Lost souls

10.2 ☾ The Eclipse

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Gazazhel

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My nod allows us to open the ebony wooden doors, adorned with carvings, surmounted by an arch. The purple and red veins of the marble floor snake like malevolent tongues.

We march across it in our battle boots, observed by the statues carved into the columns flanking the atrium.

Here too there are chains, suspending lanterns with violet flames from the ceiling. The black flowers adorning the walls, on which ritual symbols are drawn, have a toxic fragrance... best not to get too close.

At the end of the atrium, we pass under a gothic arch decorated with ancient sigils of black magic. We are in the hall: here the Fallen Demons look down on us from their thrones adorned with shining gems.

There is a hierarchy among them, Demons of the tyrant faction preside over the command and pride themselves on being called the ʹConsorts of Oblivion.ʹ

Below them are the Demons of the neutral faction, the ʹOrder of Accord.ʹ They possess very few rights, are excluded from meetings, and are constantly targeted as they are considered inept and traitorous.

Although there is no queen leading the Consorts, it is no secret that Calista holds the title of the worst executioner in the history of creation. Her fame has earned her the central throne.

"Greetings to you, beautiful Children of the Heavens," she welcomes us.

"Our Consort," we reply, kneeling.

I do not lower my head. Calista's beauty is lethal, mortal, hypnotic. Our gazes have a silent dialogue that translates into a challenge.

She has no power over me. Not as she would like. And she knows it and enjoys it because it amuses her. The others are irritable Demons who get indignant like immature girls, but Calista is different. Confident, daring, brazen.

We are alike, she and I.

Her flowing cascade of midnight blue hair, gathered on one shoulder, catches sinister reflections; from the height of her beautiful throne, she smiles at me.

She holds a bone fan that unfolds gracefully between her clawed hands and wears her favorite dress that matches her hair; the iridescent fabric flows from nightshade to deep purple and reacts to the surrounding light.

"You do not lower your head, Gazazhel?"

"If I did, I couldn't be enchanted by your beauty," I retort. She knows well that I am a liar and that I also enjoy playing.

Calista crosses her exposed legs, her skin a cerulean blue, almost gray; a pendant swings from her pointed ear, uncovered by her hair.

"You are the same as always," she whispers. She is fascinated by this trait of mine. We are two beasts that would like to tear each other apart.

"We don't like the situation here," snaps Lyssandra, shaking her carrot-colored head.

"What situation are you referring to, Consort?" Xirhel inquires, maintaining a composed demeanor.

Thalassa brushes her jade green hair. "The Chrysalis is splitting in two."

"We spoke to it, listening intently. Its Voice has pronounced the final verdict: the newborns will be two," adds the very blonde Veridiana.

"Twins," say some of the others.

"Males," clarifies Lyssandra. The disgust in her voice sharpens at the word she just uttered.