"It's been a while, Aura. Twenty years, maybe?"
She speaks casually, as if she's always been here. Her appearance hasn't changed in two decades—expected for a demon. Yet something feels off. Why? Because the demon before me is an anomaly, even among our kind.
Her smile, hands clasped at her chest, her demeanor—it's all eerily human. Almost too human. A disguise so perfect it could fool even a demon. How many humans has she buried to refine it?
That's Solitair. A great demon who studies humans like specimens.
I feel no nostalgia for this reunion. Twenty years is nothing to a demon. She probably said "long time" to mimic human sentiment—creepy as ever. But the real issue is—
"Exactly," I say. "So why sneak into my country uninvited?"
She's cloaked her mana, slipping past not just me but Linie's detection. It's practically an act of hostility.
"Sorry, I wanted to surprise you," Solitair says, smiling. "But I entered properly—see?"
She holds up a freesia-shaped holy staff necklace, proof of Freesia citizenship. Hers is special, granted only to those involved in the nation's founding. Guards can't refuse it.
"Hmph… giving you that was a mistake," I mutter.
"You haven't changed, Aura. That's good," she replies, beaming at my jab.
Her sincerity or deception? Even as a demon, I can't tell. Facing her, I almost understand how humans feel, ensnared by us.
"Long time, Stroh, Linie," she continues. "You both look well."
"It's been a while, Solitair-sama," Stroh replies smoothly. "Older than before, but managing."
"Lovely," she says. "Twenty human years carry such weight. You've grown splendidly."
She ignores my attitude, greeting the others. Stroh's ease shows his age—or his experience with Freesia's demons. He knows how aberrant, how terrifying, she is. Meanwhile—
Linie stays silent, her expression blank. Gone is the noisy girl from moments ago. I know this is her true self—her demonic face.
"You've grown a bit, Linie," Solitair says gently. "Still young for a demon, but thriving. You can tell. But you know I prefer talking over fighting. I'd love to chat with you, little sister."
"No way," Linie snaps. "I don't like you."
"Pity," Solitair says. "But we have time. I'm intrigued by you. I hope we can get along."
She speaks like a fond relative, but Linie glares, sword in hand, as if facing an enemy. Solitair's interest grows, her gaze like a researcher studying a lab rat. Her "getting along" is worlds apart from ours. Linie senses it—instinct, not just demonic, but hers.
"Enough theatrics," I cut in. "What do you want? Your base is up north, isn't it?"
This is a waste of time. Her haunt was a northern shipyard, a human relic. Why is she here?
"I was observing the postwar south," she says. "Twenty years ago, the war kept us from talking much. It was fascinating—peace now, yet humans still crave conflict. Worth the trip."
She sounds genuinely thrilled, claiming joy in "talking." I remember—she's like that. Twenty years ago, during the southern wars, when Zoltraak became humanity's deadliest spell, she "talked" on battlefields. Especially with war orphans. What happened to them afterward goes without saying.
"Same awful taste," I say. "So this is just a stopover?"
"Not quite," she replies. "I told you before—human-demon coexistence fascinates me. Or rather, you and this country trying to achieve it."
She claps her hands, staring at me as if she's been waiting for this. Her gaze pulls me in, even as a demon. A human would fall instantly.
"Freesia, a demon nation," she continues. "Rumors reached the north—a paradise where humans and demons live equally. Remarkable, Aura. To build this in just twenty years? Truly the demon who's lived most among humans."
"Thanks," I say, brushing it off. "I'll take it at face value."
Her words—praise or provocation—aren't worth reacting to. Discern what matters, ignore the rest. That's the lesson from our brief time as accomplices.
"I want to know how this country's changed, what it is now," she says. "I skimmed the doctrine—it's been refined, more nuanced. Did you add that? Or a human? I'd love to meet them."
"They're gone," I reply. "Probably boozing in heaven by now."
I picture that drunk monk, likely still drinking. If heaven exists. Lucky he never met her.
"Pity," she says. "But much of what I contributed remains, especially the blessings and Paradise district. More polished now. Demons and humans need correction to coexist, don't they? I want to see the results. Stroh, can you arrange it?"
"Of course," he says, bowing. "I'll summon the doctrine scholars. Your help would be invaluable."
He agrees, knowing her input benefits Freesia, despite his reservations. The drunk monk drafted the doctrine, but it lacked a demon's perspective, essential for coexistence. Human-written, it leaned too human. Solitair's insights fixed that. Her morbid hobby—studying human psychology—makes her unmatched in understanding them. Neither I nor Linie could do it. Even the monk, though guarded, left her contributions untouched when we revised it years ago.
"Sorry, I get carried away talking," she says. "Don't mind me—continue your earlier chat."
"Earlier chat…?" I ask.
"Himmel… Hero Himmel," she clarifies. "You were talking about him, right? Sounded fun."
The air shifts, sharp and different. I catch my breath—not just because I'd forgotten, but because she brought him up. Twenty years ago, she barely mentioned him. Why now?
"Why should I tell you?" I retort, hiding my unease. "Wasn't Himmel the Demon King's enemy?"
She was close to the Demon King, like friends, she claimed. Himmel, who ended him, should be distasteful to her. Maybe not vengeance, but resentment seems likely. Yet—
"True," she says. "But that's separate. A human who ended the Demon King's millennium-long era? A prime research subject. What did he say to the Demon King? What were the Demon King's final words? I'd love to know."
She sounds genuinely regretful. Impossible. Incomprehensible. Not because I'm a demon—humans wouldn't get her either. No creature could fathom her mind.
"Then you should've met him while he was alive," I snap. "Too scared, I bet."
"Maybe," she replies. "Research is one thing, but risking my life to meet a Hero? I'm not that eccentric. Same as you, Aura."
Her gaze pins me. I have no comeback. I've poked the hornet's nest. Irony—I hid from Himmel until he died. This mess is the result.
"But there's another way," she continues. "You know my research—studying humans through conversation. Guess what I find most fascinating, Aura?"
"Don't know, don't care," I say.
She planned this, gleeful in her question. No demon matches her in verbal sparring. I know to listen, not engage, but I can't help reacting. Her words, classic demon manipulation, make our brains seek meaning. So—
"A human's final words at death," she says. "Their entire essence is there—something demons, begging for life, lack. So, Aura, what were Hero Himmel's final words? You'd know, right?"
Words I don't want to hear, to remember, force their way into understanding.
"I don't know," I whisper, voice faint. "Even if I did, I owe you nothing."
I don't know. I can't share what I don't know. Even if I did, it's my desperate defiance. But—
"That's a lie… or maybe true," she says. "You lived with him for fifty years, yet missed his death. What a shame."
She sees through me, unearthing a memory I buried, wanted to forget.
Standing alone before a gravestone, rain pouring, everything already over.
"Now I understand," she says. "Why you built this country, why you're warped as a demon."
"Warped?" I retort. "I built this for myself, like the Demon King."
She's saying something. I answer. It doesn't matter. Linie and Stroh are here. I must be the king, the cult leader. Yet—
"No, you're wrong," she says. "The Demon King, and Macht too, built their forces for true coexistence, in their way. But you? You don't want that. You're just mimicking humans—no, mimicking Hero Himmel."
As a demon, I understand. She's right. My instincts scream to accept it. But I resist. Then who am I?
"Right?" she presses. "If you wanted a nation, your magic could raise an army of the dead. No need for messy human-demon coexistence. What you're doing, Aura, is like a dog waiting forever for its dead master. Obeying orders you don't need to. Why bother with such futility?"
My heart races. Dizziness hits. The world spins.
Don't let her say it. Don't let her go further. If she does, I'll—
"Himmel's gone, isn't he?"
Words once spoken in a possible future, from Guillotine to Funeral.
Now, they pierce from Nameless to Scales.