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“I have a proposition for you.” He reached a hand down to the sleepy flames, letting them crawl into it. Their heat pricked his palm so severely, that despite his sharp inhale of surprise, he felt reassured of their strength. They’d be able to help him complete the task his father had given him.

The fire sprites huddled together, eyeing him warily.

He said, “What if I were to offer you and your siblings the distinct privilege of spending the rest of your lives working for the most powerful beings of Hell? In return, I can offer you all the tinder you can dream of.” He gave them a considering look, as if he were unsure and was about to rescind his offer. “Hm. It would require fire sprites with immense power, though.”

The flames whistled at each other before turning to him and as one, bowing to his offer. Infant fire sprites were especially amenable to bargaining as long as they felt like they were being given special treatment. He curled his hand around them for protection, before he carried them to his home.

His voice was firm, but reassuring as he laid out their future. They would begin in the living room with him and his brother, and when they were strong enough, he’d sneak them into the fireplaces of the other Grand Dukes of Hell so that they could spy for his father, Asmodeus, periodically.

When he’d tucked the fire sprites into his living room fireplace, Oleander scraped a hand down his face. Another wave of nausea roiled through him. He swallowed down the unrelenting feeling of guilt. Not for the last time did he wonder when he’d feel satisfaction when making these bargains. He cracked the kitchen window open and grabbed a glass bottle of calmative cordial from the windowsill, drinking it swiftly.

In long, restless strides he rushed from his home, jerking his thin coat tightly around himself.

When he’d moved in with Hemlock, he’d created a door that connected him directly to his childhood bedroom, which would have been the quicker way to get to his old home. That way, however, wouldn’t have let him work off the unsettled energy rising in him. So he chose instead to trek once more through the snow. He used the short walk to prepare himself. Maybe this time his father would actually be pleased with him.

Brightmore manor was built around the last standing Obsidian Capstan; a tree so uniformly sable it was as if a giant hand had dipped it in ink. It drew massive amounts of untapped magic into its wide trunk—the very power that had compelled Asmodeus to build the manor around it.

He wrenched open the front door and slipped inside. Dark shadows blanketed him, sliding over the polished marble floors and cutting through the few lights that lined the walls. His eyes were still adjusting to the dimness when a hand reached out, pulling him through a doorway.

Oleander found himself in a room lined with windows; cool moonlight poured through them, illuminating a bedraggled woman, her eyes already turning that dreaded milky white as her gaze turned distant. Horrified, but unable to look away, he watched once more as madness took over his mother.

Her voice was a scrape across gravel—the kind of hoarsed strain that comes after hours spent screaming. She said, “Your ego will bring you to the edge of flames before it finally breaks you.”

Oleander sighed, patting his mother’s arm affectionately. “Thank you for the warning. I will keep that in mind.”

His mother, Laurel had been mad for as long as he could remember and while there were times growing up when he’d resented this, mostly he just wanted her to be healthy again—for her own sake even more than his.

His breath hitched as he took in her torn clothes and unkempt hair. It didn’t matter that this was how she always looked. Oleander wanted to pull her into a tight embrace. Fix her, somehow. All he’d ever known was Laurel neglecting herself, her eyes glowing opalescent, saying nonsensical things, and never knowing when she’d next turn up.

Tears streaked down her face and his hand twitched; before he could stop himself he laid it softly on her shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, sure, but he couldn’t stop the need buried deep inside of him to feel in some way connected to her. To comfort her.

“Don’t go, Oleander,” she begged. “I see a shadow coming for you. Selfish. Consuming. Don’t let it in. Don’t go.”

She reached up, cupping his face with trembling hands, pressing her forehead to his. Her words repeated in a desperate chant. “My son. My son. My son. Don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

For a long moment, Oleander closed his eyes, feeling her frantic pulse against his skin. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm only visiting Father. There's nothing to worry about,” he said softly, pulling away from her grip.

“Come visit me sometime.” He gave her his best reassuring smile. “Any other time, you know I’d love to see you.”

He stepped away from her then, even as a lump formed in his throat. Then he was moving through the murky hallways once more. Long candles lit with everflame cast flickering light around him as he put a hand out to the nearby wall, steadying himself. His head fell forward and he focused on his breathing until he felt stabile enough to continue on. Slowly, his gaze rose and he took in his surroundings, realising with a start that he was outside the room where his siblings performed soul reapings.

What had Hemlock and Wisteria done to convince their father to let them become soul reapers? What must he still do to earn that honour? He considered sneaking in, just this once, to see what it was like.

He decided against it, in the end. Instead he opted to walk further on towards his father’s office, hoping Asmodeus was there working.

Only.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the faint outline of a door shimmering into view. There’d never before been a door here, of that he was certain. Carefully, he turned to face the door. There was some sort of powerful ward, set upon this door that had apparently weakened. Even as he stared at it, his eyes begged to rove on. His legs urged him to walk anywhere else. He almost did keep walking, because he had not come here to investigate secret rooms in his childhood home.

Except, this would likely be his only chance to see what his father was attempting to hide, and well, the door was slightly ajar. It would be poor form not to take a quick peek around.

A scarlet light shone through the crack of the open door and his father’s laughter drifted out. Trepidation roiled through him, but still he moved towards it. If his father was somewhere beyond this door, he could pretend the ward had dropped completely—and that he hadn’t even known he wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d heard his father’s voice, after all.

Or perhaps Asmodeus would appreciate his ingenuity.

With that thought, he pushed through the doorway before he could give himself another chance to hesitate, then moved silently down the dimly lit staircase.

Rolling his shoulders back, he carved his face into self-assured arrogance as he moved towards his father’s voice.