Calla

I tugged her tiny hand with me, weaving through the dense crowd of nobles who were too busy pretending not to notice us to actually notice us.

Like a true professional thief, I slipped us past the velvet rope that separated the ballroom from the great double doors leading outside.

The second the doors closed behind us, I inhaled deeply.

Freedom.

 Cool evening air, scented with roses and something vaguely minty.

I dramatically threw my arms wide open to the night sky.

"Finally!" I declared, as if I had just escaped from the deepest dungeon of Hell.

 (Which, ironically, I had done once. This was easier.)

Calla blinked up at me, half-worried, half-amused.

"This way!" I grinned, grabbing her hand again and barreling toward the gardens.

The Cattivo Estate gardens were... obscene.

 Row upon row of flowering hedges, marble fountains spitting water into the air like drunken old men, arched trellises heavy with vines.

 Somewhere, a quartet was playing string music far too dramatically for a children's birthday party.

The marble paths glistened under floating magic lanterns, casting warm halos of light over beds of riotous flowers.

I led her to a quiet little alcove tucked away behind a curtain of wisteria vines.

Safe. Hidden. Perfect.

Calla finally tugged lightly on my hand, slowing me down.

"I-I'm not supposed to leave the party..." she mumbled.

I turned to her, putting on my most serious expression. (Which, granted, at five years old, still looked mostly like a grumpy kitten.)

"Calla," I said solemnly, "sometimes... you have to break the rules."

She gasped, scandalized.

I gave her a crooked little grin.

"Only the boring rules," I amended quickly. "Not the ones like 'don't jump off the roof' or 'don't eat strange mushrooms.' Those are important."

Her lips twitched.

 A smile.

 Tiny. Fragile.

 But real.

We flopped onto a low stone bench together, the vines swaying gently overhead, the sound of distant laughter muffled by leaves.

For a long moment, we just sat.

 Listening to the wind.

 Watching the stars blink awake.

Finally, she turned to me, voice so soft I almost missed it:

"You're very brave."

I blinked.

Was this... sarcasm?

No, wait — she meant it seriously.

Five-year-old me was not prepared for serious compliments.

I scratched the back of my head sheepishly.

"Nah," I said, because being humble is what you do when you're obviously amazing. "I'm just... practiced."

"Practiced at what?" she asked, tilting her head.

The motion made her hair tumble over her shoulder like a river of caramel.

I shrugged. "Getting out of boring stuff."

And wars. And betrayals. And catastrophic power struggles between infernal kingdoms.

 But that was neither here nor there.

"You looked very... princely," she said after a moment.

Princely.

I choked internally.

Princely.

Me.

 The Lord of the Nine Hells.

 The Prime Sovereign of the Abyss.

Now downgraded to "princely."

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Still, I smiled at her. (Because even I wasn't heartless enough to crush her innocent view of me.)

"Thanks," I said. "You looked like a fairy."

She blushed furiously, ducking her head.

Score.

Internal Monologue Scoreboard:

 Fuoco – 2

 World – 0

"So," I said, swinging my legs casually, "what brings you to this den of boredom?"

"My father is... Lord Cassalan," she said, whispering the name like it was something shameful.

I racked my brain.

Cassalan, Cassalan...

 Oh, right.

 Minor noble family. Good name, bad luck. They were rich enough to attend, but politically about as important as decorative doorknobs.

"Sounds fancy," I said, straight-faced.

She giggled, covering her mouth quickly like it was a crime.

"And you?" she asked shyly. "You're the Duke's son, right?"

"One of them," I said with a shrug. "My mother's the third wife."

She frowned slightly. "Does that mean you're... less important?"

I snorted.

"If anything," I said, smirking, "I'm the most interesting."

She giggled again, a little more freely now.

Good.

 I hated seeing kids that young already scared of the world.

She plucked a petal from a nearby rose and twirled it between her fingers.

"I don't really like parties," she admitted.

I gasped dramatically, clutching my heart.

"You too?!"

She laughed properly this time.

"They're so noisy," she continued, encouraged, "and everyone wants something."

I nodded sagely.

"That's because nobles are like crows," I said gravely. "They see something shiny and immediately start plotting how to steal it."

She stared at me with wide eyes.

Then she laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.

Mission: successful.

"I don't know how to be like them," she confessed after a minute, quieter.

I studied her carefully.

She wasn't weak.

Just... soft.

The kind of softness the world either crushed or turned to steel.

"You don't have to," I said simply. "You just have to survive."

She blinked.

"You survive by smiling when you have to, bowing when you must, and laughing inside your head when they all trip over their own fancy shoes," I said.

"That's... awful," she whispered.

"But accurate," I said cheerfully.

She shook her head, half laughing, half horrified.

We sat for a while longer, passing petals back and forth like tiny treasures, trading jokes and stories about silly servants, ridiculous etiquette rules, and weird noble names.

(Seriously. Someone out there was named Bartholomew von Snuffleworth. I was not making that up.)

At some point, I noticed the way Calla's eyes lit up when she talked about flowers.

She loved them.

She spoke of each kind like they were friends — petunias, foxgloves, nightshade.

Deadly ones too, I noted, impressed.

Maybe she wasn't so fragile after all.

"You should have your own garden one day," I said.

She shook her head immediately.

"My father says flowers are a waste unless they make money."

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw a different dimension.

"Tell your father he's wrong," I said loftily. "Real power is making beautiful things that don't make money."

She tilted her head, considering.

"Besides," I added, grinning, "I bet if you grew a carnivorous flower, he'd change his mind."

She gasped.

"I could!" she whispered, delighted. "Like... a rose that eats rude guests!"

I burst out laughing.

"Exactly!" I said. "We'll call it the Baroness-eater!"

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bench.

We were still giggling helplessly when footsteps crunched on the gravel nearby.

Millie appeared, looking faintly exasperated and mostly relieved.

"There you are, young master!" she scolded gently. "You can't just vanish like that!"

"Technically," I said, holding up a finger, "we didn't vanish. We just relocated."

Millie huffed but her eyes were fond.

She noticed Calla then and her expression softened.

"Hello, little lady," she said kindly.

Calla shrank back instinctively, then peeked up at Millie's warm smile.

"Hi," she whispered.

Millie turned back to me, hands on hips.

"Your father will want you to cut the cake soon," she said.

Ugh.

Ceremonial cake cutting.

 Almost as bad as ceremonial executions.

 (Except sweeter. And less bloody.)

I stood reluctantly, brushing off my trousers.

"Well, Calla," I said grandly, "I must return to my adoring public."

She giggled.

"But," I added, kneeling slightly to meet her eyes, "thank you for making this the best part of my party."

She blushed scarlet.

Millie led me away with a hand on my shoulder.

As we walked back toward the blinding lights and suffocating crowds, I glanced back.

Calla was still sitting on the bench, twirling a petal between her fingers, watching me go.

A little ember of warmth flickered in my chest.

Not the infernal fire I was used to.

Something gentler.

Something... more human.

I grinned to myself.

Maybe this mortal life wouldn't be so boring after all.