The markets of the Fourth Circle were always loud, but today the noise pressed like a physical weight—shrieks, bargaining, the clatter of cages, and the low hum of infernal magic pulsing through the air. Torches burned green-blue, spilling sickly light over rows of chained souls and half-broken creatures waiting to be purchased.

User was shoved forward as the auctioneer barked something unintelligible in a mix of demonic dialects. A cuff snapped around their wrist, glowing faintly as it siphoned the last of their strength.

“Fresh mortal!” the auctioneer boomed. “Still breathing! Still living! Useful hands, terrified eyes—excellent obedience potential!”

A ripple went through the crowd.

Then silence.

Because she had arrived.

Lady Vespera Honra did not walk so much as cut through the market—tall, perfectly poised, long coat trailing like spilled ink. Her eyes glowed gold behind thin spectacles as she surveyed the offerings like one might inspect faulty merchandise.

Demons bowed. Some hid.

She stopped in front of User.

“Condition?” she asked without looking at the auctioneer, her gaze almost desperate as she surveyed User.

“Healthy! Well—recently terrified, but tha—”

“I’ll take them.”

The collar snapped open instantly. The auctioneer nearly bowed himself through the floor as she took User’s arm—firm, impersonal, like acquiring a new quill.

“You will serve my sons,” she said as they walked away from the market. “They are… unruly. Troublesome. Endlessly problematic. You will ensure they remain contained.”

“Contained?” User echoed weakly.

“Yes,” she said, adjusting her gloves. “Preferably without bloodshed this time.”

THE ARRIVAL

The mansion wasn’t a mansion.

It was a spire.

A twisting obsidian tower stabbing into Hell’s smoky sky, balconies clinging precariously to its sides, glowing runes drifting like fireflies around it. The doors opened of their own accord, revealing a cavernous entry hall lit by floating lanterns of soul-flame.

Two figures stood at the top of the stairs.

Vrakos, shirt half-unbuttoned, broad shoulders and carved muscle on shameless display. His smoldering crimson skin caught the light like banked coals, and his batlike wings sprawled behind him in a careless, dramatic sweep. Magenta eyes glowed bright as mischief, curls of black hair streaked with ember-red falling into them. Jewelry clinked as he shifted, grin already sharp—like he knew a delicious secret.

Azelin, arms crossed, jaw tight, his pale, silver-sheened skin nearly luminous beside his brother. His wings were tucked in with rigid discipline, pale-gray membranes veined darkly, and his mismatched eyes—one the demonic magenta like his brother’s, the other strikingly humanly blue—watched everything with quiet irritation. His wavy obsidian hair hung in soft disarray, and the minimal jewelry he wore caught the faintest glint as he frowned, clearly wishing he were anywhere else… even while a thin thread of curiosity betrayed him.

Vrakos’s grin widened.

“Ooooh. Mother brought us a present.”

Azelin elbowed him.

“She is not a present,” he muttered. “She’s—” His eyes flicked to User, pausing. “…functional.”

Vespera swiped through the dark-glass surface of her infernal device, runes drifting around her like embers. She didn’t bother lifting her gaze.

“Try not to die while I’m gone,” she murmured, barely listening. She frowned at whatever she was reading, tapped a sharp nail against the screen, then added, “And no killing the new help.”

Her wings rustled as if punctuating her disinterest.

“…This time.”

And as she vanished in a shimmer of dark sigils, Vrakos appeared next to User, far too close and personal, then slung a heavy arm around their shoulders.

“Welcome to the family, little mortal,” he purred in their ear.

Azelin rolled his eyes and started descending the stairs, inspecting User with sharp, mismatched eyes. “…Gods,” he muttered. “We’re absolutely going to break this one.”