body relaxing if not for the ragged breathing. Except, Raphael had absolutely no plans of allowing them to catch a breath. Climbing back up and lining himself, he pushed into their body without a single warning, tearing from their lips a sound that was not unlike a broken, but strangely elated sob.

He wasn’t moving fast, but there was force behind his every thrust which turned Haarlep completely incoherent, their face twisting in a way that almost looked like pain. They were also so beautiful, Raphael realized. And no, it wasn’t because even after changing so many little details about their appearance, they still looked like him, on the contrary. Despite all the similarities, it was the differences Raphael was noticing now.

Managing to utter only a syllable of Raphael’s name this time, Haarlep looked at him, their eyes locking together. They were a different color now, not yellow-orange like Raphael’s own in devil form, but pale blue, like the ever-shifting glaciers of Cania. These were their real eyes, Raphael realized, mesmerized by their appearence. He was looking at Haarlep’s real eyes.

There was another, almost frightening revelation that struck him that moment. It was not only the eyes he wanted to see, but the incubus’ entire real self. He wanted to see their real face twisting in pleasure that he was giving them. He wanted—

Haarlep tensed under him again, their hands wrapping around Raphael’s shoulder, claws digging into the skin of his back sure to leave marks. And then they were coming again, their pleasure spreading through Raphael’s entire core through the bond of their shared form. It was as if Raphael was struck with sensations, pulled under an avalanche of them, his own org*sm almost surprising him with the strength of it.

He thought that he might’ve blacked out after that, because when he opened his eyes, he found himself lying completely on top of Haarlep, his face pressed into their neck. Still detached from reality, he kissed the skin in front of him, annoyed slightly at the hair that got into his mouth in the process.

“You’ve been holding out on me that entire time,” Haarlep chuckled after a while, their hand coming to stroke Raphael’s head.

“Well, you were a servant to me. Who would ever consider caring about a servant’s pleasure?”

Another long moment of silence followed his words, making Raphael ponder if it was yet again a wrong thing to say. Turned out it was, just not in a way he thought.

“And what am I to you now?” Haarlep asked.

And suddenly, all of the post org*smic bliss Raphael was still basking in was kicked out of him, something cold and terrifying clutching inside Raphael’s chest instead. His thoughts started to race, his heart thumped in his chest so hard he was sure Haarlep was able to feel it. “You…” he whispered, unable to come up with an answer. Instead, he forced himself to pull away, rising above Haarlep, yet too scared to look at them now. “I need a bath,” he muttered, not even caring it sounded like exactly what it was — an excuse.

To his relief Haarlep didn’t push him for an answer. “I pestered the Archivist to enchant a few pebbles,” they responded instead. They sounded less upset than earlier, but the hurt was still there.

Ignoring it, Raphael got up from the bed and looked around his room. The rubble on the floor was mostly gone, but it was his own doing. Tired of the mess, he simply had no other choice but to sweep it up. Even if it was not as pristine as he’d loved to, he could at least walk around his room without a fear of injury.

True to their word, Haarlep indeed made a bath for him. The water in the tab was steaming and when Raphael stepped closer, he was able to see a small round pebble laying at the bottom, a barely noticeable orange glow radiating from it. A second pebble was lying near the balcony, the stone floor underneath it was covered in a thin layer of frost. A light breath of wind flew from the window, and instead of the oppressive heat of the First Layer, it brought a relieving coolness, chilling Raphael’s still heated skin.

The temperature of the water was perfect, and Raphael couldn’t help but a let out pleased sigh as he submerged into it. From this side of the room, he was also able to see a pile of dirty bed sheets laying under the bed. It seemed his incubus changed them before fetching Raphael from the archive.

They didn’t do it well, and the clean bedding looked rumpled and askew, corners sticking from under the mattress. It was like Haarlep had no idea how to do it properly, just tried their best to figure things out as they went. But then again, it was never their job to change the sheets. Neither was preparing his baths or goading the Archivist into creating magical items to make his life less miserable. And yet they did it, and Raphael couldn’t even start guessing why.

A traitorous part of him was pulling his mind into a single direction, however. It tried its best to answer his question as to why his incubus was still here, taking care of him, to answer why they got upset at the implication their sex was nothing but transactional. They’d even already explained themselves on multiple occasions, it was just Raphael refused to listen.

Could it be? What if Haarlep really cared about him enough to go against Mephistopheles’ orders? What if they really were still here because they wanted to stay with Raphael and not because they had a secret agenda? What if everything they’d said and did wasn’t a lie? What if they…

Staring at the ripples around his body, Raphael found himself shaking in what felt like terror, his head becoming dizzy, his lungs unable to pull in air. He started to gasp in failed attempts to breathe, but it only became worse as his legs gave in and he fell, submerging under the surface of the water.

The next moment he felt hands grabbing him by the armpits, and he was pulled upwards, coming face to face with Haarlep. Now large in their masculine form, they looked at him with a mixture of concern and confusion, and something else entirely that Raphael had never seen there before.

No, he had, once, in that debtor’s memory which, up to this very moment, he considered to be a simple fantasy.

“Raphael?” they asked, and suddenly their once again orange eyes lit up with a faint glow, as if they began feeding. That brought a few more questions to Raphael’s mind because now he remembered they weren’t glowing earlier when they were laying together. Yet, he had no time to ponder about that phenomenon, because the next second he was pulled into a tight embrace. “Oh, ohh!” Haarlep said suddenly excitedly, petting his head. “It’s alright. It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

Cheek pressed into the wet skin, strangely calmed by both the intimacy of the situation and the tone of Haarlep’s voice, Raphael understood suddenly that whether or not his incubus was telling the truth mattered little now. Because despite every sensible and rational part of himself, despite all of his caution, Raphael felt… he was… he was…

…he was drowning, falling into the chasm of an unfamiliar emotion he had no idea how to deal with. Yet, unexpectedly to even himself, amongst the fear and disquietude, there was a budding sensation of joy inside of him, too, which couldn't compare to anything he’d experienced in the span of his incredibly long life.

So, he knew it now, that was how it actually felt to be in love.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Korrilla reached the dining hall to find it in a state of complete chaos. There were at least two sets of people arguing with each other, their conversation mixing into a cacophony of raised voices and disgruntled sounds. Given their current living circ*mstances, the situation could’ve been significantly more dire, yet as Korrilla looked between the crowd and the cup of her own coffee, she realized she hadn’t been even remotely prepared to deal with it all yet.

“I’m not going anywhere with Gortash,” Karlach complained, loud enough her voice alone almost gave Korrilla a headache.

“You’re being rather childish, dear,” Gortash replied, sounding too amused for the situation. “We need parts to get this place back into the air before somebody finds us. And what a better place to get engine parts than the infamous Fort Knucklebone? Well, despite their apparent hag infestation,” he added with a shrug.

Korrilla took a sip of her drink, wishing for nothing else but to be more awake for the conversation. It was difficult to keep track of the recent events, because without a patron granting her powers or any real skill in physical combat, she was practically useless in the field. Listening to other people talk now became the only way to gather information.

“A hag, what do you know? That explains the stench in their cantina, I suppose,” Mizora sighed dramatically.

“Ah, ma’am, I think it was a patron at the nearby table soiling himself,” the imp who sat at her feet said. The creature no longer had its bottle and was holding a kettle instead. From it was coming an aroma of coffee more potent and pleasant than from Korrilla’s own cup, which made her slightly jealous.

“Never mind the cantina, I can find the parts myself,” Karlach proposed, returning their conversation to the earlier argument.

“Oh please, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between a pump and an injector while they're lying right in front of you.”

Karlach’s face twisted in anger, and she slammed her fist into the table. The air around the dining hall still smelled like eggs and fried meat, but it looked like the time for breakfast was over, and the table itself was cleared of any food. Several maps were laying on its surface instead, and they almost flew into the air from the strength of Karlach’s strike.

“Karlach, please, there’s really no need for this,” Hope pleaded, yet there was not nearly enough conviction in her voice, her own guilt too evident. While it was pleasant to know there was at least something her sister was bad at, Korrilla couldn't help but find herself strangely annoyed by it.

“Fine, but I’m not going to get my eyes off of you,” Karlach warned seriously.

“My, Karlach, I had no idea you liked me that much,” Gortash teased, which sent the tiefling into another bout of rage.

Korrilla decided to switch her attention from that conversation and onto the other side of the table, where she could catch a completely separate argument: “You’re not coming to a place where there’s a literal hag!” Wyll was shaking his head.

“Why’s that?” Mol demanded, crossing her arms.

“Because hags literally eat children?” Wyll tried to explain with expiration, as if this particular argument has been continuing for quite a while now.

“Yurgir will protect me,” Mol shrugged, as if having an orthon protecting children was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Oh Mol, he won't, he will try selling you the moment this hag only as much as express interest in you,” Wyll all but pleaded this time. “And trust me, kid, she will want to have you.”

“And that’s exactly why we will need her!” came Raphael’s voice before the man himself appeared in the dining hall.

To Korrilla’s surprise, he looked to be in incredibly high spirits, walking with a visible spring to his gait. Freshly shaven and cleanly groomed, he wore a pristine new outfit of his preferred red and blue colors and a variety of golden embroidery decorating it, a velvet scarlet sash draped over his shoulder. And, as he passed Korrilla on his way towards the rest of their group, she also realized he was wearing his favorite cologne.

Haarlep was following right behind him, the most delighted smile Korrilla had ever seen on the incubus plastered across their face. Unlike Raphael, they didn’t have new clothes, just one of their usual black leather pants and an incredibly form fitting sleeveless shirt, but they too smelled of Raphael’s favorite cologne, which at least partially explained their shared good mood.

“While star metal is incredibly rare in the Prime Material, it’s practically unheard of here, in the Lower Planes,” Raphael continued. “The Knucklebone Gang sells broken parts and pieces of infernal engines, but Mad Maggie, their leader, is known to be very difficult and uninterested in normal kinds of currency, preferring to trade for trinkets, body parts and favors. Given Karlach’s friend's intelligence, I guess it’s now understandable why. We don’t have any trinkets worthy enough of a chunk of star metal this big, and if we keep trading in favors, we’ll be running errands all over the Hells for another century.”

“Ok, I really don’t like where you’re heading there,” Wyll warned him seriously. “You aren’t seriously proposing to trade Mol?”

“Would you even be surprised by it?” Gortash said with a smirk, leaning back into his chair. “Raphael is definitely not the type of man to win any father of the year award. Trust me, I’ve had a first-hand experience.”

“Oh please, Enver,” Raphael waved his hand dismissively. “I was a better parental figure to you than my father was ever to me.”

“An incredibly low bar, I assume,” Karlach commented blankly.

Raphael opened his mouth to say something in reply, but a sound of something shattering and a high-pitched squeak of ‘ouch, hot!’ interrupted him. Looking up in the direction of it, Korrilla saw the imp jumping around a broken kettle, shards of glass scattered across the floor, the coffee that was previously inside of it spreading into a large puddle.

“I’ll clean it all up!” the imp whimpered, its tiny hands hugging its own tail. Then it turned around and began hopping towards the corridor.

“Anyway,” Raphael drawled, staring at the creature for a moment longer, before turning his attention back to Wyll. “No, I don’t propose trading anybody. Logical as it is, I know half of you would just find some moral reasons against it. What I propose is using Mol as a bait, just enough for Mad Maggie to show us the ore we need.”

“So then we steal the ore and run away,” Mol nodded in understanding.

“A very simplified way to put it, but basically yes,” Raphael nodded

“That’s still a horrible idea,” Wyll replied. “What will prevent her from simply talking Mol away by force and locking her up somewhere we can’t get to her?”

“Well, these things, obviously?” Raphael replied pointing at the stack of bombs that also sat on the table. “We have an advantage here. Everyone in Avernus knows Mad Maggie and her gang, she has a reputation of a ruthless warlord. But her identity as a hag, however...” he trailed off. “She will not expect us to have something that can hinder her so much.”

“So, your actual plan is to fight her?” Karlach inquired, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

“Only if we won’t be able to run away,” Raphael replied. “We signed a contract with Florenta, which states these things must be detonated inside Maggie’s stronghold. If we fail to do so, Zariel will be informed of our intent to retrieve her sword. Pretending to be trading with Maggie will at least grant us a way in, as well as point us in the exact location of what we need.”

Wyll tried to protest again, but Mol chose that moment to jump on the table, moving to stand over him. Korrilla mentally prepared to hear Raphael snap at the girl, as the cambion had rather strict standards when it came to proper behavior inside his home, but to her complete surprise, he not only didn’t admonish Mol for placing her dirty feet where they obviously didn’t belong, he actually stared at her with what Korrilla could only describe as... pride?

That was very new. Then again, the house was still in a complete disarray, so perhaps Korrilla was simply putting too much thought into it.

“Just stop this already,” Mol said loudly. “Ever since you came here, all you do is try to decide what I should or shouldn’t do. I’m done with it. I’m going. If you’re afraid something bad will happen to me, then come and protect me,” she added with a smirk.

Wyll stared at the girl with shock and reproach. Yet, his expression softened at the end, and he shook his head. “Very well,” he said calmly. “If this is what you really want, then I swear I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”

“Splendid!” Raphael announced, clapping his hands and proceeding to rub them together. “We will need to have at least somebody staying behind, however,” he added. “I can trust neither the Archivist nor Nabuldin with contacting us in a timely manner if something happens. And I’m not even going to consider the debtors.”

Korrilla made a step towards the table, finally finishing her coffee. “I’ll do it,” she said, suddenly starting to feel incredibly out of place, useless. “It’s not like I can be of any help there.”

What was she even doing here? Drinking coffee, giving sisterly advice to someone she’d hurt so much, babysitting a stranded house. She’d had answers to all her questions before, had ambitions, but now she simply felt like a waste of space.

And, worst of all, it wasn’t even because she no longer had powers, at least she didn’t think so. She didn’t doubt it for even a second that Raphael was going to return to his former glory in one way or another, and she was going to continue to be his warlock. Yet, what she wanted to do with it, she could no longer say.

She didn’t want to show her emotions, and she thought she did a rather good job of it. Yet, as she glanced up, she could see Hope looking at with a strange mix of concern and understanding. This was the least reaction she wanted, which meant it made complete sense that she got it.

And then, to make things even more confusing, Raphael offered her a brief nod. “Yes, that would do perfectly, thank you,” he said as a matter of fact, as if thanking people was a thing that he normally did.

Korrilla gaped at her master, watching him switching his attention back to the maps on the table and beginning to go through the final details of their plan. There was a soft, barely noticeable smile on his face, and his posture was open and relaxed. Either because she still wasn’t completely awake, or because his behavior was so strange it didn’t even feel like him, it took Korrilla a long time to understand what exactly she was seeing. No, her master wasn’t suddenly replaced by a shapeshifter, nor was he under a mind controlling spell. It was just for the first time in all the years that she’d worked for him, Korrilla was seeing Raphael happy.

***

There were hundreds of things one should or could have been thinking while getting ready to meet and trade with a hag. There were matters of safety, of course, because even for their group, hags were extremely dangerous, particularly if the said hags had gangs of marauders at their disposal. There were matters of integrity, too. Even if they manage to navigate this filthy and lawless landscape of gang politics without getting themselves killed, hags were also notorious for their unfair deals. Getting scammed here was inevitably going to leave a stain on Raphael’s reputation.

There was a myriad of other similar things to consider in preparation for such a meeting. Romance, however, was not supposed to be one of these things, Raphael was certain of it.

Yet, no matter how absurd it seemed, he found himself unable to push this line of thought away. As of this very morning, he found himself in a peculiar situation, namely finding himself experiencing certain feelings towards his lover of a rather substantial period of time. At the same time, he still wasn’t able to tell it with certainty if these feelings were returned, or if Haarlep was using him for something.

There were, of course, ways to determine it. The easiest one would’ve been writing an extensive contract that would detail every change in their relationship and compel both of them to loyalty and truthfulness. Raphael had been entertaining this idea for quite some time, before realizing he was basically thinking about marrying the incubus.

No, marriage contracts among devils were for alliances, for uplifting each-other status. What he had with Haarlep surely felt more important than that. There should’ve been something else he could do, something less drastic.

In a futile attempt to gather his thoughts and redirect them, Raphael looked up at the source of his inner struggle. Haarlep’s current form looked like nothing Raphael had ever seen them turn into. To disguise themself from any bounty hunters they could encounter, they took the shape of a rather tall elf with long black hair. Raphael tried not to think about it, yet still found himself wishing silently that whoever the elf was, he was dead now, his soul consumed.

“Alright, Impie,” Haarlep said cheerfully, picking their stowaway companion up to bring it closer to their face. “You came from this place, didn’t you? A lot of your old friends are around. What can you tell us about them?”

This time around, as the area was more familiar to her, Mizora was able to teleport them with greater precision, and after a blink of an eye, Raphael found himself standing in the shadow of a large mountain. He couldn’t see it from their current position, but he knew this particular stack of dirt and minerals looked like a large, knuckled fist, which was where the local gang was getting their name from.

From each side of them, stood an impressive array of infernal war engines, varying in a degree of size, age and disrepair, constructed from various mismatched parts, likely scavenged in the surrounding desert. None of them looked to be powered up, so it was impossible to tell if they even worked, yet Raphael wasn’t stupid enough to hope they were rebuilt for mere decoration.

There was a variety of low-ranking devils in the immediate vicinity, mostly imps scattering throughout the area. Yet, there were larger things working on the machines as well, the air drowning in a cacophony of yelling and clanks of hammers against metal. A few of the locals stopped what they were doing to look at a group who just materialized out of thin air, but given they didn’t actually attempt to teleport inside the guarded stronghold itself, they eventually returned to their business.

“There’s no friends around,” the imp replied, its words followed by a hiccup.

“Oh? I thought all of you are like a big family, spawning out of the same big pit full of dead sinners,” Haarlep tilted their head.

“Well, those are not imps,” it replied.

Raphael felt a touch on his elbow and when he looked down, he saw Hope holding him by the fabric of his sleeve. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze was aimed somewhere into the distance, her expression concentrating and a little alarmed at the same time. “The imp’s right,” she whispered. “Those things are different creatures, with sharp teeth and red hats.”

Raphael squinted his eyes, yet no matter how hard he stared, he couldn’t see anything but what the things initially appeared. Still, he would’ve been even a bigger idiot not to trust a cleric’s ability to see through illusions. “Makes sense, giving what we know,” he nodded, trying to carefully pull his sleeve out of her grip.

“We're gonna get beaten if we go against this many redcaps at once if we won’t find a strategically advantageous position,” Yurgir whispered, pulling Mol closer to himself by the end of a rope in his hand. The girl was tied waist up, but the knots holding her weren’t secure, designed to come loose by a single pull of a cord in Mol’s hand.

“Hmm, perhaps I have an idea about one such place,” Gortash hummed thoughtfully. “Let’s go, Karlach, I might need a hand,” he added with a smirk, starting to walk away.

“Wait just a second,” Karlach called after him. “Who gave you an idea I’d ever follow you?”

Gortash stopped and turned back to look at her, his smirk turning even wider. “Well, didn’t you say you weren’t planning to get your eyes off of me?” And just like that, his form started to flicker, becoming more and more translucent, until completely disappearing from the view.

“That bastard!” Karlach groaned, stomping her fit into the ground. Moving her gaze from where Gortash just stood and the rest of them, she eventually gave up and followed her past employer.

Because of course, splitting a group in a situation like this was a sound decision.