Chapter Six: Gilded Cage

Chapter- Gilded cage

The familiar chill of silk sheets against her skin greeted Benzosia as she awoke. In the eternal darkness of Nessus, sunlight was nonexistent. Instead, she was roused by a profound ache that resonated through her very being, a haunting reminder of the nightly demands that left her feeling empty and devoid of her own essence. 

The phantom chill of Gadreel's expected touch still prickled Benzosia's skin some mornings, a haunting echo even weeks after the violating ritual had inexplicably ceased. No reason was given, no word spoken of its end. The absence of his cold appraisal and mocking smirk left not just relief, but a wary, gnawing anxiety that burrowed under her skin like a parasite.

By day, Asmodeus was a distant star, a figure of breathtaking, terrible majesty glimpsed across echoing halls or seated upon his infernal throne – King of Hell, consumed by the ceaseless demands of his infernal domain, utterly remote. He moved through his court radiating power, his divine beauty a weapon, his attention rarely settling on her for more than a fleeting, possessive glance.

But night… night was different. Night was when the King became the beast. He came to her chambers not with affection, but with a grim, relentless need. His touch wasn't merely rough; it was bruising, fingers biting into her flesh, a grip that spoke only of ownership, not care. His words were no longer whispered promises or shared thoughts, but hissed demands against her skin, commands devoid of any warmth, any echo of the seraphim she had loved.

She yearned for the angel he once was – the gentle scholar, the hesitant suitor. Instead, she found this stranger, this creature forged in Hellfire, who wore Asmodeus’s face. His kisses were desperate, frantic almost, yet utterly cold, a plundering of her mouth that offered no heat, no connection, only the metallic taste of his power and her own despair. He took her body with a focused intensity that felt like rage, like punishment, yet seemed to leave him as unsatisfied as it left her utterly hollowed out.

“Sleeping the day away, my sweet?” Asmodeus’s voice, a velvet rasp startlingly close to her ear, ripped her from the remnants of a restless, dreamless slumber. It was a stupid, stubborn thing, this hope of hers, always seeking embers where only ash remained, especially tender after his nightly claims.

“I… am awake,” she murmured, rubbing the lingering shadows from her eyes. “You’re still here?” The question escaped before she could stop it, holding a desperate, pleading edge she despised in herself.

“We have duties in the throne room.” His touch, as he took her hand, pulling her gently upright, was unnervingly tender. It was a phantom echo of the seraphim he once was, before Hell’s fires had forged something harder, crueler in his soul. The gesture sent a discordant melody of remembered warmth and visceral revulsion through her veins. “I desire my queen by my side.”

A hesitant excitement stirred within her, pathetic but persistent. A genuine smile, a rare, precious thing these days, touched her lips before she could guard them. “I will strive to be worthy of your court, my King.”

He smiled back, the familiar curve of his lips breathtakingly beautiful, a mask of devastating charm that failed to thaw the glacial frost in his eyes. “Basileus will attend to you. Ensure you are adorned in attire befitting your station.”

His tone was sharp, efficient, a far cry from the gentle cadences she remembered. Still, it did not diminish the strange, fragile excitement that had taken hold. For the first time since she had traded her celestial home for this infernal realm, Benzosia felt a stirring of purpose as she rushed to prepare.

The throne room never ceased to impress, a monument to infernal grandeur and terror. Obsidian mirrors seemed to weep shadows, while pillars flame licked greedily at the polished  gold floor, casting the assembled demons, courtiers, and supplicants in flickering, grotesque light. The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of brimstone, despair, and the metallic tang of freshly shed blood. Dressed in crimson silk that felt unnervingly like borrowed skin, a heavy crown of faceted, blood-red rubies biting into her temples, Benzosia ascended the dais at Asmodeus’s side. He seated her upon a smaller throne, carved from the same precious stone, positioned slightly lower and to his right. Yet, for a fleeting, intoxicating moment, seated beside the undisputed King of Hell, she felt recognized. Accepted. 

Then the proceedings began, a brutal symphony of Hell’s relentless justice. Descriptions of torments, detailed with chilling specificity, made her stomach churn. She tried to focus on Asmodeus, the imposing, magnificent figure she had irrevocably bound herself to, his divine beauty a stark, terrifying contrast to the casual cruelty he dispensed with regal ennui. 

“For the theft of a soul promised to the coffers of the Third Realm,” Asmodeus’s voice, a chilling baritone amplified by the hall's acoustics, resonated through the vast space, “you shall spend eternity chained to the Wheel of Agony!” His pronouncement sealed the fate of a cowering, blubbering imp. “And you, you gluttonous fiend,” he snarled, turning his burning gaze upon a hulking, corpulent demon whose stench reached even the dais, “your punishment shall be an eternity of consuming nothing but the bitterest, blackest bile!”

A knot of unease tightened in Benzosia’s chest, twisting into something akin to nausea. The punishments felt gratuitous, excessive, cruelty enacted for cruelty’s own sake. “My lord,” she interjected, her voice a soft whisper that somehow sliced through the oppressive noise of the court, drawing surprised glances. “Perhaps… perhaps a lesser punishment might suffice? A term of servitude, or a period of reflection in the lower pits?”

Asmodeus turned, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his divine features. It wasn’t warmth; it was the calculating appraisal of a predator. “My queen,” he purred, the sound sending insidious shivers down her spine, “you possess a most… gentle heart. A refreshing, if naive, contrast in this hardened realm.” His gaze lingered, possessive and heavy with unspoken thoughts. “Perhaps,” he conceded, tilting his head as if considering a novel idea, the word hanging heavy with unspoken meaning, “a touch of mercy is indeed in order today. Sentiment, after all, has its place... even if it is a weakness the lower realms cannot truly afford.” That last phrase… cold, calculating… it echoed Gadreel’s pragmatic cruelty, sending a fresh wave of unease through her. How much of this King was truly her Asmodeus anymore?

He revised the sentences with a dismissive flick of his wrist, the condemned demons trembling with shocked relief. Then, without warning, he pulled her abruptly to her feet, his grip tight on her arm, and strode from the throne room. Gadreel’s amused, knowing smirk followed them like a physical blow as the great doors slammed shut, making her insides clench with cold foreboding.

The moment they were within the opulent prison of their private chambers, the mask of charming indulgence vanished. Asmodeus spun, pinning her bodily against the cold, unyielding stone wall before she could take a breath, his eyes blazing with incandescent fury. 

“What,” he hissed, his voice venom laced with ice, the calculated patience gone, replaced by raw rage, “did you think you were doing? Undermining my authority? Humiliating me before my entire court?”

Breathless, trapped by his crushing proximity and the sheer force of his anger, Benzosia met his gaze, a tiny spark of defiance flickering within the overwhelming fear. 

“They were suffering unnecessarily,” she retorted, her voice trembling but firm. “Mercy is not weakness, my lord. It is—”

A chilling, mirthless laugh escaped him, sharp and cruel. “Mercy?” he scoffed, disdain dripping from every perfect syllable. “Here? In Hell? Mercy is for the pathetic fools our Heavenly Father so favors! Fear! Obedience! Unquestioning loyalty! Those are the virtues that rule this realm, Benzosia, the only currency worth possessing.” His grip tightened, fingers bruising the delicate skin of her throat, his eyes burning with an intensity that threatened to consume her. “Remember your place, my queen. This court is mine. Your role is to sit at my side, silent and beautiful, a testament to my dominion over this pit and the heavens it defies. You exist to be seen, not heard. You will not interfere again.”

“I didn’t mean to undermine—”

“You are not to think,” he cut her off, sharp and absolute. His hand drifted lower then, a possessive, claiming touch that made her tense, bracing for either pain or passion, the line between them often terrifyingly blurred. Instead, it rested with shocking weight, almost reverence, low on her belly. “Your purpose today was to be seen. To display my future heir. To solidify my reign against any whispers of challenge.”

“...Heir?” The word was a breathless whisper, the world tilting beneath her feet, the stone wall suddenly the only solid thing.

“I was informed you finally carry my child, Benzosia.” His voice softened then, a strange, disconcerting counterpoint to the fury still simmering in his gaze. “This changes everything. This will quell any plots to usurp my throne before they can fester.”

Her own hand rose, trembling uncontrollably, bumping against the hard line of his knuckles. She felt… nothing different within herself, only the cold dread creeping up her spine. 

“I… a child?” The words felt foreign, impossible. “I am… pregnant?” Was this why the degrading examinations had suddenly stopped? The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow – her body used, her state determined and discussed without her knowledge, her very being reduced to a political incubator.

His eyes darkened further, suspicion clouding their depths like a sudden storm. “Gadreel confirmed it. He suggested… extra vigilance. More guards.” The possessiveness in his gaze intensified, becoming suffocating. “Once it’s known you carry my heir, attempts on your life are inevitable. You will remain confined to these rooms unless you are at my side. Do you understand? And you will never speak against my judgment in court again.”

He stormed out, leaving her reeling, legs unsteady against the unyielding stone. The news echoed in the sudden, crushing silence. A child. Not a blessing, but a tightening of her gilded chains. This made her a true prisoner, now more than ever. A vessel, stripped of her voice, her agency reduced to incubating his legacy, securing his power. The fragile, half-forgotten dream of a child born of love twisted into something tainted, a strategic pawn in Hell’s brutal, unending game. I am with child, the thought repeated, hollow and cold, tasting not of joy, but of profound, soul-deep betrayal.

Days later, lost in a book while sequestered in her luxurious cage, the sound of raised voices outside her chamber door snagged Benzosia’s attention. Her brother, Azadiel, arguing with her lord husband.

“I’m not being unreasonable, Asmodeus, I only wish to speak with my sister.” Azadiel’s voice was tight with controlled anger.

“And I only wish her safe, Azadiel,” Asmodeus’s voice was smoother, dangerously reasonable, the velvet glove barely concealing the iron fist. “Surely you understand the perils now that you’ve tasted Hell’s… hospitality… yourself? She is protected within the Nessus walls.”

“This?” Azadiel’s scoff was bitter, sharp with pain and fury. “No, your lackeys don’t get credit for taking my wings. This is the work of a warlock, may his soul wither in the deepest void for eternity.”

“A warlock bested you? You, the once-great Archangel Michael?” Asmodeus’s amusement was a cruel, deliberate barb.

“For now,” Azadiel replied, his tone mirroring the cold amusement, but Benzosia heard the tightly coiled rage vibrating beneath. Her knuckles whitened on the ornate door handle before she pushed it open, the heavy hinges groaning like damned souls.

“Ah, there she is.” Asmodeus turned, predatory grace in his movement, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction. She forced herself not to recoil as he reached for her, his touch a brand of ownership she had to endure. Not in front of Azadiel. She manufactured a smile, a brittle, painful thing that felt like cracking glass on her lips.

“Come, Benzosia, your brother has requested an audience.” His grip on her arm was a vise, a silent, public assertion of dominance.

“Benny.” Azadiel opened his arms, and shedding Asmodeus’s hold felt like escaping heavy chains. She practically fell into her brother's embrace, the familiar strength a momentary, desperate anchor in the turbulent sea of her existence.

“Are you well? Truly healed?” She pulled back slightly, instinctively trying to see his back, the site of his mutilation, a constant reminder of Hell’s cruelty. He held her fast, preventing the inspection.

“As well as can be expected in this forsaken place. And you, Benzosia? Cloistered away as you are…” His gaze flickered meaningfully over her head towards Asmodeus’s looming, watchful presence.

“I’m well, dear brother. Tell me, how are you settling in the Stygia?” she asked, forcing lightness into her tone.

“Benzosia,” Asmodeus interjected, his gaze sharp, pointedly dropping to her belly. A warning. A threat. His concern lay solely with his heir. “I permit this visit, but you remain within the Malsheem palace grounds. The dangers outside these walls are vast, especially now, for the High Queen of Hell.”

She bristled, straightening her spine. "I am well aware of the dangers, Asmodeus," her voice was soft, yet dripped with a venom that startled even herself.

Azadiel stepped forward smoothly, cutting through the thick tension. "I had hoped to show my sister Stygia. She has yet to tour my new… accommodations."

Asmodeus’s lip curled in mocking disbelief. "And how would you protect her, Archangel? With those clipped wings?" He gestured dismissively at Azadiel’s back.

Her brother’s jaw tightened, fury simmering dangerously in his eyes. "I am more than capable of protecting my sister."

"Very well," Asmodeus chuckled, a cold, grating sound devoid of true humor. "Be my guest. If you can conjure a portal out of the Malsheem without using the mirrors." A cruel, impossible jest; the obsidian portals bent only to the King’s will, a power Asmodeus guarded jealously.

Defiance, stark and bright, flashed in Azadiel’s eyes. He raised a hand, scarred knuckles white. Raw, infernal power, tinged with fading celestial light, surged around him. A swirling vortex of shadow, ice shards, and angry crimson flame erupted beside them, crackling with untamed, unstable energy – a gateway, torn violently into existence. The effort was visible; sweat beaded on Azadiel’s brow, the muscles in his arm strained, and the portal flickered ominously. Asmodeus looked momentarily stunned, his mockery wiped clean by surprise, then quickly masked by contempt for the obvious strain it cost. Seizing the chance, Azadiel gave a curt, mocking bow towards the King and swiftly ushered a wide-eyed Benzosia through the chaotic vortex, following close behind as the air strained around them.

The portal snapped shut with a deafening crack, plunging them into Stygia’s frigid embrace. The sudden, biting cold was a physical shock after the oppressive heat of Nessus. Fear and adrenaline warred within her. 

"You shouldn't have provoked him like that!" she hissed, turning on Azadiel the moment they were clear, hugging herself against the wind. While the defiance felt momentarily triumphant, the price for Asmodeus’s humiliation would inevitably fall squarely, and painfully, on her.

Azadiel’s expression hardened, his grip gentle but firm on her shoulders as he inspected her face, worry etched deep in his features. 

"I feared the worst… hearing nothing since… our last visit." He likely didn’t recall her tending his wounds in his delirium. 

Her own gaze was fixed on a loose thread of her silken gown as she mumbled, "I’m fine, Azadiel." The truth, however, the cold, heavy stone of the pregnancy, felt far more substantial than the growing life within. 

Azadiel's eyes followed her hand as it unconsciously drifted towards her stomach, his gaze lingering on the subtle curve of her as-yet unchanged belly before returning, troubled, to her face. A flicker of understanding mingled with the deep concern in his features. A heavy silence fell between them then, filled only by the howl of the Stygian wind, the unspoken words hanging heavy as a shroud. Neither of them was brave enough to acknowledge the burgeoning life she carried.

"Levistus awaits inside the keep," Azadiel finally said, breaking the tension and gesturing towards the imposing structure of black ice and stone looming before them. "Come, out of this biting wind."