It stood perfectly still, watching without watching.
An Imp. I’d read about them just last night: frightful little creatures with wings they used to dart through the air, hurling spears or stones at their enemies. This one’s wings were broken, twisted into jagged shapes as if they had turned to stone and snapped.
That wasn’t the strangest part. The strangest part was how it was dressed. It wore a cloak, black, finely tailored, and far too formal, yet it didn’t fit properly. The trousers were a size too small, showing pale, bony ankles. But its gloves were pristine white, even immaculate.
It didn’t speak again. Just stood there, patient, expectant, waiting.
I am not powerless, I reminded myself as I stared into its red eyes that shone in the torchlight.
I pushed myself slowly to my feet, not taking my eyes off it.
“Lead me to Magnavex,” I ordered, my voice sharper than I intended.
The Imp bent a full ninety degrees, a bow, and it turned away, leaving with a steady, measured gait.
I followed, careful to keep my distance. Even as I followed, I couldn’t make sense of the paths we were taking. I tried to keep track, but with only bookshelves for landmarks…
I didn’t even have time to read the titles; they were still swiveling past by the time we moved on.
The imp led me to the grand tables that Magnavex had offered to me the previous night.
It stretched long and rectangular through the chamber, wide enough that voices would have to rise to reach it end to end. The surface was dark wood polished to a gleam, its edges carved with curling patterns that caught the torchlight in shifting shadows. Heavy chairs stood in a neat line on either side, their high backs giving the impression of rank and order even though most sat empty. The air held a faint tang of smoke and old oil from the braziers, layered with the dry musk of parchment drifting in from the shelves. My fingertips skimmed the table as I passed; it was cool and slick, with tiny ridges where wax had once spilled and hardened.
Magnavex was there waiting in her usual sweater vest, her obsidian black horns glinting in the torchlight. She was sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, her hooves gently tapping against each other. Her chair was tall, with a tall back, though it had a hole in it for her tail to poke through, swinging this way and that.
Her gaze fell on me. A small smile reached her mouth before her eyes landed on my hands.
“Young Lord! What has happened? Who?—” Her sharp eyes turned to the imp. “Why is he injured!?!” Her words were like a blade sharpening.
The imp bent its knees slightly and lowered his head. “He was like this when I found him, madam. I—hadn’t noticed.”
“Did you also not notice that he is in his night clothes?”
The imp started to tremble. His eyes were wide but cloudy, unfocused, darting, searching, but never quite landing on me.
He looked so pathetic I almost defended him. Almost.
Remaining silent, the imp was at a loss for words.
“Fetch him a proper outfit. Now.” She growled the last word.
The demon went clumsily, as if his feet could barely hold him.
Magnavex pulled out the central chair for me, the kind usually meant for dads or important officials. Which I guess I am. An official not a dad of course.
I lowered myself into the chair slowly, fingertips brushing the arms.
Before she could bring up my injuries I ventured, “Magnavex.” I shifted my weight back and forth before finally sliding into the chair. “I would like something to eat.”
“Of course, I will send a demon right away.” She eased my chair forward until it touched the table, her hand firm on the backrest.
“No!” The shout cracked from my throat before I caught myself. Her tail gave a startled flick, and I forced my tone down. “I—I would like you to get it for me.”
She looked at me with her eyes wide. I needed to make sure she didn’t suspect me.
“This is my first meal since my… well, this is my first meal. Do you really think it should be made and delivered by a disg—demon?”
She paused for a moment before smiling deeply. “Your first meal will be spectacular, my Lord; I promise that I will not disappoint. Only someone worthy can make such an important meal.” She left.
***
I was back at my previous table, having left the ornate one Magnavex kept insisting on. My bandaged fingers caught on the pages as I flipped through a book on demons, reading up on the behemoth, the creature that had entered my bedroom.
I tugged at the collar of my coat, smoothing it down. The outfit was just as stunning as before, soft as clouds, fitted as if it had been made only for me. The cloak was black, not merely the color but of absence itself, null made color—a shade that swallowed everything around it. Beneath, the tunic echoed that darkness, broken only by faint strokes of bruise-purple, almost too subtle to notice. Blood-red thread traced from my ankles upward, curling in deliberate patterns along my legs until they vanished at my hips. My boots were gray, streaked with red that made it look like my every step was on fire.
Moments later, Magnavex arrived, pushing a cart that rumbled softly across the stone floor. The thing was absurdly large, stacked high with trays and bowls that rattled with every bump. A rich, heavy scent rolled off it, the air thick with spice, smoke, and something faintly metallic.
She stopped beside me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’ve ordered Belgorath himself to make it,” she said, as if that name held meaning.
She placed the first tray on the table and pulled off its cover.
Inside, thin black slices curled upward like flower petals, each petal rimmed with a delicate spiral of white bone, the arrangement blooming outward like a crown. Beneath the petals lay a bed of roasted roots, their skins blistered to a smoky sheen, and pale fruit cut into neat crescents, their syrup dripping in careful rivulets that streaked the plate in shades of rust-red. Woven discreetly among the petals were strips of dark meat.
On the second tray, the display was even more elaborate: glossy crimson pieces arranged like overlapping scales, each topped with a glistening berry to add a touch of color. Thin gray strips fanned outward in a spiral, wet edges catching the light like polished stone. At the center lay thicker cuts of meat seared until blackened along the surface, but sliced to reveal marbled veins of red within, as if the plate itself breathed with warmth. The careful symmetry made the entire spread look ceremonial, almost beautiful.
I stared at it. As my stomach rumbled, normally I would say that I can’t eat this as I didn’t hunt the animal myself, and I’m sure demons aren’t respectful when taking a life, so making an exception also seemed unlikely. But more than that, I didn’t even know what this meat was made of.
My stomach growled again, but I had already made a decision. I can’t eat this.
I swallowed hard.
“Magnavex? Do you… do you have anything that’s just…”
How can I request this? What would Cole say? A Demon Lord?
“It is disho—” I stopped and tried my best to raise and deepen my voice. “An insult to claim that I cannot hunt my own meat.”
Her smile faltered.
“Bring me a meal untouched by anything living,” I said before turning back to my book, trying not to show my fear.
Please be good enough.
She tilted her head, slightly concerned. “I will let Belgorath know of your displeasure.”
“Right,” I said, as I passed a page, not even really reading it. Will this Belgorath be mad?
There was a beat of silence. Even the imp standing in the corner seemed to shift uncomfortably.
Magnavex blinked once.
“…Of course, my Lord,” she said at last, clearing her throat softly. “A simpler approach, then. I will see to it myself.”
***
On the tray was a small pile of golden-yellow grains, soft-looking and steaming gently. Next to it, a swirl of thin, shiny vegetable ribbons some orange, some purple, some green glazed and slightly crisp at the edges. And next to that, a round stone cup filled with a glowing reddish drink that fizzed just a little.
With the imp behind her, Magnavex sat across from me with her hands folded in front of her. “I hope it is more suited to your tastes.”
I picked up the spoon, dipped it into the grain pile, and took a bite.
Soft, but not mushy. A little herby, a little nutty. It actually reminded me of something my mom made during the colder months—something plain, warm and comforting.
Next, I tried one of the veggie ribbons. It crunched a little at the edges and tasted sweet, like roasted root dipped in honey mixed with sugar scales.
“This is… good,” I mumbled. And I meant it.
A tiny smile flickered across her lips. “I’m pleased it meets your approval, my Lord.”
While the food was good, the juice—oh, the juice! That was amazing. Sweet and spicy and cold. I had never tasted anything like it. It sizzled and popped in my mouth, then tingled all the way down. It was like drinking chilled sparks.
I finished the entire plate. I ate too fast and gave myself a stomachache, but even so, it was the first pleasant experience I’d had since waking here.