I arrived at the garden an hour later than usual that day. We’d been ambushed in the night by a swarm of rotflies, enough to blot out the sky. I could still hear the cacophonous buzzing ringing in my ears and vibrating my skin, still smell the putrid rot they left behind burning my nostrils.

  Though in desperate need of a wash, my duty to my plants came first. And so, dragging my feet and stifling a rare yawn, I stumbled into the garden and collapsed at my workbench.

  “Good morning, darlings. I apologize —“ another yawn, “— for my tardiness. I fear I may be slow to nourish you today, so pray forgive me in advance.” I rubbed my eyes and put on my magnifying glasses, picked up my clippers and tweezers, then set about my work.

  As I roamed from plant to plant, I sprinkled each with a dusting of starlight, a light appetizer to tide them over until I recovered enough for the main course.

  “Have any of you had the displeasure of encountering a rotfly? Surely you, as a native of these lands, have, Lady Witherlily?” I frowned and shook my head. “Loathsome little creatures. Swollen fat with pus and black ichor, they leak filth wherever they go. Buzzing and hissing and…”

  I plucked a petal from a Sunspire daisy and shuddered. “I could go a lifetime without seeing another, but I fear last night was only a warning of what’s to come. If any of you know a method for repelling the vile things, please pass it along.”

  My work at last completed, I added the samples I’d drawn to a collection, then took my seat at the center of the garden with the latest offering from Lord Genesis.

  “The Stillness.” I read with the aid of the lexicon. Closing my eyes, digging deep into my center, I drew out what lingering dregs of starlight remained. Soulsparks were a wondrous thing, but their magic was not endless. Constant use led to a most terrible fatigue, but Vasco and Lucien had assured me that such strain was necessary for improvement.

  Sweat streaked my face as a faint glimmer lit my skin. My core clenched and, with a grunt of exertion, I spread the light until it filled the room. Faint and flickering, but hopefully sufficient.

  “Apologies, again, darlings.” I said, speaking through clenched teeth. I turned my eyes to the book in my lap and the other in my hand and fought to steady my breathing. “Now, let us see what information we can glean from this tale.”

  I hadn’t the strength to read it aloud, too focused on maintaining my nourishing light while parsing the words on the page. But I hoped the flowers would forgive me, for it was a tragically beautiful tale, the first that differed from the others I’d been given.

  It told of a kingdom in a far off land, cursed to remain frozen in time to prevent the coming of a foretold calamity, a slumbering Beast who would end the world upon waking. The people, having lived the same day for several lifetimes, longed for change, but accepted their fate out of grim responsibility.

  Until one day, a child who’d grown tired of their fate began to sing a new song. It was hauntingly beautiful and touched the hearts of the people who had forgotten what it was to experience something new. They laughed and danced throughout the night.

  But the sound of their celebration reached into the depths of the Earth beneath the kingdom, and when the Sun rose the next day, tomorrow came at last, and the Beast awakened. The people perished in a storm of fire that left not a speck of ash behind, but they welcomed the end with open arms.

  “This one is different.” I mused upon turning the last page. No Hero. No Maiden. Only a Beast. An inevitable end brought about by something beautiful and pure. I pursed my lips and closed the book, turning to the witherlily. “What do you suppose it means, my good lady?”

  If she knew, she spoke not, only waving in the gentle breeze conjured by my starlight.

  ***

  My duties in the garden finished for the time being, I said my farewells and retired to the washroom adjacent to mine. It was quite unlike the one we had back home, housed within the castle’s walls rather than an external building. Marble flooring, warm but not unpleasantly so, smooth stone walls, and lit by a strange glass globe that cast a pale, gentle light from above.

  To one side was a mechanical device with a large drum, where I could place my garments to be washed, and another beside it to dry them. I didn’t yet understand their inner workings, only that my clothes came out fresh, warm, and fragrant with little to no effort on my part, something I was not about to take lightly.

  Beside it was a trough made of white porcelain with a faucet that produced warm or cold water, and beside that was my favorite of the room’s little wonders: a chamber, separated from the rest of the room by a sliding glass door, that possessed a larger faucet high on the wall. With just a twist of the knob, and it produced an endless supply of water — from ice cold to searing hot — like a miniature waterfall.

  No drawing water for a bath, nor time wasted heating it. Of all the oddities in the Fiend Lord’s castle, this one alone was enough to almost make me cherish my captivity.

  I turned on the water first, allowing the gentle rainfall to heat to steaming, then peeled off my clothes, starting with my gloves and bonnet, depositing them one at a time into the cleaning drum. Once it was started — making sure to add just a pinch of the cleaning powder, as Belial had so graciously demonstrated — I opened the glass door and stepped inside.

  The searing water was Elysian bliss on my skin, gently washing away the dirt and fatigue with every drop. A moan escaped my lips, tilting my head back to let it wash over me, fingers running through my hair to pull free the braids and tangles. Baths at home were never warm enough, nor was I patient enough to wait for the water to boil when covered in muck. Even in the rare times where I did muster the strength to restrain myself, the blistering heat was gone too soon.

  Mother often joked that it was the wicked side of me, inherited from Eve, that made me crave the heat. Perhaps she was right. I loathed the winter, reluctant to leave the house when snow covered the ground. Btu I could spend even the hottest days in the Sun, working without a moment’s rest.

  Whatever the case, Dreadskull’s washroom was chief amongst my scant joys these days. I reached for the scented soap — a bouquet of Dragon’s Bane, Sundrop rose, and white grape — and worked it into a lather in my hands.

  Dreadskull really wasn’t so terrible.

  The heat, though suffocating and ever-present, was something to which I’d quickly grown accustomed. The dark, too, was easy enough to navigate. Torches of dark fire — fellflame, per Belial — lit the passages that led to anywhere of note, and even without them, my eyes had adapted to the dim light. In times of trouble, I could simply summon a handful of starlight to clear the path.

  I had my garden; I had the library. Dinner with the Fiend Lord was…well, it was almost relaxing as of late. Lord Genesis still refused to partake in the food, something I so wished I had the courage to address, but with our shared interest in stories, he’d proved to be surprisingly delightful company.

  Were it not the scent of blood lingering on his claws, or the grip of pain in his chest that caused him to gnash his teeth and snarl at random, I’d be tempted to think of him as an acquaintance. Not a friend, of course. There was no love lost between us, the Promised Healer, and he, the Genocidal Fiend Lord.

  I felt myself smiling as I turned to rinse my hair and my fingers touched my ears.

  William had thought me related to him by the mere sight of them. And it was true, they were nearly identical to mine, a first in my life. I thought about it often, stealing glances when I was certain he wasn’t looking.

  Were they as sensitive to sound? They seemed to be, judging from the way they perked up at the slightest crackling of fire or the faintest ghost of a sigh.

  Did he ever hide them? Was there ever a need to?

  My cheeks grew hot, fingernails grazing the sensitive underside of my ear, a shiver rolling down my spine, my feet shuffling beneath me.

  If someone were to touch them, would he react the same?

  I wanted to understand him. Somewhere between the lines in the books he gave me, I was certain I could find a connection. But if these were the only connection I could find, at least it was something.

  ***

  I took my time in the washroom that day, waiting until the next chime of the clock before finally relenting and turning off the water. A fluffy towel waited for me on a hanger just outside the sliding door. Still caught up in my thoughts, I leisurely dried myself, moved my wet clothes to the drying device, and finished up in front of the mirror, cleaning my teeth and drying my hair as much as I could.

  With a shamelessness that had only developed recently, I crossed the hall wrapped in the towel, returning to my room to change into something light while my clothes finished drying. My wardrobe in Spring Hill was never overflowing, only containing the garments that Louise made for me over the years, but my time in Dreadskull had shown me that I’d taken what I had for granted.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I sat before my mirror, clad in a thin cotton nightgown, and tended to the arduous process of brushing and braiding my hair. Though perhaps unnecessary, it was yet another much needed flicker of normalcy. It gave me time away from my thoughts, concentrating on my rehearsed movements and nothing more.

  In the mirror’s reflection, I glimpsed the clock on the opposite wall. My meeting with Lord Genesis to discuss The Stillness was more than an hour away. With no desire to dirty myself already, I decided to venture to the library early to pore over the Fellbeast journals.

  I left my room, books in hand, and made my way to the library, a route I’d walked so often my feet could retrace the steps without the aid of my eyes.

  Instead, I focused on my book, attempting to read it without the help of the lexicon. It was written in a language I’d seen more than once — Tibrannian according to the lexicon — but it was a complicated language, with a staggering number of specific verbs, unspoken letters, and differing vowels. Not the language of the journals, but common enough that I felt compelled to learn it.

  My studies were disrupted by an abrupt cacophony of buzzing, visions of the rotfly swarm flashing in my mind. I looked up just in time to avoid running into Lord Beelzebub, my back pressed against the wall to give him a wide berth.

  “Watch yourself, wretched fool. If you must plague these halls with your foul presence, do it away from me!” The Fiend’s voice was like grinding metal, an assault on ears as sensitive as mine just as effective as the deafening roar of his wings. He rubbed the scythes of his forearms together, and I could feel every one of his hundreds of glistening red eyes bearing down on me.

  ‘Wretched fool?’ That wasn’t Valaean. I hadn’t questioned why the Fiends and Fiend Lord spoke fluent Valaean until that moment. “ Do you speak Tibrannian originally, Lord Beelzebub?”

  “Do not presume to question me you —“ Those words I did not know, but by the way he spat them as if they had a vile taste, I could infer they were not meant to be kind. “— I’ve more important work to attend to than answering your banal chattering.”

  But rather than departing, Lord Beelzebub flew closer to me, pinning me against the wall and gazing into my eyes with such hatred there could be no mistaking it. His breath stank of rot and decay.

  “You mean to steal my work, don’t you? You vile, conniving little harlot!” He turned, suddenly, looking over his shoulders, then backed away. A blistering sting sprung forth in his chest, spreading throughout his body. It echoed through mine, coursing through my veins like acid, reaching to my fingers and toes.

  Agonizing, but bearable if I grit my teeth and squared my shoulders.

  Lord Beelzebub clacked his mandibles and turned to leave. My ears perked up, hearing him mutter under his breath, “I’ve no time to waste on the Fiend Lord’s latest fixation.”

  “Latest fixation?” I mouthed without speaking aloud. Was my situation not a unique one? Had there been others taken captive by the Fiend Lord in the past? Belial did mention that they planned to abduct me long before that night in Spring Hill. Was their casual tone one born from jovial servitude, or experience?

  I shook my head. There was no use agonizing over it, I’d not find an answer standing in the hallway. With one last glance after the retreating Fiend, I left for the library.

  ***

  “What could this mean?” I asked, rereading the passage in the journal more carefully.

  The letters were difficult enough to understand, and my ability to perceive their shape was tantamount to the lexicon working its magic, but they were written in such a crude hand that even telling one apart from another was an uphill battle. Some took up entire lines, others ran together as the edge of the page drew near. Some were crossed out, rewritten, then crossed out again. Entire pages were scribbled over in angry, jagged lines.

  The one discovery I’d made thus far — this was no mere theory, I was quite certain of it — was that the journal was written by someone who only vaguely knew the language better than I. It was not merely a research log, but an exercise in writing itself.

  As I flipped through the pages, the writing became somewhat more legible, but the author’s disjointed thoughts even more so. Sentences that ended abruptly, interrupted by completely new thoughts, only to end up in a third, entirely different, destination altogether.

  I sat back with a sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose. My eyes were aching, and, by the chiming of the clock, I’d spent over an hour trying to find some meaning, only to walk away with even more questions.

  “It’s not Tibrannian, of that I’m certain.” I sat forward for one final attempt at parsing the passage on the page. There was a sketch of a Fellbeast I only knew from books — a foolwyrm — in the corner, and I was determined to learn something about its nature before our first encounter with one.

  The temperature in the room rose a few degrees, just enough for a single bead of sweat to form on my brow. The floor rumbled beneath my feet, slow, measured steps not meant to intimidate but incapable of greater subtlety. A shadow fell over me and the temperature rose again, a smolder just below boiling.

  His breathing was surprisingly soft, an almost, dare I say, tender growl in his throat. He said nothing as I finished my notes, closed the journal and set both it and the lexicon aside. When I at last raised my eyes to greet him, a flash of softness crossed his harsh features, but only for a moment, before he narrowed his blazing eyes and drew his lips back in a sneer.

  “Are you finding the answers you seek, Little Moth?”

  I pursed my lips and looked at the journal, then shook my head. “No, I’m afraid they yet elude me, Lord Genesis. I do believe I’m beginning to understand the language, but the penmanship makes every new passage an endeavor to decipher.”

  There was a flicker of heat on his breath, the slightest twitch of his nostrils. I turned back to him with a wry smile. “But, I doubt you’ve come to discuss my scholastic findings. Would you like to discuss The Stillness, my good sir?”

  “I would, my good lady.” A smile broke through his sneer, the light in his eyes turning warm as he assumed his usual posture — one leg crossed over the other, elbow propped up on the arm of his chair, with his cheek resting against his knuckles — and gestured for me to speak. “Tell me, Little Moth, what did you think of this tale?”

  "I was surprised, Lord Genesis,” I said, picking up the book and flipping through the pages. “This was the first in our long list that did not follow the pattern I’ve come to expect of you. No grand adventure, no Hero nor Maiden. Just a Beast whose coming is treated as a welcome relief to the people who sought for so long to deny its inevitability.”

  I came to the passage for which I’d been searching, tracing the words with my finger as I read them, “They wanted not, needed not, for theirs was a fate predetermined. But in delaying the outcome, they had become listless and discontent. What good was eternity if tomorrow never came?”

  Across from me, Lord Genesis’s expression darkened. His ears twitched, and with his next breath I smelled cinder on the air. His claws gripped the arm of the chair, squeezing with force enough to splinter the wood. But when our eyes met, his gaze lightened and his grip released.

  “There’s something beautiful in accepting the end gracefully,” I continued, setting the book aside once more. “I must confess, I found myself both relieved and dismayed by the implication of its outcome. The Destroyer was no villain. Its awakening was no act of evil, nor could it be blamed for the annihilation it wrought. Though I cannot blame them for seeking some way to slay it to prevent their deaths, I am thankful they were unsuccessful. Such an end would have been truly unjust.”

  “Regardless of the Beast’s intent,” Lord Genesis said, speaking suddenly, “the destruction it brought cannot be ignored. Hundreds of lives lost in an instant. An equally unjust outcome, one for which the Beast feels no remorse, one it does nothing to avert.”

  “But were the people not thankful for the release the Destroyer provided?”

  “They were driven mad by their containment. And you were incorrect in your assessment, Little Moth. There was a Maiden in this tale: young Charlotte, whose selfish song led the people to embrace their own destruction.”

  My brow furrowed, and I tilted my head. “Is it truly selfish to want something more from life? Charlotte had lived a hundred lifetimes with no hope of ever being anything but a child trapped in an eternal prison not of her choosing.” I felt a surge of pain from across the table, my hand rising to clutch my chest. “Not unlike the Destroyer. No, the two of them were not at odds, but kindred spirits, yearning for change.”

  “You said you were relieved and dismayed by the story’s outcome.”

  “I was.”

  “What is the implication you found dismaying?”

  “I…” I clamped my lips shut and shook my head. Though I could understand the choice made by Charlotte and could not fault the Destroyer for the destruction he caused, I was not happy with the outcome.

  “Celeste?”

  My name. Not Little Moth, not girl, nor a snarled command to speak. I raised my eyes to meet his. There was something more behind his question, I could feel it in the rhythmic thumping of his heart, every beat radiating anguish, could see it in the faint shimmer in the depths of his gaze, smell it in the smoke on his breath.

  “In the end, the Destroyer is freed, but left alone in a lifeless world. He trades one prison for another, condemned to an eternity of solitude for no crime but merely existing.” I chewed my lip and glanced at the book’s cover, depicting the silhouette of the little girl and the terrifying shadow of the Destroyer. “She wished to save herself, but also to save him. And, in time, he might come to resent her for it.”

  “Perhaps.” Genesis drew in a deep breath and growled, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “But, there was no other outcome. With no Hero to slay it, a Beast can do nought but destroy.”

  There it was again. That choking, all-consuming pain. Despite the wicked grin on his face, there wasn’t the slightest hint of joy in his voice. He spoke as though reciting a fundamental law of the world, his pain and certainty stirring up a willful defiance in me.

  “Would it not be better if no one need be condemned to Oblivion?”

  Genesis laughed and rose from his seat. “Such childish sentiment cannot be.” I gasped, clutching my shoulder when he suddenly plunged his claws into his, tearing his torso to the hip. I watched the wound heal in a cloud of black-copper smoke that smelled of burned ash.

  “Violence is the inevitable outcome of life, and I am its consequence.” He stalked the edge of the table, dragging his claws across its lacquered surface, leaving deep, scorched scratches behind. “Tomorrow came long before you were born, Little Moth. There is no putting this Destroyer back to sleep.”

  Genesis brushed past me, his claws nicking my shoulder. My hand rose to cover the cut, feeling warm blood seeped through the torn thread. It healed by the time I rose to my feet, but the scent and smoke lingered in the air.

  "Lord Genesis. If you mean to intimidate me, rest assured, I remain steadfast in my endeavors.” The tremor in my words undermined the ferocity behind them.

  He merely chuckled, perusing the shelves at a relaxed pace, his menacing sneer melting into a genuine smile when his claws came to rest on a certain book’s spine. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped through the pages with a careful touch. Then, he returned to me and placed it in my hand.

  As my fingers clasped around the book’s edge, they brushed against his claws, a sweetly sharp sting shooting up my arm. Staring into his eyes, lost in their emerald intensity, I felt a strange rush. Flecks of starlight flickered on the tips of my fingers, held back only sheer force of will and the dangerous glint in the Fiend Lord’s eyes.

  “I look forward to discussing this one with you at dinner, Little Moth.” Genesis drew his hand back, slicing my fingers anew. Without a glance back — I watched without blinking, in case he did — he walked to the exit. But as he reached the doorway, I saw him raise his claws to his lips before the last drops of blood vanished. He froze, looking back at me at last. Then, he quickly turned and left.

  In an absentminded daze, I brought my still-bleeding fingers to my mouth. It was sweet, like drops of liquid sugar, and left a tingling sensation on the tongue.

  Thank you so much for reading!

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