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Chapter Text

Stolas can’t pinpoint what, exactly, tipped the scales of his rationale. The three months and eighteen days of painful silence he’s been left with after giving Blitzø the Asmodean crystal? The growing distance between himself and Via as the divorce drags out? Stolas had done his best to keep her from being caught in the middle of things, but Stella and Andrealphus are more devious than he’s ever attempted to be, and he can’t blame Via for her justified resentment of it all. Perhaps it’s the depression. He might blame the pills’ effectiveness if he wasn’t very aware that he had a habit of simply taking however many or few that fell into his hand on a given day, and that his doctor had gently noted that antidepressants were not meant to be washed down with an entire bottle of absinthe. Minor details.

Whatever it was, Stolas had, at the very least, become much better at covering up how much of an absolute disaster he was. He’d switched to an eyeliner that wouldn’t budge in the face of a supernova, never mind a little emotional episode now and then. His feathers were set perfectly, preened and shining, as expected from a prince. It had been a boon to discover that if he slowly pressed the tips of his talons into his palms, the pinpricks would heal in moments and any small amount of blood would be unnoticable against the skin of his hands. It was quite effective as an alternative to plucking out his own feathers when things were stressful, and meant that he was able to keep his composure rather than appear weak to anyone watching him. And hellfire damned curses, they were always watching. Stella and Adrealphus, his father, any Ars Goetia in a fucking fifty foot radius, all waiting for an opportunity to cut him at the knees.

He’d even managed to steady his voice so it was level and imperious throughout the day now, the way he kept it on official business. No more unbecoming hoots or cooing even within the walls of the palace. He'd mastered the art of sounding aloof years ago to appease his father’s complaints about his manner of speech, and Stella’s complaints after that, it was simply a matter of keeping it up. He knew his natural mannerisms and speech were grating, but he’d briefly embraced them, along with every other annoying little habit he couldn’t seem to help indulging in when Blitzø came crashing back into his life. There’s a pit of shame in him that opens up if he thinks about all the signs of exasperated annoyance he mistook for indulgence, one he has to carefully skirt the edges of until he can distract himself because he’s not sure he wants to find out just how deep it goes. Every photo he has of Blitzø from their time together is evidence enough of his willful ignorance.

He would never hold back affection for Via, but he was no longer as effuse about it. She cringed less when she was out in public with him and it made the effort a little easier. She did ask once if he was feeling alright, his thoughtful little owlette, even if she tried to hide the concern under teenage gruffness and hunched shoulders. But she’d been talking to him less and less lately, music blasting from her headphones anytime they ate together. He wasn’t sure how to remedy the situation, and most of his attempts so far had been brushed aside. Despite that, she was healthy and safe, coping as well as she could with the ugliness of the divorce, that was all he could ask for. She was nearly an adult, and he suspected she was outgrowing her need for any comfort his presence in her life used to bring. He was trying to accept that.

It had been painful to realize that his duty no longer brought him any joy. Peering into the depths of the cosmos and drawing out secrets from stardust older than any creature living or dead had lost its sense of wonder. He hadn’t thought that would ever happen. Hadn’t thought it could happen. No matter how low he’d felt in childhood and throughout his years with Stella, the stars had always been a reliable escape. Until now.

Perhaps that was it. The dull listlessness that had overtaken him could be the reason he found himself paging slowly through his grimoire, his eyes unfocused and his mind drifting to anything other than work, unable to find the energy to open a portal, much less translate ghostly echoes of bygone empires into an understandable language. It was a soothing rhythm, talons gently curling under the corner of each page as he turned them, the slightly textured parchment rasping near silently as he smoothed it down again. At some point he realized he’d stopped, found himself tracing a particular spell with his talon, and wondered with a sort of grim apathy, why not?

Prophecy seeking is not the same as fortune telling. Plucking at the fragile, spidersilk thin threads of a single life, spread out across infinite possibilities and tracing the most likely path is a magic much more delicate than Stolas’. He’s sure one of his siblings has the Grimoire of Fate or Destiny, something that allowed them to sift through that gossamer infinity and comprehend it all. Reading prophecies in stars lies at the opposite end of the spectrum, where individual lives were grains of sand on a beach, and Stolas was a cartographer inking out the edges of continents. However, it is possible to see--in the broadest of senses--the impact a life might have on their corner of the universe. The echo of their actions felt in the stars long after they’re gone or the anticipation of it before they’ve arrived. Other Ars Goetia occasionally request that Stolas read their fate in the stars, hopeful for a grand destiny. It’s also one of the things he, as the guardian of these rites, is strictly forbidden from performing on himself.

But maybe, if he could know for even a moment that his life meant something, all of this effort to be the perfect Goetian prince might be worth it.

Before he could think on it too long, Stolas focused his attention, tracing the spell with intent this time. The floor seemed to tilt as the stretch of the universe expanded around him, shadows crawling across the surfaces of his office. Stolas closed his eyes and let himself fall.

Hours later, he sat in the same chair in the same office though his mind was still far away despite having ended the spell. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and his posture perfectly upright as he considered everything he learned, a single talon sunk deep into the flesh of his palm to keep his body anchored in reality while his mind felt unmoored. It was painfully clear why he had been forbidden from casting the ritual on himself, why anyone holding this grimoire shouldn’t do so. It wasn’t a fear of some great destiny being thwarted, or a glimpse of tragedy that couldn’t be avoided. Death was a part of daily life in Hell, but a tragedy seen in the stars was the stuff of legends, any hellborne would be happy with such a fate. In occasional moments of wistfulness since receiving his grimoire, Stolas had wondered what sort of imprints he might leave on the universe. He’d hoped, childishly, that it would be a gentle one. A whisper of glittering stardust that might take a future guardian by surprise. Instead, there was nothing.

Inconsequential.

It had taken searching. Gliding past the remnants of long dead gods, Sifting through the particles of what would one day be planets, drifting in the familiar currents of time dividing future from present and past. He’d only found it thanks to Octavia’s future. A bright wave of potential that brought a sweep of familiar pride through him. Using it as a guide, he dove deeper than he normally would, tilting on the razor edge of setting his mind adrift forever until he saw it. His life wasn’t an echo, or a shiver, not even a glimmer. A whimper or a cough would have more impact, and from the barely discernable jagged edges of it, snuffed out before its miserable time was meant for.

It was pure chance the spell had been interrupted by a drop of his blood hitting the page, and Stolas found himself all but slammed back into his own reality, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him despite not actually moving. He’d blinked down at his hand, bleeding steadily over the desk and onto the page, and moved it before it could do any more damage to his grimoire. Flicked the blood from his talons and watched the wounds, small but deep, begin to close on his opposite palm before he folded his hands in his lap and pressed the sharp tip of his thumb back in just to feel something.

He’d known for years that his life wouldn’t add up to much, even when Via was tiny enough to cradle in his hands, he knew she’d outshine him because he’d always been a dull presence at best. But there had always been a thread of hope that the work he did would mean something. It was important, it had to be, otherwise what had he dedicated his entire being, his focus, his life for?

Inconsequential.

To have so little impact meant that not a single thing he had ever done, or would ever do, in his given course of life would make any sort of meaningful impact. The choices he made, the prophecies he shared, all meant nothing. And by the looks of it, he'd die early as well. That wasn’t exactly a surprise, given Stella’s penchant for hiring assassins once Stolas had clocked onto her attempts at poison. Striker’s near success in killing him had been a sobering reminder that for all of her flaws, Stella would always be a better Ars Goetia than Stolas could ever manage. She’d never met a challenge she hadn’t wanted to crush under her heel. She wasn’t the only possibility either, Stolas had never been popular among his family or his peers, but he’d managed to ostracize himself in a truly spectacular manner, then made no effort to reestablish any sort of foothold. He was a solitary figure without an ounce of respect to his name, sitting on a title, power, and fortune his peers would cheerfully kill to gain even a fraction of. It wasn’t new information, he’d known even in the early years of his marriage to keep a wary eye on both his wife and his peers. Protective spells and King Paimon’s ire at anyone interfering with the upbringing of Stolas’ heir had kept the worst of it at bay, but with Via coming of age soon the target on his back was all but literal.

Octavia. Stolas finally shook off his stupor, blinking hard and unclenching his hands were they rested in a growing bloodstain on his pants. He sighed, stretched out his injured hand to stop bleeding on himself while it healed, and waved his free hand over himself in an absent spell. Purple magic lifted the stains from his clothing, desk, and grimoire and vanished it away. He stood and flexed his fingers, noting the ache in his palm as it healed, bones snapping back into place as flesh stitched together. He must have been grasping it tighter than he’d thought. Another flick of his fingers cleaned his hands of blood as well, and he brushed off his newly pristine clothing. There was a sense of being both absent from his body yet steadier than he’d ever felt before. A sort of immovable determination was settling in, like a boulder against the ocean floor after a catastrophic eruption. His life may not be worth anything, but Octavia’s was. Her potential had been bright as a solar flare, and if Stolas could do anything right in whatever time he had left, he could make sure she had the chance to shine in whatever way she chose. He would do whatever it took to give her that freedom.

Stolas found himself smiling just a bit as he stood in the hall, closing the doors to his study. It felt unfamiliar, and he dismissed the flash of sadness at the thought. It was for the best that he’d seen how little impact he could have on the world, it kept his expectations in check. But somewhere deep down in the shadowy recesses of his soul, there was still a bit of belief flickering stubbornly, refusing to be snuffed. It was where he held his wildest hopes, his most absurd fantasies. It was where he’d tucked away his imagined future with Blitzø, battered and creased and so fucking painful. And it’s where something new began to dig in roots, just as absurd and impossible. Because despite knowing he would amount to nothing, that he would have no real impact no matter his efforts, Stolas could at least imagine that he’d bury everything that made the Ars Goetia under a pile of their own corpses before he let them break his daughter like they broke him.

Chapter Text

Stolas’s determination faltered a bit as he neared Octavia’s room. He paused in front of her door and took a slow, steadying breath. If he could accomplish nothing else, he would at least learn what his daughter wanted out of life. He knocked.

The music thrumming loudly on the other side of the door was turned the slightest bit lower, and Stolas waited a moment for his daughter to speak. When she didn’t he knocked again, a bit redundantly. “Via? Could I come in for a moment?”

Magic glowed around the handle of the door and he heard the lock click before the door swung open. Octavia was sitting on her bed, phone in hand and her beanie for once tossed aside. She was looking at him from the corner of her eyes. “Yeah?”

Stolas smiled and stepped into the room to sit on the edge of her bed. She didn’t immediately protest, so he figured they were off to a grand start. Maybe he could ease into things, she hadn’t said much more than a passing hello to him in a few days now. “Hello, darling. How are you?”

The unimpressed look she leveled him with wasn’t exactly reassuring, but it was hardly out of the norm. When he simply smiled back, she rolled her eyes and hunched down further into the mound of pillows she’d shoved up around her headrest and grumbled out, “Fine. I guess.”

Oh, delightful! She was in a good mood then. Stolas clasped his hands in his lap to avoid the urge to gently preen a few askew feathers affectionately. She hated when he did that and he wasn’t about to ruin the moment.

“I’m glad to hear it. I know things have been… difficult lately, and I’m sorry about that.” He paused, giving her time to air any particular grievances, but she merely huffed, her shoulders relaxing a bit. He straightened his shoulders without really meaning to, and Octavia eyed him, seeming to sense the sudden seriousness. “Octavia, my owlette, I have a question for you. I want you to think very hard about the answer, to be absolutely sure of it. Can you do that for me?”

Octavia sat up, her phone forgotten. “What’s this about, dad?”

“Please, Via.” Stolas pleaded, his voice soft.

Octavia’s eyes darted between his, her own expression confused, brow creased with worry. “Yeah. I’ll take it seriously. Now what’s the question? Because you’re starting to freak me out.”

Stolas took her hands in his and smiled reassuringly. “My apologies, dear. I didn’t mean to make this feel so dramatic. I wanted to ask you, what do you want for your future?”

She blinked at him. “My future? I thought… I thought I was taking over your duties?” Her hands curled in his, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hold tighter or pull away. “Am I not good enough? I’ve been practicing on my own, I swear I’m getting better.”

Stolas held her hands clasped gently in his own, hoping it was reassuring as he quickly spoke to stave off her growing panic. “No, it’s nothing to do with your skills! Even with our lessons delayed lately, your grasp of magic is astounding. You’ve grown so much and I suspect very soon you’ll surpass my own abilities at your age.”

“Then what do you mean? What else would I do?” Octavia had calmed, thankfully, her feathers relaxed once more. Best of all, she shuffled closer and swung her legs over the side of the bed so they could sit side by side, one of her hands still held in his.

Stolas took the briefest moment just to breathe it in, this rare easy sort of back and forth without his daughter desperate to escape his presence. It was his fault, he knew that. They used to be inseparable, and he knew she was lonely. But now that she'd seen all of his flaws laid bare, he doubted he brought much, if any, sense of comfort to her anymore. But she was still a child, if not for much longer. Still his child, to protect and guide as much as he could. He’d held off his father’s and Stella’s insistence on arranging her a fiance when she was eleven. It was one of the few things he’d refused to budge on. It had worked because Stolas was still young as well, presumably with plenty of time left to his reign of duty, which gave Octavia time in turn. Time to have a childhood, to learn at her own pace, and eventually, to choose who she wanted to spend her life with. Now that he knew his own life would be cut short, and no idea when, Stolas wanted to be sure he could set the stage for Octavia before that time came.

“You know that I was given my grimoire at a young age. From that moment on, I had my future laid out before me, already set in stone. I never had the chance to even consider anything else. I’m sure your mother has been discussing your coming of age ceremony and future duties, yes?”

Octavia groaned with all the drama befitting an Ars Goetia and flopped back against the bed. “Ughhh! She won’t shut up about it! She keeps dragging me around to dress fittings and these awful brunches where everyone just gossips and none of the food is actually filling.”

A little hoot of a laugh slipped out before Stolas managed to get it under control, one hand over his beak, but Octavia smiled at him–actually smiled!!--and he flopped back to lie next to her, staring up at the stars decorating her ceiling. “I used to bribe the waiters to sneak me rat skewers at those brunches.”

Octavia laughed, eyes bright as she looked at him. “Really?”

He snorted, recalling those exact sort of events Stella used to drag him to as well, before she tired of his presence ruining the mood. “We’re carnivores, not rabbits. I don’t know why they always insisted on feeding us a spoonful of some lettuce foam, or whatever the fuck it was.”

Octavia snorted before taking on a haughty tone between bouts of snickering. “It was a carrot and basil mousse, I believe.”

Their laughter died down and Octavia went quiet. Stolas could sense her hesitation and waited as she sorted out her thoughts. “She keeps introducing me to all these guys too.” She finally said, quietly.

Stolas very carefully did not tense up. Instead, he looked over at her to ask, “Which part of that do you hate the most?”

She looked surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

Stolas shrugged one shoulder. Not quite as effective when they were both laying down, but he figured she’d get the message. “The same day I received my grimoire, my father simply handed me a photo of your mother and said we were betrothed. I didn’t even realize I was gay until my teens and, well, it’s not as if it made much of a difference to anyone at the time.” He paused, and they traded looks, his wry and her skeptical. “I mean, it certainly made an impact later on, but my point still stands.”

She squinted hard at him. “Was that a dirty joke I don't want to know about?”

Stolas hooted a surprised laugh. “It wasn’t meant to be,” he assured, muffling a giggle, unable to keep as tight a hold on his voice control when his daughter was grinning at him in victory.

She stunned him into silence with her next words. “I missed your laugh.” She avoided his eyes, back to staring at the ceiling. “Not that fake one you do in front of company. This one, the goofy one with all the giggling. You never laugh for real anymore.”

He had no idea how to respond to that, but thankfully Octavia hated these awkward sentimental moments and was quick to forcibly move the conversation past them. “Whatever. It was just nice to hear.”

Stolas smiled toward the ceiling, feeling lighter than he had in a long, long while. “Thank you, Via. I’ve missed your laughter as well.” He wiggled his shoulders into the blanket, making a show of getting comfortable, settling in. Via was already groaning under her breath as she suspected what was coming. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding the question. Is it the act of parading you around like meat that you dislike? Are the boys all as dull and stuffy as I remember them being? Are you uninterested in boys all together?”

Octavia sighed the sigh of a teenager having to suffer through the slightest bit of emotional honesty with a parent. “You really won’t let this go? Fine. I hate all of it. I hate that they all look at me like a meal ticket instead of a person. None of them actually care about anything I’m interested in. And I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m into anyone.” She crossed her arms, the joy of the last few minutes gone. In its place was a tense wariness. “I don’t get it, the whole love thing. I really don’t get the whole attraction thing. I… I don’t know if I ever want to get married.”

Stolas’ chest hurt, and he reached over to offer his hand. Octavia gripped it in one of her own, sniffling as she rubbed her other hand against her eyes.

“I don’t want to get married.” She whispered, surety in her tone.

He held her hand as tightly as she held his and waited until she looked at him. He needed her to see the conviction as well as hear it in his voice. “Then you don’t have to.”

She sniffled, looking confused. “But mum said…”

“No matter how much she wishes it were so, your mother does not get to control your life.” Stolas said firmly. “She might scream and insist that the world shape itself in her image, but you are allowed to tell her no. And I will always support whatever choices you make.”

Octavia searched his expression, her own eyes wide and painfully hopeful. “Even if they’re bad ones?”

“My dearest owlette,” Stolas said with seriousness belied by the smile on his face, “I am an expert in bad decisions. It’s only fair that you get the chance to make a few of your own.”

That got a watery laugh out of her. “Thanks, dad.”

They lay there for a few minutes, just enjoying being near each other in the relative quiet for the room. Octavia’s music was oddly soothing despite all the angry yelling and excessive… instrument playing? At this volume, it was almost catchy, and Stolas found himself gently bobbing his head to the beat until Octavia’s voice shook him from the semi-trance.

“Did you really mean it, when you asked me what I want from my future?” She asked.

“Of course.” He answered solemnly.

Octavia paused, thinking through her words. Stolas appreciated how she did that, how she took her time to really think through what she wanted to say rather than just fumbling through it all like he often did, or letting every thought fall out of her mouth without a filter, like Stella. Finally, she took a steadying breath and stared him down with a challenging gaze. “If I could choose, I want to do something that helps people. Really helps them, not just going to galas and saying my presence makes a difference. Maybe become a doctor or a veterinarian. I’ve been learning so much from my taxidermy experiments.”

She sat up, unable to keep looking him in the eyes, and Stolas sat up as well, listening intently. Octavia wrung her hands together nervously, but her voice was impressively steady. “If I got to choose whatever I wanted. I’d give up my stupid title, and my inheritance. I’d give it all up if it meant I could just–just be! If I could live a normal life for once.”

She let the truth settle between them, her hands slowly stilling as she waited for his response. There was a wry twist to her expression, a hint of hopelessness, like she knew it was a foolish dream.

Stolas smiled. “I think we can manage that.”

Chapter Text

Octavia deserved an award for keeping her chill despite feeling like she was about to drown in all the wild goddamn revelations that had been casually thrown her way in the past fifteen minutes.

Her father had been acting odd lately. Or, well, he’d been acting like his old self, only more refined than ever. No more rude red dickhead staying the night–and yeah, her dad promised he put up silencing wards, and Octavia’s room was thankfully far away from whatever gross things they got up to that she never heard anything, but it was kind of obvious when the morning after every full moon, he was practically floating on clouds. Ugh. It was also really obvious that they broke up or whatever, because for a while her father was quiet and nervous, and then, for a week or two, he’d looked like an absolute wreck, faceplate constantly streaked with faded tear stains he hadn’t managed to wash away completely, feathers a mess. And then, one day, he’d been fine again.

At first it had been a relief. Life could finally go back to normal. She’d even wondered briefly if her parents would call off the divorce, but that was quickly put to rest with another screaming match over the phone. She had to admit, it was at least a lot quieter without her mother in the palace, though she felt guilty thinking it. Her father wasn’t constantly distracted by his weird boyfriend anymore at least, and it felt almost like the days before the whole affair mess. When they spent quiet mornings eating breakfast together, when his whole focus was on her during her magic lessons, when they could go out without him being so… so much that she could hardly stand to be seen with him. She hated being treated like a little kid.

She should be happy. He’d stopped cooing and gasping at every little thing in public, trying to drag her into sharing his excitement by sheer force of willpower. He’d stopped absently preening her crown feathers when he walked by her chair at the table. Exactly like she’d always asked him to.

But, in place of all those things, it’s like she lost what made her father himself. It had hit her one day, as they’d passed by a shop with a shirt on display that had an absolutely atrocious pun blazoned across the front and she waited for him to point it out in that weirdly delighted way he had when he thought something was funny. But he hadn’t, and when she glanced at him to see if he’d missed it, she saw his eyes glance over it and simply look away, expression blank and eyes dimmer than she’d ever seen them.

She couldn’t stop seeing it after that, the way he seemed almost hollowed out. A husk of her father, drifting around the palace, fulfilling his duties, or going off to fight with her mother at a lawyer’s office again. It was harder to draw him out, to have any sort of real conversation. He still paid attention to her, and Octavia had the sinking feeling that she might be his only real connection right now. It made her feel guilty about brushing him off, or pointedly listening to music at the table, but it was like trying to talk to a puppet that looked like her father. It all felt so fucking fake. It was the version of her father that her mother had always wanted.

She’s beginning to suspect that it’s the version he thought Octavia wanted too.

Then suddenly, he’s barging into her room asking impossible questions and dropping fucking landmines of personal information in her lap. Things like being told he was getting married to a stranger when he was eleven. Things like the fact that her father is gay–okay, it’s not exactly a surprise, but it put her parents’ marriage in a different, and much more awful perspective. Thinking about how much she hated the thought of being married off to the bachelors Stella had been introducing her to as unsubtly as possible, she marveled at the fact that her father had taken her at her word. He hadn’t suggested giving guys a try, or that she’d find a way to make things work out, like her mother had. She couldn’t let herself think about it too much because it made her vision go blurry with tears and her stomach queasy because she kept hearing herself asking him why he couldn’t just make things work with her mother.

She also couldn’t cry because she was trying to catch up with her father, who had strode out of her room like he was on a mission, full of some kind of manic energy and apparently determined to keep her from having to inherit her royal position.

“Dad? Dad! Will you please explain what the hell is happening right now?” She asked as she followed him into his massive study nearly at a run. It was rare for him to walk so fast, probably used to other people with much shorter legs having to keep up, but he was caught up in whatever he was rambling on about that she’d missed while internally freaking out.

He paused, already at a shelf and pulling down thick tomes she only recognized as some sort of advanced magical research. “If you would be so kind as to shut the doors, my dear.”

Octavia did so, and watched, confused but admittedly curious, as he quickly drew out what looked like a silencing ward–but much, much more complicated than the one she knew–on the doors with chalk. He pressed the tip of a claw to the finished circle and it lit up, a wave of power rushing outwards along the doors, then the walls, and across the floor and ceiling until it had brushed over every surface of the room. The quiet seemed to ring after, every bit of ambient noise she hadn’t even realized she could hear was gone. The rustle of pages as he shut the book seemed loud in comparison. She was suddenly aware of the way her own clothing softly rustled as she moved. “What was that?”

Her father smiled at her, setting the book down on his desk. “A safety measure, because what we are about to discuss cannot leave this room. Understood?”

She stared at him, realization dawning. “You were serious. You’re actually serious about letting me do whatever I want.”

She’d thought he was just being nice. A sort of wistful daydreaming before she had to face reality.

Her father beamed at her and nodded. “I am. And we are going to have to plan this very, very carefully to make it work.”

There was a flicker of real hope sparking to life in her chest. “How?”

His smile dimmed into a more serious expression, but an earnest one rather than stern. “It won’t be easy. The life we live may be a gilded cage, but it is full of luxuries you’ll have to give up. No more palaces, no more endless riches. Without your status, you will have to face the same threats everyone else does on a daily basis. Are you willing to give all of it up?”

Octavia wanted to answer immediately, but her father was giving her the benefit of taking this seriously, and she would do the same, just like he’d asked her to. She thought about it, really thought about the sort of comfort and privilege she lived in, and what it would mean to walk away from it. She remembered the filthy, terrifying chaos of the human world, how that was every day life for humans. Not that different from hellborne and sinners who didn’t get to live in palaces behind guards and gates. She’d spent brief periods of time just out and about, particularly on the trip to steal her father’s grimoire from I.M.P. that one time, and it had been an experience. She might complain a lot, but she wasn’t unaware that she had a pretty damn easy life.

She thought about one day becoming her father. Not the playful self he loosened up to become for a few months, which she suspected was the real him, the one this life had crushed down into a box. She imagined setting aside everything that made her her own person, facing the endless judgment of the Ars Goetia and whatever social peers had clawed their way to the top, without her parents as a buffer. She swallowed hard and wondered how her father did it day in and day out. No wonder he looked so hollow. “What do I have to do?”

Her father watched her closely for a moment, then his expression melted into one of familiar softness as he held her face in his claws. “I’m so proud of you.” He said, then pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, basking in his familiar warmth. She’d missed this. There was something almost bittersweet about it that raised red flags in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

Her father pulled back and smiled, less solemn than before. “I’m not going to leave you out on the street corner, you don’t have to look quite so serious. But we will be adding courses on budgeting to your lessons, as well as basic life skills that people without personal staff will have to know.”

She crossed her arms and eyed him skeptically. “Do you know any of those skills?”

Her father laughed, that bright startled hoot of delight that she took pride in getting out of him. “Oh no, not in the slightest. I’ll be arranging for some of our staff to teach both of us.”

At her relieved expression his own went soft again. “I would never make you do this alone.”

After he spent a moment too long just staring at her sappily, Octavia huffed. “Alright. Anything else?”

He clapped his hands together, and she’d never been so happy to see him unable to contain his excitement. This was the father she’d been hoping to see more of. “Oh yes! Your magic lessons will resume immediately, and I do hope you’re prepared to study because we will be speeding things along quite a bit.”

“But if I give up the title, won’t I be banned from using the Goetia magic?” She asked. It was one of the first laws of Ars Goetia magic, it was only meant to be used by those with titles in the family. I.M.P. using her father’s grimoire was a move so wild that she honestly tried not to think about it. Her father made a lot of questionable decisions with that guy. She would miss the easy use of portals, but honestly, magic had never truly been her first love, not like her father’s devotion to the craft.

He nodded and summoned his grimoire with a flick of his wrist. “The moment you rescind your title you will lose access to any grimoires and magical knowledge held within the Ars Goetia branches. But they can’t take away what you already know, which is why it’s important that you learn as much as you can. The best time to step away from your role, if you still choose to do so by then, will be at your coming of age ceremony.”

Octavia snorted, waving a hand at the grimoire. “That’s in two months! I can’t possibly learn everything in there! You’ve had it since you were a kid and you don’t even have most of it memorized!”

“Of course not, these spells are incredibly complex and quite literally built to make sure that you need the reference in order to properly cast anything more than the basics. I wouldn’t expect you to memorize them, a single line drawn incorrectly could be catastrophic.”

He waved his other hand, summoning a thick book with a blank cover and a pencil. “Which is why you’re going to make a copy.”

She stared. “That can’t possibly work. It’s too easy.”

Her father chuckled in what she’d secretly dubbed as his work voice, sort of casually condescending as he drifted the empty tome toward her and patted his own grimoire. He was speaking almost to himself now. “The biggest kept secret of the Ars Goetia is that anyone can do magic. Our family holds our power because we are jealous and covetous with it. It’s why we are forbidden from letting our grimoires leave our possession.” He stared off in the distance, seeing something beyond the room they were in. “It’s why my father separated the branches of magic and doled them out to each of his children. So none of us could ever be quite as powerful as he is.”

Holy shit. She was pretty sure a large portion of Hell would happily kill for this information.

“You’re telling me that I can seriously just copy them down and still cast the spells?” Her tone was disbelieving even to her own ears and her father focused his attention back on her, thankfully dropping the princely attitude that had seeped over him.

“I doubt it occurred to the creators of the grimoires that we might ever want to share them.”

She was still stunned. “That’s–that’s so stupid!”

Her father laughed delightedly. “Incredibly, inexcusably, undeniably stupid. And exactly what we’ll be taking advantage of.”

“So I could just photocopy any spellbook?”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” He looked amused at the thought. “Not quite. Spells must be written by hand and with intent, and you do have to copy them exactly, unless you want to risk creating a black hole or opening a gateway to a realm of unimaginable horrors.”

She stared at the pencil in her hand, feeling a bit queasy now. “Right. Noted. And I’m supposed to copy it until I get it right?” She eyed the grimoire warily in turn. “That’s going to be a lot of potential black holes.”

Her father shrugged. “Or you can simply trace them, the paper in that book should be thin enough.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” She asked.

He winked, something he hadn’t done since she was five. Ugh, even when he was being cool, he was cheesy. She’d never admit she maybe didn’t hate it. “It’s called being efficient.”

She hesitated just a moment longer, though to be honest, she absolutely wanted to test if it she could make her own copy of an incredibly rare and powerful spellbook. “And you… won’t get in trouble for letting me do this?”

Her father shrugged, that distant look in his eyes again for a brief moment. “It won’t matter.”

More little red flags waved warnings in the back of her mind. Something about his tone seemed wrong, but before she could try and pick apart why, he was motioning her over to the desk.

“No time like the present. Let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

Stolas was so proud of Octavia. Over the last couple of weeks she’d progressed remarkably in expanding her knowledge of basic spells and she tackled copying the more complex spells into her own tome with a diligence that made him indescribably proud. They were both taking discrete lessons in, well, how to be a person who didn’t come from unimaginable wealth from his personal butler, Pringle.

It had, in all honesty, been painfully humbling to realize just how true Blitzø’s accusations of him had been. He did treat his staff callously, without even thinking about it. He had done so his whole life, all while patting himself on the back for being so different and benevolent in comparison to his peers. After their last encounter, Blitø’s words rang through his mind when Stolas found himself about to simply pluck up a housekeeper and set them aside like a misplaced toy. His stomach had lurched so hard he’d nearly been nauseous. Not simply at the action, but also at the sort of pained resignation in the housekeeper’s expression. The surprise on her face when he apologized had almost been worse.

He’d begun to actively catch himself from acting with such casual disregard toward anyone he used to categorize as ‘the littler ones’ in his head. He had been no better than Stella, just less self aware. But he could learn now that he’d been shown the breadth of his ignorance. He kept his hands to himself and remembered to say please and thank you because he did in fact have manners and had been wasting them on the wrong people his whole life. The staff seemed skittish around him, and he couldn’t tell if it was due to this change in behavior, or if he’d simply been oblivious to their discomfort until now. He knew the second was true, but he was sure the first wasn’t helping.

It was equal parts pride and shame to see that Octavia already treated the staff with, if not friendliness, then polite civility. She wondered where she learned it, or if she was simply more observant, because it clearly hadn’t come from Stella or himself.

However he might want to wallow in it, shame and guilt were useless for anything other than self reflection, so he made sure to do better. To be better.

It made these lessons a bit awkward though. It became clear very quickly that life as a royal left them with very few skills that were actually useful on a day to day basis. Stolas knew how to balance an account, but he was embarrassingly surprised at what an average city-dweller’s budget looked like. Neither he nor Octavia knew how to do laundry or cook anything more complex than toast, and that was just the start of the list. Octavia took on the challenge with determination, if not exactly enthusiasm. Stolas did the same, just with more bumbling. He was immensely grateful Blitzø had opened his eyes to his own actions before asking Pringle for these lessons, but it meant he was all the more aware of every cautious and assessing look darted his way.

He almost, ridiculously, wanted to ask if he was doing well. Before sense caught up to him and he bit back the urge because it was bad enough that he had barely begun improving himself, to seek acknowledgement for accomplishing the bare minimum would be a new low, even for him. He simply doubled the pay for the entire staff instead and focused on making sure he didn’t slip back into old habits.

All of that aside, the lessons were going well, as were his other preparations. He’d instructed a few of the staff to begin selling off extraneous objects in the palace; priceless decorative vases, modern art pieces, ornate figurines carved from precious gems, and other such nonsense that existed simply to fill up the extra space. The money from the sales was quietly set aside in a new bank account set up in Octavia’s name. It was a drop in the ocean compared to the wealth she might yet lose, but it was always wise to have a small safety net. He also scheduled a series of transfers to be sent out at a later date, if his plans stayed on course.

There was one more very important factor to handle, one he couldn’t risk delaying any longer.

Striker.

Stolas had laid new wards around the palace. It took nearly a week of nightly work and he’d been laid up in bed for another two days after from the energy drain, but the wards were so powerful he could feel them hum through the floors if he stood still long enough. The first time Octavia had crossed them, she’d fluffed up like a chicklet and then begun yelling at him to delete the photo he’d managed to capture of it. But even with the extra protection, Stolas had learned an important lesson after Striker’s last attempt. He was not as indestructible as he’d once thought, and he couldn’t hide away in his palace forever. More importantly, he couldn’t risk Octavia’s life now that Striker knew she was his greatest weakness. He didn’t think Stella would intentionally harm their daughter, but he’d stared Striker in the eyes and seen exactly how much he meant his words. It had been foolish to treat the danger like a game, and he needed to take care of Striker once and for all.

Which is exactly why he’d invited him over for lunch.

Octavia was away with her mother for the weekend. Something she hadn’t been the least bit excited for, but Stolas wanted to be sure she still got to have time with her mother, even if it seemed strained. He wouldn’t deny her that. It also meant he knew she was at least somewhere nearly as well guarded as his own palace.

Once the food was prepared, Stolas had let the staff go for the day, not wanting to put them in danger if things got ugly. He set the table himself with a hint of pride, keeping things simple with a single fork, spoon, and knife framing each plate. Trays of lunch items arranged carefully on the moderately sized table. Close enough to converse easily, wide enough that Strike couldn’t simply stab him with the knife without some real effort, even if he used his tail. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but Stolas wasn’t about to give the imp such an easy opportunity.

Striker strode in through the grand entryway ten minutes late, looking relaxed and unbothered, eyeing Stolas’ decor with clear disdain. Stolas welcomed him in, leading the way to the parlor where he’d set up the table. The official dining hall would have been much too ostentatious and large for what he had in mind. He made sure not to put his back to Striker, walking a careful distance at his side, and the imp’s bootheels clicked against the marble tile.

“What is it you’re tryin’ to do here? Got tired of lookin’ over your shoulder, so you invited me in to get it over with?” Striker asked, sneering up at him.

Stolas shook his head. “No, I’d rather not be assassinated at all, thank you. My invitation was exactly as it stated; lunch and a proposal.”

Striker narrowed his eyes and spit on the floor between them, which Stolas suspected he did just to try and scandalize him. How fun, it made staying in character so much easier when your conversational partner really leaned into the drama. “I hope you don’t think you can try and seduce your way out of this, birdie. You ain’t my type.”

Stolas let out an amused hum, expecting exactly this sort of back and forth and drawing upon his princely persona. “Nothing of the sort. This is a business proposal.” He gestured to one of the two seats as they arrived. “Please, take a seat.”

Striker boldly strode to the opposite chair, kicking it out from the table and dropping into it with a casual sort of grace. He had an air of danger that reminded Stolas of Blitzø though the two couldn’t be more different. Blitzø had a brash, earnest confidence and often moved in quick darting motions, unexpected and unpredictable. In contrast, Striker had a snakelike grace, all smooth, lazy gestures and syrupy drawl, countered by viper quick viciousness. Looking at him just made Stolas miss Blitzø more.

Unaware of Stolas’ thoughts, Striker picked up the fork, examined it, and dropped it back to the table with a clatter. “What sort of proposal did you have in mind? Because let me tell you, your wife is willing to pay a lot of money for your head.”

Stolas took the opposite chair, plating some food for himself as Striker watched him with sharp eyes. “I believe I can offer you something even better. A deal that both of us will be happy with.”

Striker very pointedly did not take any of the food. Pity, the cook had really outdone herself on the roast. “I’m surprised you didn’t try your fancy little eye trick yet.”

Stolas had no doubt that Striker could and would easily dodge the attempt, and would probably manage to hurt Stolas badly enough to get away before his healing could kick in. And he had no doubt Striker knew that he knew. It was almost comforting how similar this felt to an average dinner with his relatives. “I did promise no harm would come to you if you agreed to the terms.”

“And how do you know I don’t have a shiny angelic knife tucked away, just for you? Since you’ve been so kind as to invite me right in.”

Stolas wasn’t sure how Striker managed to lounge at just the right angle in this brightly lit room for shadows to fall over him, making his eyes glow with dramatic effect, but it was quite good. He took another delicate bite and did not ruin his act by asking once more how a person earned their own theme song. “Easily, because if you had tried to enter the palace with an angelic weapon, my wards would have vaporized you the moment you stepped across them.”

Tension in the room rose as Striker went completely still, eyes fixed on Stolas. After a long moment where it sunk in that Stolas was not bluffing, he let out a huff of a laugh that sounded almost impressed. “Damn, birdie. Seems like you learned a little something after all.” He leaned back with his hands behind his head and swung his dusty boots onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “So what exactly is this business proposal? I don’t like to leave jobs unfinished, so I’m going to need more than money. I’m not some inconvenience you can just pay off.”

Dabbing at his beak with a napkin, Stolas nodded. “Of course. I do respect your work, loathe as I am to be the victim of it. I appreciate your dedication to your profession.”

Striker squinted at him like he wasn’t sure if Stolas was joking or not, and if he should be offended by it. “You really are some kinda twisted.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong.

Stolas summoned his grimoire with a wave of his hand and Striker went tense again. The knife that had been set next to his plate was missing. Stolas let the book fall open midair and the pages flipped themselves to the correct spell. His next breath was a steadying one as he fought to keep his composure in the face of what he was about to do. Facing down Striker was one thing, risking injury paled in comparison to the thought of damaging a book, especially one so important.

He held the page in one hand and ran the tip of a razor sharp claw down the edge along the binding, cutting it cleanly from the rest of the book. With a gesture, the page floated over toward Striker.

“This is the spell used to curse the harvest moon each year in Wrath. I can teach you how to cast it.”

Striker had risen to his feet, knife in hand and ready to fight, but the lack of impending violence seemed to throw him off balance. His eyes darted between Stolas and the page floating in front of him. Stolas could practically see him recalculating his options, so he finished his offer and hoped it would be enough. “I’ll double whatever Stella has promised you, along with giving you the spell.”

“Even if this was real,” Striker started, every inch of his posture suspicious, “how do I know you aren’t just setting me up to get caught by one of your royal little friends? No one would believe you just gave this to me.”

Stolas tilted his head, because shrugging was supposed to be beneath him. “You don’t. Just as I can’t be sure that you won’t take this and immediately shoot me through the skull on a random tuesday. The most I can guarantee is that I’m the only member of the Ars Goetia that visits Wrath, and as long as the Cursing happens on schedule, I doubt anyone will care to check.”

He let a bit of his power slip through, just enough to give the shadows in the room a bit of creeping abyssal horror. A little ambiance, if you will. “We’ll simply have to trust each other’s word. Unless, you’d like to make it official.”

Stolas stayed seated, letting Striker have the small bit of height over him in this moment as he held out a hand. Striker eyed it like it was the most dangerous thing he’d encountered since entering the palace. Smart man. “I thought–”

“That we only worked in signed contracts?” Stolas filled in. “I suppose this sort of deal is a bit old-fashioned outside of Sinner circles, but it’s just as valid, and with less of a paper trail.”

The tip of Striker's tail was weaving back and forth like a metronome as he glanced at Stolas’ hand, the spell, and then met his eyes. “What are your terms?”

“You end your contract with Stella, and agree never to harm myself, my daughter, or anyone who is currently involved with Blitzø’s I.M.P. business. In return I will provide this spell, the cash payment, and a promise to end my annual tour of Wrath for the Cursing of the Harvest Moon.”

Striker scoffed, but it was weaker than he probably intended. He was staring at the spell with interest, clearly considering how much it was truly worth. More than the money, more than the sheer power this one spell would give him, with Stolas no longer performing the Cursing, Striker could fill the gap. It would be unprecedented to have an imp in charge of an ancient, integral ritual. Quite frankly, it was something that should have happened a long time ago. Stolas had always loved the Harvest Moon festival, but even he wasn’t so oblivious as to miss the divide between himself and the general populace of Wrath. They allowed him–or more accurately they tolerated him–there because of necessity and tradition. He held power over their livelihoods and had treated it as a fun little outing even knowing how important it was. This was the right thing to do, and if it could also be used as a bargaining chip to neutralize a threat like Striker, Stolas was happy to multitask.

“I seem to keep running into your little boytoy. I can’t promise we won’t get into a scrap, because I won’t just sit by if he tries to settle a grudge.” Striker finally bit out, and Stolas refused to look thrilled that he was actually negotiating.

“Understandable. You will not instigate a fight with them, nor kill or maim them. With your skill, that should be sufficient to get yourself away.” Stolas shot back smoothly.

Striker crossed his arms, glaring up at him past the brim of his hat as he spun the knife in an easy figure eight across his fingers. “Triple the original contract fee, and I want you to swear you won’t kill me either. I know better than to leave that kind of loophole.”

Easy enough. Stolas nodded. “Very well. Payment in full and and I will not harm you, directly or indirectly, as long as the deal remains unbroken.”

The air was heavy, metaphorically, with tension, and literally with the weight of magic. It tasted like iron. Like old blood. The quiet as Striker considered the proposition was almost its own presence. Stolas' arm was getting a bit tired, and every second Striker hesitated was a second closer to the possibility of being stabbed instead.

With a sharp motion, Striker flung the knife into the table where it beheaded a skewered rat and bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. Red symbols lit up in a ring around Stolas’ hand as Striker reached out with his own.

“You got yourself a deal.”

Chapter Text

The summons appeared while Stolas was working in his garden, inspecting plants that were still recovering from his neglectful period several weeks back. He had a few more hours until Octavia was due to return, his deal with Striker had been successful and he was in a surprisingly good mood. It helped that caring for his plants required most of his focus and kept wandering, spiraling thoughts at bay. The leaves on his youngest carnivorous pitcher plant were finally looking lush and green again as he dipped his claws into the soil to check how dry it was. He’d nearly lost this one, the leaves streaked with yellow and brown, the poor thing all slumped in its pot when he’d finally crawled out of bed long enough to take stock of his greenhouse.

He’d just finished misting those leaves and the thorny, grasping tendrils around them when the invitation burst into existence in a flash of inky flames that nearly singed his feathers. He caught it in his claws once the flames flickered out and let out a weary sigh at the politely worded ‘request’ that he pay King Paimon a visit at his earliest convenience. Which meant right the fuck now, or else. His father’s grandiose, looping signature was inked at the bottom of the card. With a mental wave farewell to his good mood, he dusted off his hands and went inside to change into more regal attire.

Minutes later, he was stepping through a portal into his father’s palace. A cavernous, shadow-filled place, where every sound seemed muted even as they echoed down endless unseen halls. King Paimon’s power drifted scent-like throughout the palace, making every breath feel like an unwelcome intrusion. It was meant to put visitors on edge, and it worked. The only person who could ever be fully comfortable here was his father. An older imp, the very same butler that Stolas had known as a boy, was waiting in the entry and greeted Stolas with a short bow.

“Prince Stolas, welcome.”

Stolas smiled at him and inclined his head in greeting. “Hello, Mr. Chip. Your nephew sends his regards.”

The butler looked startled, then very briefly pleased, but was quick to recover and motioned toward the main hall with a hand. “Thank you, your Highness. I hope he is serving you well. If you’ll please follow me, the King is waiting.”

It was the last moment of pleasantness he had there. The massive doors to his fathers throne room loomed in front of him, carved with various sinners and hellborn suffering in creatively disturbing ways. As a child, Stolas had rarely been remembered long enough to be summoned here, instead seeing his father most often as an image in a mirror, but when he did, these doors had always left him feeling afraid. For the first time, he looked at them with a sense of detachment, and he had a hard time thinking of them as anything other than gaudy.

Fear of his father, unfortunately, had not left him so easily. As the doors creaked open, Stolas found himself straightening his posture even more and steeled himself for the usual reprimands. He was only ever summoned for one thing, aside from his regular delivery of prophecies.

King Paimon sat on his throne, looking the same as he always did, an eternally powerful being, as much a part of the tapestry of Hell as the Sins themselves, and second in power only to Lucifer. Many of the Ars Goetia had wondered how he’d gained that power, if he’d come into existence with it, been granted it as a gift from Lucifer himself, or if he’d built it himself. And if it was the latter, which many suspected, they were all desperate to know how. Stolas, as his heir, had been the only one permitted to know the truth, which had been a calculated move on his father’s part, a warning, wrapped in a false show of trust.

“Stolas. Took your time, did you? I’m a busy demon, I expect my summons to be answered promptly.” King Paimon greeted, not bothering to look up from inspecting his claws.

The doors shut behind Stolas with a slow grinding of stone, leaving him alone with his father. “My apologies, father. Is there anything I can do for you? I haven’t discovered any new prophecies since my last report, I’m afraid.” Well, that wasn’t strictly true, he’s discovered one, but it would be foolish to admit he’d gone searching for his own, and even worse to reveal that his existence was apparently completely useless in the grand scheme of things.

King Paimon waved away his words and rolled his eyes with a dismissive click of his beak. “No, but I am becoming impatient with your inability to keep your household in line.”

“My household?” Stolas responded, feeling a bit lost.

His father shot him an unimpressed look. “Keep up. That empty-headed wife of yours had the nerve to screech in my ear about your heir refusing to act her part. I’ve indulged your soft-heartedness long enough with that girl, letting you put off her betrothal year after year, but I will not tolerate being questioned by a useless pile of feathers with ideas above her station. Control your wife before I snuff her out of existence. And find your daughter a suitable husband so i don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

Stolas nearly offered to let his father follow through with the offer to rid him of Stella once and for all, but held himself back. As much as he hated Stella, he would not rob Octavia of a mother, and he did not want to owe his father a favor for it. Instead, he swallowed his pride and did what he always did in the presence of his father, he groveled and tried his best to mitigate the damage. “Apologies for her behavior, father, but you know that Stella is no longer family to me. The divorce is nearly finalized.”

An impatient tsk cut him off. “You continue to embarrass yourself with this whole divorce situation. Foolishness. Look past your own idiocy and maybe you can retain an ounce of respect. Stop this nonsense talk about divorce, and keep any future indiscretions quiet. It’s really not that hard.”

It was harder to swallow down the tight ball of fury, but he was well-practiced in being insulted by his father. It was easier to keep the conversation moving than to try and refute any of it. “And in regards to Octavia, you did promise that she would have until her coming of age.” This was more difficult, he rarely tried to lie to his father, because there were very few situations where the consequences would be worth the effort, but his father had to believe that Octavia’s life was playing out exactly as planned, or all of their plans would be crushed before they could fully form. At least his lifetime habit of looking down rather than at his father would help him here. It was always his eyes that seemed to give him away. “It’s almost here and I’m sure once she’s officially accepted her role as heir she’ll understand the importance of marriage as well.”

The air in the room felt oppressive and Stolas thought quickly, knowing a half truth would always be more convincing than a full lie. “I know she’s been introduced to a few candidates already, I think she’ll have her decision made soon.”

There was a long pause, and Stolas had to brace himself against the weight of his father's magic, fighting to keep his expression clear, but it finally lifted and King Paimon sat back with a lazy, dismissive flick of a hand. “Very well. I expect to see results at her coming of age ceremony, or I’ll deal with things myself.”

Stolas bowed, dizzy with relief and managed to retreat from his father’s presence with grateful words of parting. He didn’t take a full, relieved breath until he was halfway down the hall, his former butler beside him once more. He’d been so distracted he’d forgotten how overwhelming his father could be, and shortsighted to think King Paimon might let Octavia go without a fight. Stolas alone couldn’t stand against him, he had no allies to sway his father, and definitely didn’t have anyone powerful enough to stop him outright. It was borderline heretical just to think it, hubris at its finest.

He stopped walking, and Mr. Chip, an imp he had known only as Mr. Butler for most of his life, paused a few steps later, looking back toward him questioningly, which wasn’t surprising since Stolas normally left his father’s palace as quickly as he could after every visit. “Your Highness?” Mr. Chip inquired politely.

“I’d like to reference a few texts from the library, Mr. Chip.” Stolas said, voice surprisingly steady despite the enormously stupid idea forming in his mind.

Mr. Chip simply nodded and turned down a connecting hall, used to this sort of request. Stolas was the only one with access to King Paimon’s personal library, and occasionally used it to cross reference his own magical tomes for his work. It was also where his father kept his own grimoire, secure in the knowledge that it would be useless to Stolas, because even if he’d wanted to steal it, the spells it contained required such precise control, and so much sheer magic, that he’d die trying to cast them.

But perhaps, Stolas thought as he thanked Mr. Chip and stepped through the doorway to the library alone, he could use a little hubris.

He returned home after a few hours of feverishly efficient work in his father's library, his emotions balancing on a fine line between hysterical giddiness and complete terror. Thankfully, a timely distraction arrived in the shape of Octavia returning home. Andrealphus’ pale blue limousine pulled up just inside the palace gates, as far as the wards would allow, and Octavia stepped out. Stolas smiled, happy to see her, and began descending the palace steps just as Andrealphus and Stella emerged from the limousine as well. It was less pleasant to see them, but as tempting as it was, Stolas couldn’t exactly make them drop off Octavia on the corner like a schoolgirl reluctant to let her friends see her interacting with her parents. He was about to greet them as politely as he could be bothered when he he really took in Octavia’s expression, drawn and unhappy.

“Octavia?” Stolas called, widening his steps to greet her at the edge of the driveway where he’d set up the new wards. Stella and Andrealphus were unable to pass through, which had set off another screaming match, but it was much less effective--and much more satisfying--now that Stolas could simply walk away where she couldn’t follow.

Octavia didn’t seem to hear him, caught up in an argument with her mother and uncle. Stella’s face was flushed in frustration, the way it got after a long fight she couldn’t claw her way to the top of, and Andrealphus seemed to be trying to talk Octavia around to his point of view, though Stolas doubted he realized the condescending tone he was using would only make Octavia angrier. “While we all appreciate how headstrong you can be, you’re only getting in your own way now, Octavia. You’ll scare away any decent prospects by being so difficult, and then you won’t have anyone but yourself to blame if you end up in a less than ideal marriage.”

Whirling around to face him with fists clenched, Octavia nearly shook with anger. “Every stupid, pompous, arrogant boy you’ve introduced me to has been less than ideal!” She yelled. “I don’t want any of them! You promised this would be my choice.”

Oh dear. He should have seen this coming after his father’s mention of Stella overstepping to demand he force Octavia’s hand. He could understand the ugly reasoning behind it. Stella was grasping for every little thread of power before she lost it all in the divorce for good, and if she could control who married Octavia before Octavia came of age, she would have new angles of attack to manipulate her way back into the family.

Stolas stopped thinking entirely when Andrealphus caught Octavia by the arm in a tight grip, frustrated at being so brazenly opposed. “That choice can be taken away just as easily--”

Stolas’ own hand was wrapped around Andrealphus’ wrist, hard enough that Octavia had managed to yank her arm free. They both looked startled, though Octavia was quick to step behind Stolas. “Dad?"

He wasn’t sure what his expression looked like. In fact, Stolas found it difficult to think of anything beyond the wrist caught in his grip, but Andrealphus’ expression was shifting into something unfamiliar. Something like fear. He opened his mouth to speak and Stolas simply lifted one leg with what felt like leisurely effort, and kicked.

Andrealphus slammed into the inner wall surrounding the palace hard enough to crack the stone around him. He slumped to the ground before he managed to suck in a gasping breath and reached with a shaking hand to the ragged socket of his right shoulder, a black stain spreading across his fine clothing as he bled heavily. His right arm was still in Stolas’s hand, hanging limply.

Stolas looked at the arm, feeling nothing, looked at Andrealphus, who seemed too shocked to do much at the moment, and finally looked at Stella, who’s expression was aghast. She inhaled, ready to begin screeching with horrified fury but Stolas spoke first, still feeling oddly distant from the whole scene. “Do you know how we Ars Goetia gained power before we became civilized?” He asked, his tone turned mocking at the last word. He didn’t need to raise his voice, the silence was so complete it nearly rang, as if even the wind was hesitant to blow through this conversation.

“Do you know what happened to father’s generation? Why he had so many children despite only needing a single heir?” No one answered him. He could hear Octavia’s soft, nervous breaths behind him, and felt a twinge of guilt for scaring her, but it was as if he’d lost control of his body. No, he had full control, he’d simply lost his hesitation, his fear of repercussions, somewhere between the front door and here. “He had many siblings.”

Andrealphus shakily pushed to his feet, but pressed back against the wall rather than step any closer. Stella’s eyes were locked on Stolas and for the first time, she looked afraid of him. He tilted his head slightly and they both twitched. “The quickest way to gain power is to consume it, so he did. He ate them one by one until he was the last one standing, and powerful enough to rewrite our history.” He looked at the arm he was holding and he could feel the question growing in the space between them all. If his words were literal, and if he meant to do the same. He tossed the arm into the driveway, well outside of the barrier of wards. “But even he doesn’t know if that power is eternal, or if it fades over time. We’ve always been nothing more than an insurance policy to him.”

Stolas turned away from them both, leading Octavia toward the palace doors with a hand against her back. He was both grateful and proud when she didn’t flinch from his touch. Stella, behind him, finally managed to sputter out an indignant, “Stolas!”

He didn't bother pausing. “Neither of you are welcome here anymore. The wards will be expanded to the property line.” He did turn his head around to look at Andrealphus with a hungry sort of anger that had him flinching back. “And if you ever lay a hand on Octavia again, I will pick your bones clean.”