Chapter Twenty-one: Declarations

Chapter Twenty-one: Declarations

The heat of the harem bath was a physical presence, wrapping around Benzosia’s limbs like liquid silk. Steam, thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine and myrrh, kissed her cheeks, but it was the phantom scent of moon-lilies, clean and impossible, that she chased in her mind. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a languid smile touching their corners as she let her head fall back against the cool, polished onyx. A shiver, not of cold, traced a path down her spine. The ghost of his touch. She could still feel the reverent pressure of his lips against her skin, the memory a brand of heat deep in her core that had nothing to do with the scalding water. For the first time in an age, she felt… whole. Not the hollowed-out vessel Asmodeus held in his arms, but full. Alive. It was a dangerous, secret sun she now carried in the heart of Hell’s eternal twilight.

A sharp, disdainful cough shattered the tranquility. Benzosia’s eyes snapped open. Basileus stood by the edge of the bath, his arms crossed, his face a mask of thunderous rage. The steam seemed to recoil from the sheer cold fury radiating from him.

“Enjoying a leisurely soak, my Queen?” he asked, his voice tight, each word a carefully aimed dart. “While the rest of the court attends to its duties?”

So much for peace. Benzosia let out a slow, deliberate breath, refusing to rise to his bait. She sank a little deeper into the water, the heat a welcome shield. “I was unaware my bathing schedule was a matter of state, Basileus.”

“Everything you do is a matter of state!” he snapped, taking a restless step closer. He was agitated, practically vibrating with a need for confrontation. “Your recent… excursion to Minauros. Your sudden interest in the welfare of the harem. Do you think these things go unnoticed?”

“I am the Queen of Hell, Basileus,” she stated, her voice calm, a stark contrast to his barely contained fury. “I have an interest in all the realms, and in the loyalties of their lords. The court does not need to sanction my every move.” She paused, letting the words settle, a direct challenge to his perceived authority. “And you, as Herald, would do well to remember that. You may be the King’s voice, but you are not the King. Should my husband object to me performing my duties as infernal queen, I will hear it from his lips, not yours.”

“I am the Herald..”

“And I am the queen.”

For a moment, he was speechless. The mask of polite deference slipped, revealing the raw, ambitious fury beneath, his eyes narrowing to slits. Then, just as quickly, the mask was back in place, the charming, concerned friend reappearing with a speed that was sickeningly practiced.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my presumption.” He offered a smile that was all teeth. “I merely worry for you. We both want the same thing, do we not? For our King to be happy. For you to be safe and well, so that you may bear him a healthy, powerful heir.” He stepped closer still, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We could be such allies, you and I. Friends, as we once were. Working together, for the good of the throne.”

The memory of his betrayal—the sight of him on Asmodeus’s desk, the taste of the poison in her wine, his triumphant smile as Gadreel fell—rose like bile in her throat. The trust she had once placed in him felt like a fool’s fantasy, a relic of a naive angel who no longer existed.

“You speak of friendship, Basileus?” she asked, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet. She met his gaze, letting him see the cold, unforgiving fire in her own, the abyss of his treachery reflected there. “I did consider you a friend. A confidante. But unlike love, which is capable of blooming even in barren soil, friendship can only be built on a foundation of trust.” She rose from the water in a single, fluid motion, water sluicing from her form. “And you were the one who chose to shatter it into dust.”

She turned her back on him, reaching for a silk robe. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She expected him to leave, defeated.

“The King has summoned you to the throne room,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “Immediately.”

Benzosia froze, the silk of the robe suddenly feeling like a funeral shroud in her hand. The world narrowed to a single, silent point of annihilation. Discovered. The word was not a thought, but a physical impact, a shard of ice driving into her gut. He knows. He knows about the garden, about Levistus, about her betrayal. He knows. Her heart, moments ago languid with the memory of a stolen paradise, now became a frantic, trapped bird, hammering against the cage of her ribs, each beat a death knell. The heat of the bath vanished, leeched away by a tomb-like chill that had nothing to do with the air and everything to do with the certainty of ruin. But… a flicker of logic, a desperate spark in the overwhelming darkness. Basileus. The thought was an anchor. He would have let the news drip like poison from that perfect, cruel mouth, watching me break before I even reached the throne room. He would have gloated. The frantic terror did not recede, but it sharpened, honed by a new, chilling question: if not for her treason, then for what fresh hell had she been summoned?

She turned, her spine a rod of ice. “Very well.” The words were chips from a glacier. As she rose from the water, harem attendants materialized from the shadows, their eyes fixed on the marble floor. Their fear of Basileus was a scent in the air, sharper than the funeral oils they worked into her skin with trembling hands. They dressed her in silk the color of dried blood, the heavy fabric settling on her shoulders like a yoke. As they fastened a cold, heavy necklace, her own eyes met a stranger’s in a polished obsidian panel. The Queen of Hell stared back. Benzosia straightened, the terror in her gut freezing into a small, hard stone of resolve. “I am ready.”

The walk to the throne room was the longest of her life. The labyrinthine corridors of the Malsheem, usually just disorienting, now felt like the tightening coils of a serpent. Every shadow seemed to hold a silent accuser, every flicker of torchlight a mocking grin. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs: He knows, he knows, he knows. She thought of Levistus, of the impossible hope that had bloomed between them in Eden. She thought of Azadiel, off chasing ghosts on their behalf. Had her carelessness doomed them all?

She didn’t walk into a silent, waiting judgment. She walked into a brawl.

The throne room was a pressure cooker of dissent. The air was thick with rage and the sharp, metallic tang of drawn power. She was only vaguely aware of Asmodeus yanking her to his side, his grip a bruising assertion of ownership as he forced her onto the smaller throne beside his. The lords and ladies of Hell were shouting, their voices a cacophony of fury.

“Blasphemy!” Mammon’s voice, sharp with avarice and a rare, genuine fear, cut through the din. “You are not merely hoarding resources, Asmodeus, you are damming the River of Souls itself! The Abyss will not stand for this!”

“Let them rage,” Asmodeus retorted from his throne, his voice a low, contemptuous rumble. He swirled a goblet of wine, his boredom a deliberate, infuriating performance. “The chaotic rabble of the Abyss has always coveted our order, our power. Their envy is as predictable as it is tiresome.”

This is what he summoned me for? To witness this madness? Benzosia’s fear began to curdle, replaced by a hot, simmering anger. History was a teacher, and through it she understood the chaos she was witnessing, this was the beginning of an uprising, a rift capable of tearing apart the Realm her brother had built from his flesh, bones and blood.

“This is not envy, you conceited prick, it is a declaration of war!” Zariel, Archduchess of Avernus, slammed a gauntleted fist on the great table, the sound echoing like a death knell. Her eyes burned with the cold, hard light of a thousand battlefields. “My realm, Avernus, is the frontline. It is my legions who will bleed first when the demonic hordes come screaming for the souls you deny them. And they will come.”

Before Asmodeus could offer another dismissive retort, a tremor shook the very foundations of the palace. It was not the familiar shudder of Hell’s shifting landscapes, but a violent, sickening lurch, as if reality itself were being torn asunder. A high, piercing shriek, a sound of a million voices screaming in unison, echoed from beyond the palace walls. It was a psychic wave of pure, undiluted rage that felt like a physical pressure on her skull, making the jewels on her gown vibrate with a low, dissonant hum.

The great obsidian mirrors that lined the hall flared with a violent, blood-red light. The polished surfaces warped, the reflections of the terrified court twisting into grotesque parodies before dissolving into a swirling, chaotic vortex. From the depths of one mirror, a figure stumbled forth—a bone devil, one of Zariel’s scouts, its form horrifically maimed. Its chitinous plates were cracked and weeping black ichor, one of its wings was torn to shreds, and its eyes burned with a frantic, terrified light.

“My lady… Zariel…” it rasped, its voice like grinding bone, before collapsing to the floor. “The gate… the River of Souls… it boils… they are coming…”

Through the mirror, Benzosia stared into the throat of the Abyss. It was not an army; it was a plague given form, a tidal wave of pure, unmaking chaos that vomited the stench of primordial rage and soured reality itself. Her breath caught as she watched a churning, endless sea of gnashing teeth, splintered horns, and burning, hate-filled eyes surge forward. Hulking, multi-limbed brutes tore lesser demons apart with a sound like wet canvas ripping, their guttural roars a bass note in a symphony of annihilation. Above the carnage, the sky was blotted out by vast, leathery-winged horrors, their screeches a physical assault on the senses. 

A wave of panic threatened to pull her under. Her eyes darted across the room, desperate for an anchor, and found Levistus. She gave him a wide-eyed, terrified look, a silent scream for help. He met her gaze, his expression a mask of cold iron, but for a fraction of a second, his eyes softened with a look of fierce reassurance before he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was enough. She took a shuddering breath, the silent message received: I am here. Face this.

The portal was a bleeding wound in reality, and the chaos that spilled from it was not a battle, but a plague. Benzosia felt it in her bones, a sympathetic vibration of cosmic wrongness. This wasn't strategy or politics; it was the shriek of a fundamental law being torn apart. The ancient, unspoken pact between the Hells and the Abyss, a balance as old as damnation itself, had been shattered by the monumental pride of a single being. The festering wound of the Blood War, a conflict that had simmered for eons, had just been ripped open. She could feel the first tremor of the coming slaughter, a sickening lurch in the fabric of the realms, the first note in a symphony of annihilation about to begin.

Benzosia felt a wave of nausea. She saw not just armies, but souls—the countless mortal souls trapped in Asmodeus’s gems, now the casus belli for a war that would drown the realms in blood. He has pushed Zariel's realm, my brother's home, to the brink of annihilation for his own pride. Her gaze flew to Asmodeus. He was no longer bored. He was watching the vision in the mirror with a strange, almost rapturous light in his eyes. This was not a disaster to him. This was a grand, glorious new game.

“So,” Asmodeus purred, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his perfect features. “The dogs of the Abyss have come to bark at our gates.” He rose from his throne, his obsidian wings unfurling to their full, magnificent span. A bone-deep cold radiated from him, sucking the heat from the room, making the torches gutter and the lords of Hell shiver.

“Zariel,” he commanded, his voice now ringing with the absolute authority of a king at war. “Return to Avernus. Mobilize your legions. Hold the line. I want their pathetic tide broken against your fortress walls.”

“They are our own…”

“This is an order!”

Zariel’s eyes blazed. She gave a sharp, curt nod, her expression a mask of cold fury. Without another word, she turned and strode from the hall, her every step a promise of the violence to come.

Asmodeus then turned his gaze upon the rest of the terrified court. “The rest of you will return to your realms and prepare your forces. This war will be fought not just on the plains of Avernus, but in every shadow, every soul. The Hells will unite under my banner, and we will show the Abyss the true meaning of power.” A flash of terror, sharp and personal, lanced through Benzosia. Levistus. Will he be sent to fight?

He looked at Benzosia then, his gaze a physical touch, a possessive caress that made her skin crawl. The triumphant gleam in his eyes was not just that of a king, but of a collector who had just acquired the most priceless, brutal backdrop to display his favorite jewel. He saw this war not as a threat, but as a grand, violent stage on which to showcase her as he burned the realms.

“I must oversee the war council,” he murmured, his voice a low promise of the night to come. “Go to bed, Benzosia. Wait for me there.”

It was a command that turned her marital bed into another battlefield, another front in a war she was only just beginning to understand. A shiver of pure revulsion traced its way down her spine, but she ruthlessly suppressed it, forcing a pleasing, placid smile to her lips. “As you wish, my king.” The words tasted like ash.

As the lords of Hell scrambled to obey, tearing open portals to their own realms while others assembled for council, Levistus moved to Benzosia’s side. His first, instinctual glance wasn't at the retreating lords or the chaotic portal, but at her, his eyes a quick, sharp assessment of her state. The air between them crackled with unspoken dread.

“This is madness,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rising din of war preparations.

“It is his grand design,” Levistus replied, his voice a low, grim murmur. “He’s finally provoked the war he’s always craved.” His gaze lingered on her, a universe of unspoken longing passing between them in a single, stolen heartbeat. Be safe, his eyes seemed to say, a silent, desperate plea. Then he was gone, swept up in the tide of departing lords, leaving her with the phantom warmth of his concern and the cold, hard reality of her own impending battle.

From the distant plains of Avernus, carried through the still-open portal, came a new sound—the deep, brazen call of war horns, a sound that promised an eternity of bloodshed. The Blood War had begun.

The echo of war horns chased her back to her chambers, each brazen call a frantic pulse in her veins. The opulent room, with its silks and gold, felt less like a cage and more like a tomb. She moved to the ornate cabinet, the phantom warmth of Levistus’s gaze a stark, painful contrast to the chilling task ahead. Her hands, she noted with a detached sense of surprise, were perfectly steady. Her purpose was a cold, hard stone in her gut.

She retrieved a carafe of deep, blood-red wine and two crystal goblets, placing them on a silver tray. Her reflection in the polished silver was a stranger—a queen with eyes of ice, a soul full of rage, and a heart full of treason.

Her fingers closed around the small, cold weight of the contraceptive stone in the hidden pocket of her gown. It felt like holding the death of a thousand possible futures. With a final, heavy sigh, she dropped the stone into one of the goblets. It made no sound.

She poured the wine. The crimson liquid hit the crystal, a swirling vortex that consumed the dark secret in his cup. Her breath hitched, held tight in her chest as she watched the stone vanish, melting into the depths like a drop of ink into a midnight sea, leaving no trace. She had seen the healers use a mere pinch of this rock for their grim work, a temporary measure. This was no pinch. This was an absolute. The death of his line, the end of his legacy found in a silent, potent poison which now waited for its king.

She placed the tray by the bed, a silent offering to a monster. This wasn’t just a denial of his heir. This was a declaration of her own. The war had come to the Hells, but tonight, in the quiet of her chambers, Benzosia had declared a silent war of her own.