Chapter Fifteen: Revelations

Chapter Fifteen - Revelations

The faint, cloying miasma of sweat, sex, and betrayal—Asmodeus and Basileus—still clung to the air in her dressing chamber, a suffocating echo of the scene that had shattered her world moments before. Benzosia sank onto the polished obsidian floor before her ornate vanity, the mirrored surface reflecting a stranger with hollow, burning eyes. What terrible, lightless abyss had her life finally, irrevocably plunged into? The silence screamed louder than her rage, broken only by the phantom echoes of Asmodeus’s guttural cries and Basileus’s answering moans that clawed at the raw edges of her sanity.

“I was… so wrong…” The whisper was a raw, broken thing, scraped from the depths of her soul. She had proclaimed its resilience, this grand love of hers, certain it could withstand Hell’s fires. Love hadn’t just failed; it had been meticulously forged into the very blade Asmodeus now delighted in twisting in her wounds. Fool. Blind, arrogant Fool, she castigated herself, pressing the heels of her palms against her aching temples. To believe she could bind the unfettered King of Hell with something as fragile as love. Her very essence, she realized with sickening clarity, felt siphoned, her life force slowly but surely being drained with every touch, every forced intimacy. She had no dominion over neither her body nor her soul.

The grating groan of the heavy chamber doors connecting their rooms sliced through her reverie. Asmodeus didn’t simply enter; he invaded. His presence was a physical pressure, an irresistible wave of intoxicating, soul-deep darkness that sucked the very air from her lungs, demanding her utter, unconditional submission. Her spine stiffened, a desperate, defiant act against being consumed. She fixed her gaze with ferocious intensity on the intricate, blood-red and tarnished-gold pattern woven into the rug, a desperate, defiant act against being consumed, her fingers clenching, digging crescents into her palms.

His eyes, twin pools of fathomless sapphire that had once promised shared eternities, now burned like chips of obsidian, lit by a terrifying, ancient fire. A faint, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his perfectly sculpted mouth betrayed the cruel satisfaction radiating from him, churning the acrid bile in her throat.

"Benzosia," he purred, each silken syllable a freshly honed dagger, twisting in the gaping wound of her betrayal.

"Asmodeus." She forced the name out, stripping it bare of the warmth she had so foolishly wasted upon him, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.

A slow, predatory smirk curved his lips. “I have news.” He began to move then, a fluid, serpentine circle around her, the hunter assessing his cornered prey, the very air chilling as he passed.

“News?” she prompted, a barely contained tremor in her voice, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Is it… Lucifer?”

A treacherous sliver of hope flared, only to be brutally extinguished. His smirk faltered; the mirror captured a fleeting flash of incandescent, primordial rage before the mask of cruel amusement snapped back.

“Basileus,” Asmodeus began, drawing the name out like a rare, potent vintage, savoring the name on his tongue, "...is to become my Herald.” The declaration was a low, intimate whisper, more violating than any shout. “My official voice. He will carry my words, my will, to the farthest, most forsaken corners of the Nine Hells.”

The words struck like physical blows. Herald. Intimate access. Absolute trust. A position rightfully hers, as queen. But also, Basileus. My confidante. My friend. The betrayal twisted inside her, a physical ache.

“Why…?” she breathed, her voice trembling, close to breaking. “You can bed him in the Harem, or anywhere else you like.” Her voice trembled. “Why… why make him Herald?”

“This jealousy is so… unbecoming, Benzosia. And here I thought you were rather fond of our dear Basileus.” His eyes glittered with the chilling delight he reserved for her deepest suffering. “Basileus has an undeniable talent, he understands my… needs.” The deliberate, loaded pause filled her with soul-corroding disgust. He wasn't just betraying her; he was rubbing her face in the filth of his depravity. And I gave him the poison, the thought screamed in her head, hot shame washing over her for her own miscalculation. I gave him the tool that led to Gadreel’s doom, and he used it to elevate himself, to become Asmodeus’s chosen.

“And what of me?” The question was a ghost of a sound, almost swallowed by the oppressive air.

He stopped his circling, pinning her with his gaze. "You, Benzosia?" The words fell like merciless stones. "You are my beloved consort. My Morningstar. The beautiful, prized vessel who will bear my much-needed heir."

Clarity, sharp and brutal, pierced through her. "You would have me birth a child," she stated, a dead, flat acknowledgment of a heartbreaking truth, "in order to challenge Lucifer's rightful claim to the throne."

He didn't deign to offer a denial, instead regarding her with the detached appraisal one might give a particularly fine artifact.

"Your duty," he stated, each word a precise, cutting blow, "is here, within my reach. Your place is in our bed." A low resonance vibrated in his chest, ancient and possessive. "I am the King of Kings, Benzosia. You are a jewel within my crown. A flawless, exquisitely valuable possession. An extension of my power. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” she echoed, the words stiff and hollow. Inside, she bit down hard, the metallic tang of blood blooming on her tongue. A small, grim triumph in the pain. He would not break her spirit, not today.

"Tell me you love me, Benzosia," Asmodeus’s voice dropped, a silken caress laced with a vicious edge. The demand, wrapped in a feigned intimacy, was a deliberate degradation.

He offered no denial, his gaze lingering with the cold assessment one might afford a rare and intricate clockwork mechanism. "Your purpose," he declared, each word a precise incision, "is here, beneath my hand. Your destiny is intertwined with mine, within these chambers." A low resonance vibrated in his chest, ancient and possessive, a sound that spoke of eons of unchallenged power.

"Yes.” She bit her tongue, the taste of blood a grim comfort, a defiant assertion that some part of her was still alive. “my lord.”

"Whisper it for me, Benzosia. Say you love me." His voice dropped to a caress, a silken whisper laced with a razor’s edge. Not a plea, but an order wrapped in the guise of affection, a calculated unraveling of her defenses.

“I love you,” she repeated, the words now foreign, detached, as if spoken by someone else entirely. One who had no warmth to offer, and no light to give.

“No, no,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Show me.”

A wave of dizziness washed over her, a nauseating blend of shock and fury. The room blurred, the edges of reality tilting. “What…” she began, her voice barely a breath. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve humored your little… rebellions… long enough.” Asmodeus’s smile twisted into a cruel sneer. The pauses were deliberate, each one an invisible lash, cutting deeper. “I require an heir, Benzosia. Urgently.” His gaze narrowed, a chilling intensity burning in his eyes. “That is your primary function. Your singular duty.”

The thought of submitting to him now, it was vile. Unthinkable.

“Take off your robes.” His command, soft, held the unyielding weight of damnation. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers deftly pulling pins from her hair. For a disorienting heartbeat, the angle of his brow, the softening of his gaze as it fixed on the golden cascade tumbling down her back, conjured a phantom—the gentle scholar, the hesitant lover she thought she remembered, genuinely lost in the beauty of her presence. Then, just as quickly, the illusion shattered. The cold, cruel mask of the Infernal King snapped back into place, the brief, illusory warmth utterly extinguished, making the stark return of his calculated cruelty all the more devastating.

“You may visit Zariel this afternoon,” he decreed magnanimously. “But only after you have sufficiently warmed our bed this morning.”

She bit her lip, swallowing the furious retort. Her fingers, trembling with rage and revulsion, fumbled with the gown's lacings. Humiliation warred with the grim acceptance of her brutal reality. She was a vessel for his heir. The heavy silk pooled around her feet like liquid darkness, a mournful shroud for her murdered dreams. Shame coiled in her gut.

His touch was glacial, possessive, the cold fingers tracing the line of her spine drawing not just fear, but a sickening, involuntary tremor. Her body, to her utter shame, remembered the ghost of pleasure, a betrayal against the screaming anguish of her mind. His mouth, still tainted with Basileus’s perfume descended, crushing her lips in a kiss meant not for love, but for conquest. A traitorous heat flickered within her, an echo of past ecstasy that ignited a bonfire of humiliation. Her flesh warred with her soul, her senses betrayed by the memory of his touch, even as she was crushed under the weight of his cruelty. Desire and despair pressed against her breaking point, until the unbearable strain forced something primal to give way. A gasp tore from her, raw and desperate, and then, with a terrible, silent unfolding, her wings erupted – unfurling before his abyssal eyes, vast and inky against the chamber's chill.

A tremor, deep and seismic, rolled through the chamber. It was a sound born of pure, unadulterated rage, a growl that vibrated not just through the floor but through the very air she breathed, resonating in the marrow of her bones.

"What… in all the Hells… have you done?" The words hissed out, each one a venomous strike, delivered with a cold, feral fury that promised a retribution far worse than any open display of rage.

The air crackled with his power, a suffocating pressure that threatened to crush her. His gaze, burning with an infernal light, a terrifying intensity, locked onto her transformed wings, widened with an initial, visceral shock, before narrowing into a chilling, implacable fury. A fury that spoke not just of anger, but of a violation he would repay in kind, an annihilation that promised to consume not just her body, but her very soul.

Panic seized her, cold and sharp. Eden. The garden. My brother. The secrets burned in her like acid, truths she would take to the void before betraying. Her mind scrambled, desperate, settling on the sacrificial lamb. Gadreel. He's beyond his reach now.

“I was assured my light served no purpose in the Hells.” She forced the lie out, eyes fixed on his.

"Who?" The single word wasn't a question, but a guttural rumble, vibrating with a barely contained rage that made the air itself thrum.

"Gadreel," she said, the lie sliding out with deceptive smoothness, her voice betraying not a hint of her internal terror. "He held resentment. He said I still carried the light he'd given up... for you. He claimed it was a weakness, a vulnerability for the throne, and that removing it would strengthen your claim against Lucifer. He swore it would make me a pure vessel for your purpose."

A low growl intensified, echoing deep in Asmodeus's chest, a sound primal and terrifying. His movements became a blur. One moment he was still, the next he had snatched a heavy crystal flacon, its facets catching the firelight, the next he hurled it with brutal force. It shattered against the wall, exploding into a shower of glittering shards that rained down like malevolent stars, releasing a choking cloud of cloying rose perfume that filled the air with a false sweetness, a sickening contrast to the rising rage.

"Out." The word wasn't shouted, but it carried more menace in its cold precision. A warning she knew not to ignore. "Get out of my sight."

"As you command, my lord." A rare flicker of genuine eagerness propelled her. She spun sharply, her fingers brushing the cool, obsidian smoothness of the nearest mirror.

"The Fortress of Limbo," she stated, the words a determined incantation.

The mirror's surface shimmered, then dissolved into a churning vortex of shadow. Stepping through felt like being yanked by an invisible hand, the searing tug of the Avernus passage a brutal initiation. A wave of sulfurous air, pungent yet liberating after Asmodeus's oppressive chill, washed over her skin the moment she crossed through. In the dim corridor beyond, she stumbled, leaning against the rough, unforgiving stone, its coldness seeping into her bones.

Damn him. Her fingers trembled with residual rage as her fingers worked the lacings, each undone tie a small, sharp snap against her captivity, a desperate attempt to reclaim a shred of herself.

Only when her clothes were fully adjusted, a fragile armor, did she venture forth. Immediately, the heavy, musky stench of sweat and fresh coupling assaulted her, cloying and visceral. Oh, not again. A raucous chorus of guttural moans and unrestrained, joyful laughter spilled from the throne room.

“Vesarius, wait…” Zariel, an embodiment of unapologetic power and sensuous grace, lay draped across an absurdly opulent chaise, while a colossal demon, crowned with a magnificent, riotous tangle of braided hair and horns, was positioned intimately between her thighs. “Hold a moment, darling. We have company,” she purred, loud enough for Benzosia to hear, her eyes glittering with mischievous, almost predatory amusement.

“Oh, I… I should probably come back later. You seem… deeply engaged,” Benzosia stammered, her cheeks warming despite the heat of the room. Her eyes darted away, desperate to avoid witnessing anything further, and her words left her tongue as a stumbling, uncertain rush.

Zariel’s laughter erupted, a glorious peal of unrestrained joy. “Patience, darling. All pleasures in their proper time,” she declared, giving the demon’s flank a sharp, affectionate tap that spoke of a relationship both playful and utterly comfortable. He sprang back with surprising agility, his intelligent red eyes flickering over Benzosia with a spark of bold appraisal before settling on Zariel with an open, worshipful intensity. “Go, I need to have a word with our queen.”

Benzosia moved forward hesitantly, each step measured and awkward against Zariel’s fluid grace. The older demon, now fully reclined, exuded an aura of profound, satisfied contentment, every line of her body radiating pleasure and power.

“I wasn’t aware you maintained… such intimacies.”

“Maintained? Darling, I collect them.” Zariel rose with a slow, luxurious stretch, her movements radiating a feline confidence. “Vesarius is my favorite—a secret just between us, or his ego will swell even further.” She fetched two delicate teacups from a silver tray, the fragrant steam curling upwards. “Have you never taken a lover for yourself, Benzosia? As a woman, you are due, it’s not as though your husband practices monogamy.”

A lover. Asmodeus would never allow such a slight. He holds me as his possession, not his equal.

Knowing eyes met Benzosia’s own. “Though, nothing that happens in my bed compares to the… debauchery taking place within the Royal Harem.”

“You’ve heard about Basileus then?” Benzosia took the offered cup, her fingers tightening around the warm porcelain. She shouldn’t be surprised; in Hell nothing travelled so fast as gossip.

‘Of course,’ Zariel replied, her voice laced with surprising compassion, a rare softness. ‘Your heart must be in pieces, child. That boy, and your Asmodeus… both too vile to be spat on.’

A shift in the very atmosphere, a subtle drop in temperature and a prickling at the nape of her neck, heralded another's arrival.

"At last we fully agree on something, princess Zariel."

Levistus glided into the chamber, his presence as quiet as a shadow, yet charged with an underlying intensity. His expression was set, a mask of resolute purpose. When his piercing, glacial eyes met Benzosia's, they widened for a fleeting moment—a flicker of surprise that vanished almost instantly, replaced by an inscrutable expression.

"Levistus, what excellent timing!" Zariel's eyes lit with a mischievous sparkle, a knowing glint that hinted at a deeper understanding of the unspoken tension. "Do join our little gathering. I've just requested a freshly brewed pot of tea."

“I never took you for a tea drinker.” His movements were deliberate, almost studied, as he settled into the chair directly opposite Benzosia, his initial glance over her fleeting and cool before he seated himself.

"Only when graced with the company of our lovely queen," Zariel responded, her voice a low, velvety purr as she rose. "However, observing your… delightfully severe expression has ruined my good mood. I'm suddenly struck by the urgency of tending to my dear Vesarius. It appears I'll need to call on Vesarius to finish his…chores." Zariel departed, winking at a blushing Benzosia before turning a coldly dismissive gaze towards Levistus.

"That was...remarkably strange, even for Zariel," Levistus remarked eventually, his tone laced with a quiet observation, a hint of dry amusement.

"I, um...seem to possess an unfortunate knack for interrupting things today," Benzosia confessed, her voice barely audible, her fingers nervously twisting a lock of hair around themselves.

“Ah, I see…” Levistus scrubbed a hand over his mouth, a subtle movement that failed to entirely conceal the smile playing on his lips. The lingering, musky scent of Zariel's chamber and Benzosia's vividly embarrassed flush painted a rather clear picture. “Nothing too shocking, I hope.”

“Her skirts covered most of him.” Her voice was soft, calm, then a giggle escaped her, brittle and forced. “In fact, Zariel and her demon… they seemed quite happy. Loving, even.” There was no amusement, her laughter scornful. “It’s a constant stream of surprises, isn’t it? Life in Hell?”

“I understand it's disheartening,” he began slowly, that rare smile she’d caught already gone, replaced by a contemplative furrow in his brow. He poured more tea into her cup, tasted it, then offered it to her before filling his own cup. “And you’ve confronted many challenges since your fall.”

“It’s been a litany of ‘this can’t possibly get any worse,’ followed by a swift, brutal demonstration of how very wrong I was.” Her voice gained a hard, dangerous edge. “And now, Asmodeus has made Basileus his Herald. Did you hear?”

“I did.” His confirmation was quiet, measured.

“Once again his actions prove how little esteem he holds me in, proving that even the ones I thought I had on my side are only there until they can reach higher.” To her horror, tears burned in her eyes, hot and stinging, threatening to spill. She clenched her jaw, biting back a sob. “Am I also a convenient steppingstone to you, Lord Levistus? Do you wish to use me to heighten your ambitions as well?” she challenged, her gaze sharp as shards of ice, pinning him.

The question hung between them, raw and charged with a desperate vulnerability. He met her gaze unflinchingly, the depths of his storm-grey eyes holding hers.

A beat of silence, then, “No.” The word was stark, absolute, resonant with a truth that seemed to echo in the suddenly still chamber. Anyone else, perhaps, but never you. “I never would have wished this on you. When I thought of you, I always imagined you perfectly radiant, basking in happiness in the heavens that were restored to their former glory–”

“You… imagined me?” she cut him off, a poignant emotion crushing her chest, the thought of this magnificent male thinking of her… a tenderness she hadn’t felt in eons.

“The more I learn, the more my hope diminishes.” Benzosia admitted in hushed words.

He looked at her from the corners of his eyes. “What are your hopes?”

She took in a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the dregs of tea in the bottom of her cup. “When I fell… it was with a heart full of love, and yearning it would be reciprocated,” she sniffed delicately, a small, self-deprecating sound. “Daft of me, I know.”

“I don’t think it’s daft to yearn for love, Benzosia.” His voice was soft, unwavering.

“Naïve at the very least. I…” she looked over at him, her words trailing off at the intensity of his expression. Yearning. “Now my hopes have dwindled into gaining some respect, or just being seen as an equal in his eyes. Just being seen…” she whispered the last, her voice barely audible, a fragile plea.

“I see you.” He raised his hand, his touch light as a moth's wing, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek, a soft, intimate caress that sent a dizzying flutter through her, a sudden, unfamiliar rush of heat.

I try not to see you. The thought tore through her mind, the jagged truth of it searing her to the core, even as his warmth spread, a small, dangerous ember in her chest.

Have you never taken a lover? Zariel’s question echoed, a taunt, a temptation.

For a few long moments, she fought for composure, her existence a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Then, drawing strength from some deep, newly forged resolve, Benzosia stood. Her head held high with defiance.

"Levistus, come with me."

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