Chapter Thirty: A Heart of Ash

Chapter thirty; A heart of ash

The brittle weight of codex scrolls was a distant memory, replaced now by a heavy, visceral truth: the gentle, disquieting curve of her belly. She recalled the sterile vastness of Heaven's libraries, where she had once matched wits with Asmodeus, finding a sharp, familiar intellectual thrill in his challenge. But the calculating scholar who had claimed her love was long gone. Seeing the ruby had forced her stubborn heart to finally make peace with this fact. Now, the chilling, possessive gaze of Asmodeus was supplanted by the phantom image of Levistus, who rather than challenge her, looked at her from the shadows not with cunning, but with a fierce loyalty and silent pride. That image now threatened to shatter to dust the broken pieces of that very same heart.

He can never know the truth. This was not a choice, but a covenant forged in terror. The conviction was a knife pressed into her soul. The life their love had forged was now the highest threat—a volatile secret she must ruthlessly bury beneath the pretense of Asmodeus’s claim. For their child to live, and for Levistus to survive, the lie must be absolute.

It had been weeks since the war council, weeks spent locked within the ornate walls of Malsheem. Asmodeus’s attentions—once a coveted prize—had become a cloying, velvet weight that choked her thoughts. Furs that melted against her skin and gowns spun with gold thread were not luxuries, but opulent distractions from the true horror of her confinement. Musicians, ever-present at the king's command, played lively melodies in every chamber, attempting to deafen her to the blood-curdling screams that occasionally seeped from the harem wing. She knew the source: with his throne secure, the absence of Lucifer’s threat had not brought peace to the palace, but had unlocked a deeper, more profound cruelty in the king. She knew the cost of his renewed, sadistic confidence: the bloodied and broken bodies of attendants he left ruined. Jewelry and stones littered her vanity, glittering, meaningless tokens designed to disguise the heavy links of her chains. Her stomach betrayed her, roiling at the sight of sustenance, yet the dishes provided were crafted with an unsettling, meticulous care—a testament to the king's suffocating, obsessive diligence. She was surrounded by everything, and yet lacked two things she longed for most: wind beneath her wings and the embrace of the man her heart now yearned for.

She remembered the moment Asmodeus had announced her pregnancy to the court. It wasn't a celebration; it was a proclamation delivered amid the smoldering ruin of the Abyss, a final, terrifying display of supremacy. The air in the Grand Hall was thick, not with cloying perfume, but the metallic scent of annihilation and blood, pulverized stone choking the lungs of the terrified courtiers. She had been dragged there, a ghost of a queen in a whispery nightgown, utterly stripped of the jewels and silks that normally served as her armor. The memory of that chilling, echoing hall raised gooseflesh on her bare skin, and her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. When Asmodeus’s massive, possessive hand settled on her belly, his voice did not announce fatherhood, but boomed with the news of a lineage of conquest—proof of his terrifying, unassailable reign over Hell and his imminent dominance over all creation. She felt a cold, blinding terror that threatened to fracture her sanity.

His perfect, unyielding marble mask, the face of the Lord of the Stygia, shattered. She witnessed the horror first—a pure, annihilating wave of panic—before it vanished, replaced by a sudden, impossible warmth that stole her breath, a dangerous, vital sliver of hope. He knew, somehow, that this child was theirs, that their love had found a way to survive the crushing weight of Hell. The memory of that hope was a fresh, open wound. It was the one thing she could not bear to crush, and the very thing she must annihilate.

She closed her eyes, letting a final memory wash over her: her head resting against Levistus’s chest, the comforting, steady beat of his heart against her ear. She recalled the cold skin of his hand, spreading wide over her belly as he slowly fed her crushed, sweet berries, his lips kissing away the tension between her brows. His vast, strong arms had seemed capable of staving away all of damnation.

"My queen." The illusion cracked, leaving only the cold reality of Basileus’s presence.

A chill ran through her as Basileus entered, his gaunt, elegant form slicing the space like a blade of shadow cast by the flickering firelight. He carried a silver tray upon which rested a single, perfectly ripe pomegranate and a cup of spiced tea—the only things she could reliably hold down lately.

He did not speak, but his eyes, pools of a terrifying, possessive adoration, swept over her. They lingered on her face, then descended to her belly, a look so unnervingly intimate it made her skin crawl, yet held her captive. He placed the tray on a side table with a soft, careful clink, every movement too precise, too rigid.

“You must eat,” he murmured, voice a soft, chilling caress.

She watched the way his eyes darted to the doorway and back. His posture was tight, wired with the crippling certainty that betrayal is imminent. He was consumed by corrosive paranoia—having betrayed his own master, he lived in constant, paralyzing terror that another would serve him the same fate. The Morningstar heir was his greatest vulnerability. The irony brought a smile to her lips.

“How do I know you did not poison it?”

Basileus froze. She could almost see the frantic calculation of ruin flicker in his beautiful, enraged expression, weighing his loyalty against his self-preservation.

“I would never harm the king’s heir.”

She lifted the cup to her lips, the fragrant steam beckoning her to drink.

“We both know that is not true, Basileus.”

Basileus’s perfect composure finally fractured. His hand, resting on the silver tray, gave a minute tremor. "I serve the King," he insisted, the words strained through a jaw clenched with barely restrained rage. "The notion of treason regarding the heir is unthinkable."

Benzosia set the cup down, the soft, deliberate clink demanding silence. Her smile, slow and cutting, reached only her eyes. “I see you calculating the odds of your own demise even now. Let me simplify the equation: I am the Queen who carries the King’s most volatile symbol of power. Should any hair on my head, or any ounce of this child, be disturbed, your fate is sealed instantly. This time, your precarious existence, Lord Herald, hinges entirely on my continued health. It is a delicious irony, wouldn't you agree?”

With that, she brought the cup back to her lips and took a deep, deliberate sip of the warm, spiced tea, meeting his gaze over the rim. The victory was petty, private, and deeply satisfying. As the spiced warmth coated her tongue, she watched Basileus hold himself rigid, his face a perfect picture of bitter fury. The Queen, who had no true power, was utterly untouchable, and the glimpse of his utter powerlessness sent a delicious, giddy thrill through her chest.

“There are festivities tonight, My Queen,” Basileus cut in, his voice abruptly calm as he wiped the residue of panic from his face, replacing it with his usual veneer of cold devotion.

“There are festivities every night.” The celebrations had been ongoing since the Abyssal annihilation, the regents of the Hells basking in the spoils and the promise of dominion Asmodeus had delivered. These gatherings were tedious—a hollow display of forced loyalty—but Benzosia recognized their necessity. They were a useful distraction, feeding the King's ego and momentarily sating his thirst for adulation. Yet, she knew her husband; eventually, even Asmodeus would tire of the shallow praise and seek a new, more horrifying way to assert his absolute power.

“The king demands your presence.”

Benzosia’s calculated calm fractured, replaced by a sudden, metallic clarity. "Why?" The question was quiet, but her voice was a razor wire, demanding tactical information, not simply gossip. Weeks. Weeks of complete denial of even the smallest shred of her already limited freedom had fueled a bitter resentment in her chest. Basileus and Asmodeus had neutralized her perfectly: ensuring no message escaped to Zariel, choking all attempts to search for her brother Azadiel, and making any meeting with Levistus impossible without risking discovery. The forced isolation was a slow, deliberate suffocation, but beneath the tactical frustration lay the simple, agonizing ache: the craving to see Levistus, to confirm with her own eyes that he was safe.

“All of the regents have been summoned, this includes you.” Basileus’s voice was dry, the words landing with the quiet weight of a grenade. He waited, his viperous eyes searching her face for the smallest flicker of emotion, but she gave him the empty mask of Asmodeus’s Queen.

Inside, the truth detonated. Her mind, swift and ruthless, immediately grasped the tactical necessity of this meeting—the final, irrevocable break must happen tonight. Yet her soul ignited, hot and blinding, simply at the thought of seeing him again. Levistus. The name was a prayer and a battle cry combined, an immediate, vital injection of purpose. Her heart hammered against her ribs, demanding release, fueled by the sudden, horrifying truth that she had to destroy her love to save him.

The chill of the gilded chamber vanished, replaced by a cold, purposeful heat in Benzosia’s veins. The air, once thick with her own melancholy, now crackled with a silent, exquisite tension. She gave Basileus a single, sharp nod—a final dismissal that felt like snapping a leash—and turned to the gilded mirror.

“I shall attend if the king commands it.”

Her urgent bell brought the attendants—incubi and succubi whose radiant beauty was undercut by the subtle terror in their eyes. They moved around her like silent, gilded ghosts. She stood still, observing her reflection, which was now blurred by the fever of her purpose.

The gown they dressed her in was a creation of violent, beautiful gold, a heavy silk woven with threads that seemed to catch and hold the very heat of Hell. It felt less like a garment and more like armor. She watched as they brushed out her hair until it shone like spun gold before positioning the recently commissioned crown atop her head—a weight of power she did not possess, a circlet forged entirely of lies. She accepted the heavy collar of diamonds and blood-red rubies—each stone an eye watching her every breath—that they clasped around her throat. Every link, every stone, was a silent testament to her status as Asmodeus’s property, but she would wear them tonight as a clear, brutal signal of her allegiance, knowing Levistus would understand their message.

The walk to the Great Hall was a blur of mirrored walls and polished gold floors. The labyrinthine palace no longer intimidated her; it had become a familiar threat, one she no longer feared. As she walked, minor demons and lesser nobles dropped to their knees in reverence—or rather, reverence for the child she carried, their eyes wide with the chilling promise of the Morningstar heir. The grand doors swung open to a sensory assault. The air, already heavy with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, was thick with the hum of a thousand sycophantic voices. The hall itself was a cathedral of power, vaulted ceilings soaring into shadowed gold, crystal chandeliers blinding in their opulence, reflecting off armor and silk. It was a shimmering sea of courtiers and diplomats, a dazzling performance of false peace orchestrated around the spoils of the Abyss. Benzosia scanned past the faces, past the opulence, searching for one.

Then she saw him.

Levistus. He stood near a balcony, a pillar of stark, glacial indifference. His posture was a study in controlled fury, but his eyes—pools of glacial blue—were locked on her, burning with a cold intensity that mirrored the hellfire outside the palace walls. The air between them stretched, thrumming with weeks of unspoken questions, grief, and a longing that threatened to break through her carefully constructed walls. He can never know the truth. She repeated the words like a litany, a cold mantra to steel her resolve.

Asmodeus came to her side then, his presence a heavy weight of ownership. He clamped her arm with a possessive grip and smiled at the crowd, a perfect, benevolent ruler showing off his beautiful, pregnant queen. She feigned a soft laugh, a sound that felt brittle and foreign, and let him guide her toward the central dais. But as they passed a towering column, she felt a sudden, calculated dizziness.

She swayed, her hand flying to her head. "My king," she murmured, her voice laced with the perfect amount of frailty. "The heat... I fear I need a moment."

Asmodeus's smile did not waver, but his gaze sharpened with concern. "Basileus!" he boomed, summoning his Herald as if he were a servant. "See the Queen to the nearby terrace—she requires air."

Benzosia felt a quick, cruel surge of triumph. The ploy had worked perfectly. The terrace offered no reprieve from the suffocation below, but it was the calculated distraction she needed – close enough to him.

Benzosia gave a single, faint nod of thanks. Basileus, always vigilant, took her arm to lead her away. But as they moved through the crowd, she felt a sudden, brutal shift in temperature. A presence behind them.

“The Queen requires the cold,” Levistus’s voice was a baritone command that cut the noise like the snap of a whip. "I will see to her comfort, Basileus." The Lord of the Ice Realm stepped smoothly between them. Basileus spun, his face a study in veiled outrage, the protest dying in his throat. He knew his own rank was secondary to the perceived health of the King's Heir, and the fact that Levistus was the only one truly equipped to address a 'heat stroke' gave him a legitimate excuse to intervene. The Herald opened his mouth to protest, a flicker of cold defiance in his eyes, but Benzosia preempted him.

“I have seen more of your countenance today than I can possibly stand, Lord Herald,” she said, her voice sharp and low, though tinged with the manufactured exhaustion of her heat stroke. “Return to the King’s side and attend to your duties. Lord Levistus will suffice.”

Basileus's expression shifted instantly from outrage to cold, calculating relief. The risk of the Queen’s safety, and the King’s wrath, was temporarily transferred. He gave a sharp, immediate bow. "As the Queen commands." He vanished back into the crowd, visibly relieved to be rid of her.

Levistus took her arm. His touch was a shocking blaze against her skin, an immediate, electric validation of their forbidden bond. Without another word, Levistus pulled her toward a shadowed, empty column. He did not lead her through a concealed archway; instead, Levistus’s free hand rose, tracing a complex, shimmering sigil of black magic in the air. The sigil flared, consuming the darkness behind the column and reforming it into a portal—a swirling, silent gateway that hummed with a power Benzosia knew must have cost him dearly to conjure. He dragged her through the opening without protest from her, and the portal snapped shut behind them.

The realization of the cost of this desperate act—the dangerous energy spent just for this brief moment—nearly broke her resolution to betray him. He had risked everything for a private word. They had traveled, not through corridors, but to Eden itself. The air was instantly different: crisp, freezing, and carrying the impossible, faint scent of verdant, cold earth. She knew immediately where he had taken her: Eden. The secret place, the hidden garden of their impossible paradise, a place no fire could ever touch, tucked away in the very foundation of Hell, known only to them.

“You take too great a risk bringing us here now…”

The kiss that silenced her was feverish, demanding, and desperate. His vast, cold arms crushed her gold armor against his body. This was not the polite kiss of a courtier, but the raw, terrifying hunger of a man who believed he had lost everything. Her mind screamed stop, but her soul wept, and she kissed him back, pouring weeks of suffocating isolation, fear, and love into the desperate, final contact.

“Zosia,” He whispered her name against her lips in a hushed, fierce devotion before he pulled back, his eyes searching hers, his breath coming in ragged, visible plumes of frost. “Tell me the truth,” he demanded, his voice a furious, low whisper. “Tell me the child is ours. I saw your eyes in the hall that day—it is ours. I know it.”

“I cannot,” she gasped, her hands clinging to the lapels of his frozen coat.

He waited, breathless, giving her space to whisper the single word he desperately craved. But Benzosia pulled her arm away, the action sharp and final. She looked up at him, her heart shattering into a thousand, silent pieces as she delivered the cold, absolute lie that would save his life. Beneath the folds of her gown, her fingers clenched into a painful, white-knuckled fist.

“I am carrying Asmodeus’s heir,” she stated, the words scraping her throat dry. “My life is his, as is our child’s. We belong to him.”

His face went utterly still. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply looked at her, and in his glacial pools, the last flicker of desperate hope was extinguished, replaced by a deep, devastating emptiness. He had known she was lying about the paternity, but this was worse: this was her choosing to abandon him.

“You lie about the child, and I understand the reason for it,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out, but she flinched, pulling back from his touch.

Dear heavens, the sin of her lie was choking the life from her more than sulfur air ever could. She reached up and placed her hand over the rubies on her throat. “You want the truth? You want to know why this child cannot be yours, even in secret?”

He waited, the very air around them vibrating with the intensity of his silence.

“I used the Aborificent stone you gave me,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, cruel whisper. “I spiked your tea with it, the night before I conceived this heir. I ensured only Asmodeus could be the father.”

His eyes went wide, not with pain, but with utter, blinding shock. He looked at her with paralyzing realization, the coldness of Stygia draining from his face to leave only the ravaged features of a demon who had just lost everything.

“After all we shared,” he whispered, the words fractured and hollow. “You still chose to love him?"

“Yes.”

The finality of her betrayal hung in the air, a physical weight between them. His walls rebuilt themselves, stronger and colder than before, the color of his eyes bleeding to black as she watched. The Lord of Stygia, once her lover, now looked at her as a stranger—a cunning enemy who had played him for power. The only remaining emotion was the cold, hard glint of betrayal.

He turned, but did not immediately stride away. Instead, his gaze dropped to her hand, the one still clutching his frozen coat. He gently covered it with his own, his expression a mask of agonizing devotion. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, a final, reverent kiss that burned her skin.

"You may not love me, Zosia," he murmured, his voice now a desolate, wind-chilled sound, "but I will forever be devoted to you."

He released her, turning fully toward the dark passage. His figure dissolved back into the swirling black magic of the portal, leaving her utterly alone. Benzosia stood perfectly still in the dead silence of Eden. The heart she thought had shattered was now crushed to dust, the unbearable agony stealing her breath. She swayed, leaning momentarily against a frigid, ancient tree trunk, allowing the internal scream to echo unheard. But the sound of revelry bleeding through the distant closing of the portal pulled her back. She straightened, the glacial control snapping back into place. Her hand went to her belly, a silent vow to the life she had just condemned to a lie. 

With a trembling hand, she brushed away the tears, unwilling to let them betray her resolve. Her battle for the throne had just begun, and a long, arduous journey lay before her.