The courtyard of the Clock Hand Tower was silent.

  The bishop who had screamed stood frozen, arm outstretched, finger trembling. His lips moved, but no words came. He was confident in his righteous fury until the demon spoke to him. Just the simple question brought pressure... a fear he had never known.

  Augustine stepped forward and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. He pulled him back without ceremony, saving the man for himself, but not from his self-inflicted embarrassment.

  Beside him, the Pontifex exhaled through his nose. His eyes were old and sunken, but bright with conviction. His voice carried the authority of scripture.

  “I am Tharion,” he said. “Pontifex of the Sanctum of Thorns. State your name, demon.”

  The demon stepped forward, fixing the cufflinks on his fine-tailored suit. He folded one arm across his chest and bowed low, his movements fluid and precise, and held a courtly grace flourish that would put most Princes to shame.

  “Ravokar Veykaroth,” he said, his smile faint and his voice smooth and deep.

  The name rippled through the courtyard. Hushed gasps and murmurs were stifled before they could fully form.

  Valerion Ashmar Valenfor’s eyes sharpened. Rhydan Altheryon’s expression hardened, the amusement gone.

  Valerion spoke first. “You are the Betrayer. The Light-Bearer. The Kin-Killer.”

  Ravokar’s grin spread; he savored each title spoken as if it were the sweetest honey.

  “Ah,” he said softly, “such beautiful names your kind has given me.” He tilted his head, almost wistful. “Yes… It is I. The loathsome Betrayer of the Iwon, the one who turned his blade against his kin... and succeeded.”

  Murmurs spread through the Sanctum ranks like a sickness. They all knew the name — the demon who had led a rebellion against his own during the Great War. The one whose betrayal had turned the tide in favor of mortals when even the First Witches had begun to falter.

  Yet hearing the legend breathe before them was different than reading it in storybooks. The Sanctum's scripture conveniently glossed over such retelling. However, he could not be glossed over here, standing before them with a suit and smile.

  Ravokar looked between the clergy, his grin thinning into something closer to patience. “So I ask again, Father. Does my presence displease you?”

  The Pontifex’s gaze was steady. “I understand who you are,” he said. “And I understand your role in the war. But to ask the Sanctum to work alongside demons…” He shook his head. “That is blasphemy. Demons should be eradicated completely. That is our doctrine.”

  Selene’s voice cut the air like a blade. “Then maybe it’s time to change it.”

  Every priest flinched. A few gasped aloud. These were words spoken not just by a Witch, but their future Empress. With the way the Crown Prince chased after her, a single word from her would be all that was needed to uproot them completely.

  The younger Saints looked to Augustine, who did not move, though his jaw tightened.

  The Pontifex turned toward her, eyes narrowing, but before he could speak, Ravokar raised a hand, his tone calm and polite.

  “Emperors,” he said, glancing toward Valerion and Rhydan. “May I inquire about your insights?”

  Rhydan crossed his arms, chin raised. “Speak, Demon.”

  Valerion gave a curt nod of permission.

  Ravokar’s eyes brightened with something close to gratitude. “You have both fought countless wars. Some to protect, others to conquer.”

  His voice was almost hypnotic. “Tell me, then. Of all your campaigns, how many times have you sought the complete destruction of those you fought?”

  Rhydan’s lip curled. “Never willingly. Only when driven to it.”

  Valerion’s tone was steel. “We conquer, we do not annihilate.”

  Ravokar smiled faintly. “Ah, how benevolent,” he said, voice soft with mock awe. Then, he bowed his head. Rhydan gave a curt smirk, and Valerion, stifling a laugh in his throat, spoke, "Enough of your games, demon. We do not participate in genocide. But not out of kindness."

  Rhydan nodded his head and said, "Knowledge is power. To destroy utterly is foolish. Art, history, and hidden discoveries all vanish in fire. What is an empire that forgets to learn from its enemies?”

  "And one can learn precious little from cold corpses." Valerion added.

  Ravokar spread his hands and turned to the Sanctum again. “Demons possess knowledge that far outstrips mortal comprehension. To destroy us utterly is not only impossible…”

  His grin returned, sharp and elegant.

  “It is stupid.”

  The Pontifex’s lips pressed thin. He said nothing. He had been trained to argue faith, not reason. And Ravokar had spoken with the ease of a philosopher who had studied his prey for millennia, because he had.

  The silence hung until Tharion finally sighed and said quietly, “The Sanctum are no monarchs, demon. We are not rulers of kingdoms. We are the arms and feet of the Gods. We are the voice of the people.”

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  He turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping across the gathered nobles and soldiers.

  “Even if we could silence our righteous prejudice, our words alone will not calm the unrest your presence would stir." The Pontifex gathered all his faith and his courage. He knew he stood in the presence of those who had no faith, or simply saw faith as a tool to rule. His staff thumped into the stone beneath his feet.

  "A demon is destruction given form. You are liars, deceivers, lust-driven, and cruel. Everything you touch turns to ruin.”

  Ravokar said nothing. He nodded his head in agreement at every slight the Pontifex sent his way. He did everything in his power to stop himself from giving the Pontifex applause as he finished his sermon.

  The Pontifex faltered, frown deepening. “You have no intention of denying it.”

  Ravokar’s smile was slow. “No."

  He shrugged in hurt defeat, "Even if I wanted to deny it... would you believe me?”

  Tharion’s eyes darkened. “Do you expect us to think that because you betrayed your own kind, you and yours are just and good?”

  Ravokar laughed. It was loud, bright, and genuine. It startled the clergy and amused the Hallows in equal measure. When he caught himself, catching his breath, he bowed slightly in apology.

  “Good? Just?” he said, chuckling. “No, Father. I would not insult you with such lies. You are correct. There is nothing good about a demon.”

  He gestured lazily toward himself. “We crave destruction. We lust for it. We revel in it.”

  Then his voice deepened. “But destruction without purpose is hollow. It burns itself out, leaving nothing. Even ruin must have meaning, or it devours its makers.”

  Tharion’s eyes narrowed. “Then tell me, demon. What purpose drove you to destroy your own kind?”

  Ravokar's grin widened, inhumanely so. His eyes brightened with joy. "That... dear father... is the correct question."

  The crowd went still.

  "And the answer is simple." He gestured lazily, almost dismissively. "Those who led us sought the total destruction of this world — complete and utter obliteration of all life."

  He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

  Then his grin returned, sharp and wild. "Me? And those who took up arms with me?" He laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "We had one simple thought."

  Another pause. His eyes gleamed.

  "That's boring."

  The statement hung in the air, absurd and terrible at once. Then he laughed again, louder this time.

  When he caught his breath, he continued, voice rich with something like wonder. "We saw so much potential in the creatures of this world. You mortals..." He spread his hands. "You have a capacity for violence that we simply could not ignore. It's magnificent."

  His grin softened into something almost admiring. "So why let such a wonderland of possibilities be destroyed?"

  “Truly chaos given flesh,” Augustine muttered.

  He stepped forward. “And how can we trust you? How can anyone trust that you won’t betray us, too?”

  Ravokar tilted his head, eyes glittering. “You can’t,” he said simply. “But you can trust I’ve no desire to end up on Morgan’s bad side.”

  The faintest ripple of laughter rolled through the Hallows. Morgan, expression flat, crossed her arms.

  “Flattery won’t save you from me, Rav.”

  “Oh, I don’t flatter,” he replied easily. “I admire.”

  He turned back toward the Sanctum. “This Accord concerns the Circle of Sorcerers, does it not? Wayward witches and saints meddling with our blood. Making those....abominations.”

  His expression darkened, voice losing its mirth. “Even demons have standards. Using our blood to create such things. I find it… offensive.”

  No one interrupted him.

  "You don't know what those Sorcerers can or will do," Rav continued. "But I won't hide what I am, nor what I desire. Better the demon you know, right?" He spread his hands. "At least for now."

  Silence followed. Heavy and suffocating.

  No one spoke. No one could. The clergy stood rigid, faces pale, lips pressed thin. They wanted to deny him — to refute his twisted logic with scripture and righteousness — but the words wouldn't come.

  Because he wasn't wrong.

  Augustine's jaw tightened. Beside him, the younger Saints shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between their Pontifex and the demon who had just spoken a truth they wished was a lie.

  The Pontifex's knuckles whitened around his staff. His breath came slow and measured, each inhale a struggle to maintain composure. He looked at Ravokar — really looked at him — and saw exactly what the demon claimed to be: destruction given purpose, chaos with intent.

  And the Sanctum had no counter for it. Not one that wouldn't sound hollow.

  Tharion's voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Resigned. "We do not like you, demon.” Tharion said. “We do not accept you. And we will not work with you.”

  A pause. “But so long as that is understood, we will do our part.”

  Ravokar’s smile returned, small and satisfied. “Good enough for me.”

  He turned toward Morgan, giving her a lazy salute. “See? Progress.”

  Morgan exhaled, eyes narrowing. “I liked you better when you were pretending to behave.”

  She ignored him, stepping forward as she raised one hand toward the Clock Hand Tower.

  "Now that unpleasantness is out of the way," she said, her voice firm, cutting through the tension. "I will show you to your quarters."

  Glyphs flared. The doors parted, revealing the luminous interior of the tower.

  The space beyond defied reason. The entrance hall stretched impossibly wide and tall — far larger than the tower's exterior could contain, grand as it already was. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, and corridors branched in directions that shouldn't exist within the structure they'd seen from outside.

  Magic hummed in the air, ancient and absolute.

  “You are free to explore the Hallows,” Morgan continued. “Meet its people. You’ll be fighting beside them soon enough. So it's best to understand them before that day comes. Once your emperors and I finalize the Accord’s terms, I'll have a feast prepared for you all.”

  Her tone left no room for negotiation. The gathered nobles, saints, and royals began to move.

  Selene appeared at Cassian's side, a satisfied smile playing at her lips. She leaned in slightly, voice low and smug. "See? Everything worked out just fine."

  Cassian glanced at her, then back at the Sanctum clergy — still rigid, still pale, still looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. "Your definition of 'fine' is terrifying."

  "I know." Her smile widened. "Isn't it fun?" Selene then ran ahead. She involuntarily found herself chasing after several of her young uncles, as they sprinted faster than most knights into the Clock Hand Tower. There were many things inside that children shouldn't touch. She knew because when she was a child, she touched them all.

  "Hold on, kids! Let me show you where the fun stuff is!"

  Cassian lingered a moment longer beside his father. He looked back at the vast tower, its crystal and silver veins. Valerion sighed at the grandeur of it and allowed himself a quiet grin.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” Cassian said.