The weak light did little more than cast a sharper gloom, a fitting backdrop for Her Majesty's procession. Queen Luna… a vision of intricate black lace and polished jet beads… seemed to draw the feeble light into herself a single sharp detail in the hazy square. The thick air heavy with the scent of charred incense and forge-smoke parted for her before closing again in her wake the iron-tang of the ever-weeping stones a perfumed note to her passage.
At her flanks the two princes were stark sentinels. First Prince Valerius, his face a mask of regal impassivity scanned the rooftops, his hand never far from the hilt of his sun-metal sword. The second Prince Kaelen, younger and more guarded than his brother, wore his tension in the set of his jaw, his eyes darting through the crowd as if expecting a threat to leap from the shadows at his Queen's feet.
They halted at the edge of the central square as the Criers of Deeds took their places on ossified pulpits of fused demon bone. The Crier's voices were not raised in celebration but in a monotonous… terrifying litany. They recited the names of the fallen from the night's skirmishes. Valerius listened… a necessary duty, his expression unreadable. Kaelen flinched minutely as the Crier described a recent excision in chillingly clinical detail: a shadow-stalker purged from the baker's daughter... This was not news; it was a reminder of a sermon whose only text was vigilance and whose only prayer was survival.
Queen Luna's gaze did not waver from the Criers. The saintly effigies that lined the street seemed to watch her in turn their smooth featureless faces turned not toward the square but toward her. The offerings at the saint's feet now bunches of bitter rue, vials of salt, and nails forged on a sanctified anvil seemed to smoulder more fiercely for her presence… their smoke twisting into the complex shapes of binding runes before dissipating against the black silk of her dress.
A voice chirped from behind her, bright and sudden compared to the harsh and gloomy kingdom. "Luna!"
Luna turned to find Aamon practically vibrating with excitement having appeared as if from nowhere. His spiked tail carved happy frantic circles in the air behind him.
"Eight days! It's been eight whole days since I saw you. I counted! Do you have a present? In my mother's story, royalty always gives the knight a present."
His spiked tail shot straight up like an exclamation point, a sure sign he was about to erupt with an eager suggestion.
"Yes dearie, I got you a present, it isn't something I'm giving you from the kindness of my heart... I need you to be alive to kill that succubus."
She handed Aamon a perfect miniature cat's paw, crafted from solid gold. The pads were delicately textured and it was attached to a fine chain of white gold. It was an object of immense silent power. She let it dangle from her fingers for a moment, the priceless trinket catching the witchfire light before leaning forward and dropping it into Aamon's waiting hands.
"Wow~ this is so cool!!! What does it do? Is it magic? Is it worth a lot? Actually, I'll never sell it! It will be my prized possession, from a queen on my travels!"
Aamon started turning it over and over. The questions tumbled out in an excited rush before he clutched it to his chest making a decision.
He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with the sheer honor of it all overwhelming. In his mother's stories, only the bravest knights received gifts from royalty. He fumbled with the chain, his fingers clumsy with excitement. He managed to loop it securely onto the tail of his dragon pendant, the gold paw clinked softly against the silver dragon.
He didn't stay to bask in the queen's presence a moment longer; the need to show Ciel, without a second thought he turned on his heel and darted out, a blur of motion.
He burst into the inn, where the smell of stew and ale was a welcome assault after the constant smell of sulfur and burning flesh. Betty was balancing three tankards, her eyes widening as Aamon zipped past her but nobody batted an eye, all eyes were on Queen Luna as she glided forward… an island of serenity in the bustling room. The entire room seemed to hold its breath but the Queen ignored the stunned silence, moving with an otherworldly grace to a shadowed table in the far corner. Her two sons took positions at the entrance. Their presence effectively sealing the room, their postures making it clear no one was to leave or approach.
"My friend, loook! Look!"
Aamon skidded to a halt in front of Ciel, she was methodically eating a bowl of stew. He thrusted the pendant forward, the new golden paw swinging wildly against the dragon's tail.
"I have a bright trinket from the queen… I think it's a cat paw? I met a cat once, it scratched my eye. Oh, and I guess the kittens are cats too?"
Ciel did not look at the pendant, her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. Her entire focus was locked past Aamon… on the Queen who had settled silently on the adjacent table. watching them with the placid interest of a goddess observing ants. After a long… tense moment… Ciel's eyes slowly, reluctantly dropped to the gleaming gift.
"It's… very shiny, friend…"
Ciel's voice was a low, carefully measured thing… stripped of all its familiar warmth. Her long, abyssal-elven ears were positioned back slightly and her pink sapphire eyes remained fixed on the queen with an unblinking intensity that bordered on hostility.
She didn't elaborate she didn't need to. The 'it' was the gothic Lolita queen herself, a vision of black lace and porcelain doll-like perfection that felt profoundly out of place among the rough-hewn wooden tables.
"Now, Aamon… sit, we have to talk. As good as you'd be dead… I'd rather Sayerra… the Succubus of Sloth… were the one to die."
Queen Luna commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. Aamon's huge, leathery wings gave an anxious rustle as he cast a longing look toward Betty. She was across the bar, ladling steaming stew into bowls. The almost motherly innkeeper met his gaze with a subtle, reassuring nod, with that he reluctantly folded his tall frame onto the chair next to Ciel. His spiked, bony tail thumped against the chair leg with a series of sharp tock… tock… tock… sounds, chipping away at the old wood.
"Sayerra? That's her name? It's pretty. What exactly is she doing wrong? I can't just hurt someone for no reason, even if it's to be a knight… Sir Aldric wouldn't."
Aamon asked, his demonic features scrunched in innocent curiosity. Queen Luna's painted lips, the color of fresh blood, curled into a smile that didn't quite reach her ancient eyes… eyes that held decades of shadows far too old for her sixteen year old facade. With a deliberate graceful motion she laid her fan upon the table. Its silver ribs were crafted into intricate spiderwebs. They glinted with a sinister light catching the flicker of the candle flames as if snaring them. "Like Sir Aldric, you say?" she murmured. Her voice had a sweet, melodic chime that felt like a trick.
"Oh, dearie… you are in for a story. Sayerra was no common tyrant. Her rule was not held with an iron fist, but with a velvet chain of lethargy. Dissenters weren't executed; they were simply… drained. Their will to fight, to rebel, to even care, was siphoned away until they could barely remember their own names… content to waste away in a blissful, empty haze."
She leaned forward slightly, the frills of her black dress rustling.
"The old King of Varnmoor was her chief slave. He kissed her feet not out of love or fear, but because he lacked the very will to lift his head. She ruled this side of the continent not from a throne, but from a bedchamber. Her subjects were an army of drowsy, smiling prisoners… She is indolence given form, and her contentment is a plague that rots the soul itself."
Queen Luna absently traced the perfect black pearls inlaid in her fan. She was going to say more before she was interrupted by Betty's warm, grounding presence. The innkeeper set down two generous bowls of hearty stew. It has a rich savory aroma cutting through the queen's chilling tale.
"Oh, pardon me, Your Majesty, I brought you both some fresh stew. It's on the house, a growing demon and our esteemed guest need to keep their strength up."
Betty said, her voice a gentle balm. She placed a hand briefly on Aamon's shoulder, a silent message of support. Before retreating back to the safety of her bar, and leaving the three in their tense little circle, she gave a meaningful glance that included Ciel.
Queen Luna stared into the stew for a second, the steam momentarily fogging her porcelain features. For a single and unguarded moment, she looked like what she appeared to be: a young girl presented with a simple… comforting meal. A flicker of something akin to nostalgia or perhaps longing, passed through her ancient eyes. It was gone in a heartbeat… veiled once more by decades of cold regality. She took a single precise taste and gave a minuscule nod of acknowledgment to Betty before she pushed the bowl away as if it were a trivial distraction.
"Me and the other queens forged locks of impossible power and sealed that wretched creature away in a tomb of her own making, just as we did her siblings… We thought her silence would bring the land peace."
She fixed her gaze back on Aamon… her expression grim. A bitter hollow laugh escaped her.
"Ha… But a succubus does not need to move to be poison... Her very breath has seeped through the cracks in her prison, a miasma that drifts on the wind into Varnmoor. It does not just make them her pets, child~ It dissolves them."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a haunted whisper.
"It bleeds the aspiration from their veins… the love from their hearts… the very memories from their souls. They don't serve her; they waste for HER. They stand in fields until their feet root to the soil, forgetting to eat, to drink, to blink. They lie in beds until their muscles atrophy and their minds dissolve into a blissful, empty static... They are not slaves, no. They are living, breathing monuments to decay, their bodies and wills eroding into nothingness to feed her eternal, lazy contentment. She is turning a kingdom into a graveyard of the still-breathing."
Aamon looked shocked, he didn't know the severity of the situation. When he finally snapped back he let go of his spoon. It clattered against the wooden bowl, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The perpetual, happy wag of his spiked tail stilled completely… the heavy appendage lying limp and motionless on the floorboards. He rose to his full height, his large wings giving a single… solemn rustle as they settled against his back.
His gaze drifted past the queen, toward the entrance of the inn where her two sons stood guard. He saw them not as threats but as someone's children, a reminder of what a kingdom was meant to protect. Finally, his eyes… wide with a horrifying new understanding met Queen Luna's. His hand found the new empty holster on his hip, his fingers gripping the worn leather and steel as if it could anchor him to the principles of a knight he so desperately clung to.
"A possible knight can't let this go on in his kingdom... I promise you, she will die. Will you… will you knight Ciel, too?"
Aamon said, his voice low but clear… stripped of its usual cheerful lilt, they were a vow spoken not with rage but with a terrible solemn duty.
Queen Luna looked up at him, truly looked at him. She saw the demonic form… the son of the Abyss… but she also saw the unshakable conviction in his eyes. There was no hidden agenda, no thirst for power or glory. Only a pure devastating need to make right what was wrong. He was innocence forged in shadow, and in that moment… She understood him completely.
"Yes, Aamon… I will make Ciel a knight, too."
Queen Luna announced gazing towards Ciel. Ciel did not speak, she did not gasp or smile or offer thanks. She simply watched… her pink sapphire eyes reflecting the candlelight as they shifted from the queen to her friend. In the span of a single breath, the axis of her world tilted for the second time in eight days.
Eight days ago, her world was a cage… She was a beaten slave, her will broken, her future a dark and endless tunnel of endurance. Survival was a melody of flight and concealment… a song she knew by heart.
Then… he came… a strange, tail-wagging demon who blundered into her darkness offering a kindness so unconditional it felt like a foreign language. He called her 'friend,' a word whose meaning she had long forgotten.
As Ciel looked at him, a new and ferocious chord resonated within her… harmonizing with the old song of survival… It was a note of protection. She had learned tentatively how to receive friendship. Now, the lesson was changing.
Now, she would have to learn to fight for it….
In the absolute dark, Varnmoor was a symphony of threat… The groan of the Iron Cathedral's gates was a deep bass note. The faint, chittering skitter from the sewers was a discordant melody. The occasional and sudden clash of steel from a distant alley, followed by a truncated shriek, was the percussion.
It was against this grim score that the demon and his maid prepared to depart from… the only sanctuary they had ever known. The air in the kitchen of the Hearth's Respite was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, leftover stew, and the unique… warm smell of kitten fur… a smell that was about to become a memory.
Betty pulled the straps of Aamon's pack tight, her strong hands fussing over him. Her fingers, usually so sure… trembled just enough to betray the steel in her voice. She turned to Ciel, tucking a carefully wrapped parcel of roasted meat and hard cheese into the maid's meticulously organized pack… her touch lingering on the strap as if to pour all her unspoken worry into the touch.
"There now."
she murmured, her voice a warm… sturdy thing against the city's cold roar. She patted Aamon's side, a careful dance around the bone spikes.
"You mind Ciel. And you keep that tail tucked in tight around strangers."
As if on cue, Aamon's spiked tail gave a soft… melancholy thump against the floorboards. His wide, innocent eyes, glowing with a soft light that defied the city's essence… were fixed not on Betty, but on the three small shapes attached to him.
Marlow had both arms and his tail wrapped tightly around Aamon's leg, his face buried so deep in the demon's trousers that only the tips of his fiery ears were visible. Millow clung to Ciel's skirt… her little claws hooked into the fabric like anchors, her small body trembling. Willow simply stood between them, a silent sentinel of sorrow… holding a fold of Ciel's dress in one hand and Aamon's trouser leg in the other, her lower lip trembling with the effort of holding back a sob.
"You know I'd always protect Ciel."
Aamon said, his voice softer than usual… meant for the kittens.
"She's my friend. My mother said you should always protect loved ones."
The words, meant to comfort… seemed to break the last of Willow's resolve. A small, devastated sob escaped her. "Don't go." she whispered… the words muffled by wool.
Betty's forced breeziness cracked... She looked at Ciel, her eyes over-bright.
"And you. You make sure he eats something with substance. Not just pastries. And that you both sleep. Mavis is loud, full of adventurers… You'll be safe. Especially with that."
She pointed a flour-dusted finger at the simple golden paw pendant on Aamon's shoulder. Her voice hitched on the lie of "safe"... the word crumbling in the air between them.
"Oh! My little cat paw!"
Aamon said, the cheer in his voice a fragile shield against the room's grief. He looked down at the kittens.
"You have to be brave now. You have to protect Betty for us. It is a very important job for mighty warriors like you."
"But we want to protect you," Millow whimpered, her voice thick with tears, her face still pressed into Ciel's skirts.
Betty looked between them all… her demon… her maid… her three kittens… and a soft, watery laugh escaped her.
"Funny, isn't it?"
she whispered, more to the heavens… than to them.
"I never had children of my own. This life… I thought it was too cruel of a world to bring a new soul into. Too much hunger. Too much fear."
She knelt, her apron pooling on the floor… like a fallen parachute.
"And then the world sent me three little scamps who needed a home."
she said, her voice thick as she gathered the triplets into a fierce… floury embrace. They unraveled from Aamon and Ciel and buried themselves into her… their small bodies shaking. She held them tightly, as if she could imprint the feel of them into her very bones.
"And it sent me two more who needed one just as badly."
She looked up at Aamon and Ciel, her gaze encompassing all five of them.
"The world doesn't ask, does it? It just… sends you what it needs. It sent me my family."
Her voice firmed, the steel returning as she stood… gently prying the heartbroken kittens from her neck. They immediately latched onto her skirts instead, a living, weeping train of grief.
"Now, you two go. You go and you find Sayerra. You stop her. And then you come back to me. To us. You hear? She is fierce so remember my love."
Her gaze swept over them, memorizing Aamon's bright, guileless eyes… Ciel's quiet, watchful presence.
Aamon's bravado melted into pure… unadulterated emotion.
"Oh… thank you. I love you too, Betty,"
he said, his voice thick. He looked down at the bones on his fingers, clinking them together softly.
"I would call you mother, but my mother is still with me. You are… a very, very close second. A surface-mother?"
The question was so absurdly, perfectly Aamon that Betty had to choke back a sob... She simply nodded, patting his cheek, unable to speak.
It was Ciel who stepped forward. She didn't embrace Betty… the gesture was still too new, too vast for her. Instead, she knelt before the triplets. She looked at each of their tear streaked faces, meeting their wide… glassy eyes. Her voice, when it came, was low, even… and absolute. It was not a hope. It was a vow etched in stone.
"Ciel and Aamon will return. You will be good for Betty. You will not steal the cookies."
She offered them the only comfort she knew: a flawless promise and a clear order.
With a final, squeezing pat on Ciel's arm, Betty released them. "Go on, then." she whispered, the words raw. "Before the night gets any darker."
Aamon shouldered his overstuffed pack. The paw pendant gleamed at his shoulder… Ciel adjusted her own bag, feeling the new weight of the food and the immense weight of the promise. Together, they turned and walked out of the kitchen.
They did not look back… But they felt it. They felt the warmth of the hearth at their backs recede, replaced by the city's predatory chill. They felt the silence left in the wake of the kittens' crying. They felt the three pairs of eyes… and Betty's, watching them from the lighted doorway until they turned a corner and were swallowed by the hungry dark.
The colossal, iron-banded gates of Varnmoor groaned shut behind them; the sound was a final, definitive note of expulsion.
Aamon did not stop walking until the road dipped into a wooded valley… the trees rising like a wall to block the view of the only home they'd known. Only then did his pace slow, the rigid line of his shoulders slumping from a defensive clench into pure exhaustion. He finally released the breath he'd been holding since he'd pried Marlow's small… desperate hands from his leg.
He glanced at Ciel, his ruby eyes scanning her profile in the gloom. The silence between them was no longer the comfortable one of the inn; it was vast and heavy, charged with the echo of a little girl's sob… the phantom sensation of small claws in fabric, and the memory of three drooping tails.
The road ahead was empty, a pale ribbon stretching into an unknown horizon. For the first time, they were truly in the world… with nothing but each other, and the fragile… golden thread of a promise pulling them back.