Chapter eleven

The dungeon beneath the manor had been carved from black stone, damp and ancient. The walls wept with condensation, and the ceiling seemed to press low, as if the entire place were breathing slowly, heavily. There were no torches, only a single hanging lantern that swung slightly despite the lack of breeze.

Samael sat alone on the bottom step of the black stairwell, his elbow resting on his knee, feeding small strips of raw, glistening meat to the raven perched on his shoulder.

The bird tore through it eagerly, its beak clicking as it swallowed. The meat was... questionable. Pale. Red-veined. Likely human. Not that it mattered.

The raven... unnamed still... let out a low croak before resettling itself, feathers ruffling against the shoulder of his cloak. Samael didn't acknowledge it. His crimson gaze was locked forward.

On the platform.

A man knelt in chains.

Pale. Bloodied. Shirtless. His chest rising and falling too quickly, his mouth twitching. And branded across the left side of his chest, seared in flesh and scar tissue, was a spiral...

Not just any mark. A spiral shaped like an eye.

The man's skin was scorched around it, the

The mark of something older than politics and older than war.

Samael said nothing.

Beside him stood Silas, the butler—his accidental creation. A half-blood, turned only to save his life. Samael had always despised siring. Who knows what creature it'd turn out to be. But Silas… Silas had never disappointed. Even now, dressed with an immaculate cravat, standing too stiff and clean for a dungeon, Silas waited in silence.

He was still. Poised. Like a blade never quite put back in its sheath

Nicholas stood with arms crossed, looking every inch the debauched noble he was, though the sharp glint in his eye betrayed his mind was keen despite the jest he always carried in his voice.

Azrael stood at the other side, silent and tense. His arms were folded over his chest, and his jaw was clenched tightly enough to creak. His red eyes flickered toward the man kneeling at their feet, the prisoner.

Samael raised a brow. "He's still smiling?"

"Like a whore at a wedding," Nicholas muttered. "I'm beginning to think he enjoys this."

Azrael turned to the prisoner again, voice low and cold. "Who else wears the brand?"

The prisoner tilted his head to the side, lips parting slowly. "Many eyes. One vision."

Nicholas sneered. "That's the third riddle he's given. I swear if he says anything else about 'truth in shadow' or 'the one below,' I'll cut out his tongue just to enjoy the silence."

Azrael's glare flicked to him. "Would you stop making a performance out of it?"

"Well, someone has to. You're just standing there like you'd rather be anywhere else. Like with your beloved wife. "

Azrael glared.

Samael's voice cut through their face off. "He's not afraid."

Both men glanced back at him. The raven shifted on his shoulder, talons clicking on leather.

"Because he knows something," Samael added, dark gaze steady. "They all do."

Nicholas walked forward, crouching in front of the man, brushing his long coat behind him like a performer before the curtain call.

"Why don't we stop the riddles," Nicholas said with a grin, "and play a new game? It's called: I name someone, and you tell me if they've got that pretty little spiral carved into their chest."

The man didn't blink. He breathed in deeply through his nose, then exhaled, whispering, "The spiral sees all. The Eye sees it all."

Nicholas sighed. "Charming. We've asked politely. We've asked sternly. We've even let Azrael ask, and his face alone is torture."

Azrael drew a dagger, the silver of the blade gleaming dully in the firelight. He knelt beside Nicholas, bringing it level with the man's eye.

"The Eye?" he said flatly.

The prisoner's head tilted, he blinked once. And his smile deepened.

"You've peeked behind the curtain," he whispered. "But you do not yet see."

Nicholas made a disgusted sound. "Why are they always mad? Can't one cultist just be a tired bureaucrat trying to summon some half-assed demon to fund his gambling?"

"You want demons?" the prisoner rasped. "They're yet to come."

He began laughing... low, wheezing... and Samael stood at last, the bird fluttering once before settling again.

"I think we're done here," Samael said. "He won't break."

Nicholas rose and dusted off his knees. "Pity. I had a whole monologue planned."

Azrael glanced back to Samael. "Then what do we do with him?"

"You refuse to speak," He said. "And yet you bleed conviction. If it's loyalty, then say so. If it's fear, say that too. But stop wasting our time with riddles."

The man slowly raised his head, pale eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You're too late," he whispered. "The Eye has already chosen. You're only dust waiting to be brushed off the altar."

Azrael's jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the prisoner leaned forward and spat.

A thick glob landed on the polished leather of Azrael's boot.

Nicholas straightened, his amused posture snapping into something far more alert. Even Samael leaned slightly forward.

The raven cawed once, sharp and sudden.

Azrael didn't flinch.

He simply looked down at the spit sliding down the edge of his boot, then back at the man.

There was no expression on his face. Not rage. Not surprise. Only a clinical stillness, the kind found in predators just before they moved.

The next moment was swift.

Azrael's hand moved so fast it blurred, the sound of sword unsheathing. A sickening slash rang out as the prisoner's head snapped sideways before falling to the ground, his body crumpling like a rag doll.

The silence that followed was thick and unmoving.

Samael exhaled slowly. "Well," he muttered, "that's one way to answer a riddle."

Nicholas laughed, short and sharp. " What a waste if time."

Azrael didn't speak. He stood over the beheaded man, eyes cold, brushing his boot against the stone to wipe it clean. Not a hint of remorse.

The scent of scorched flesh still lingered as the torches along the dungeon walls flickered, their flames unsteady—uncertain. Somewhere behind them, the crackle of salt on hot stone whispered like embers devouring a secret.

Samael stood motionless by the base of the spiraling stairs, his gloved hand, smeared crimson, resting lightly on the polished hilt of his dagger. His raven flapped once on his shoulder before settling again, its glossy feathers glinting faintly in the low firelight.

Azrael was already halfway up the stairs, silent, brooding. The interrogation had left a foul taste in his mouth, though he said nothing.

Nicholas, ever the last to leave a room dripping in blood, leaned lazily against the wall, examining a speck of red that had splattered onto the cuff of his velvet coat.

"Remind me again why cultists never scream when they're supposed to," he muttered, flicking the spot off like an annoying insect.

Samael, without a word, turned to Silas who had begun preparing the ritual platform for cleansing.

And then, deliberately, Samael reached out... and placed his bloodied glove on Silas's immaculate black shoulder.

A stain bloomed instantly.

Silas flinched, barely, but the tick of his jaw betrayed him.

"You'll clean this place, as always," Samael said calmly, his tone dry. "Salt, fire, and a prayer, though I doubt the gods look down here anymore."

"Yes, My Lord," Silas murmured, his tone clipped.

Samael didn't remove his hand. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

"While you're polishing the stone and pretending to be unbothered by filth," he said softly, "keep an eye on the girl. The one with the unfortunate name."

Silas paused. "Crimson?"

Samael smirked faintly. " She seems to have a thing for wandering."

Silas's eye twitched at the mention of disobedience. "Would you like her punished?"

"No," Samael said, finally letting go of his shoulder with a wet pull of leather. "Not yet. Just… observe."

His voice turned thoughtful. "She doesn't behave like a thrall. And I'd like to know why."

"Crimson?" a voice echoed down from the stairs above.

Nicholas.

He leaned over the stone railing, grinning like a drunk wolf.

"The little red haired?" he asked. " That's just like naming a deer 'stew'. Her mother was manifesting."

Samael arched a brow.

Nicholas spoke, swaggering down a few steps. "Crimson. Red. Blood. Meal. Delicious. Honestly, it's like her mother was writing a menu item."

Azrael, from further up the stairs, exhaled harshly. "Could you be any more tasteless?"

Samael glanced at Silas then, finally, he ascended the stairs, raven still perched like a crown of ink on his shoulder.

And below, in the quiet hum of the dying torches, Silas looked down at the blood staining his pristine sleeve, expressionless.

But his eyes narrowed.

He would watch the girl.