Lorelai followed Amara, her steps ghosting behind the woman's elegant stride. The gold on Amara's antlers gleamed with each shift of light—more wealth in a single trinket than Lore could hope to touch in a lifetime.
She flexed her fingers, suppressing the itch to rip one off just to feel it in her hands. But who knows what that witch would do if she tried?
Meanwhile, keeping pace with her employer, each step they ascended felt like a pedestal, raising Amara higher, an untouchable icon of wealth and power. Lore followed, her heels scraping against polished stone, the crude shards of her existence grinding underfoot.
She grumbled, tail flicking. The wealth gap wasn't just unfair—it was a design, a meticulous structure meant to keep people like her scrambling for scraps. Even the void-scrapers, vanishing into the mist and plunging endlessly into darkness, felt closer than Amara's riches.
A burst of light flared in the great hall, catching the edges of her lashes. She blinked, adjusting—then her tail hitched. Her steps quickened, fingers racing.
Outside, past towering windows, the warship loomed like a sleeping titan, the gemstone-fueled cannons glistening. Ancient weapons, lost demon engineering, relics of a forgotten peak. Lore smooshed against the frosted glass, breath fogging the surface as her eyes devoured every detail. The smooth plating, the etchings of old house sigils, the cannons—so many secrets, just waiting to be pried apart.
If she could take one apart… just one…
Her thoughts spiralled forward, unhinged, as if powered by Gravium itself. She could almost feel the wind tearing past her, soaring, weightless, untethered. Not bound to the dirt, not trudging corridors behind someone else's heels. Free.
Archdemons, like the Dragon Slayer, wielded that power with ease. They had mastered the sky without the need for engines or airships—flesh and will alone, defying gravity. When the first Demon Knights learned to fly, airships had become obsolete.
She curled her fingers against the glass. She needed that power.
The rush of flight, the raw defiance of gravity—she needed it more than she needed to breathe. But infused magitek wasn't enough. It was never enough. What she needed was a mentor. A guide. Someone to show her how to surge, how to break past the limits stitched into her skin.
Then, it wouldn't just be a fantasy.
Then she would fly.
"Lorelai!" Amara's voice cut through the air. As Lore turned, a slap hit her cheek. "Stupid girl. What have I told you?"
"I'm just looking," Lore said.
The woman snatched Lore's horn and squeezed.
"Ow—stop!" Lore's fists clenched, fury boiling beneath the surface. "Why wasn't I allowed to–" But Amara's cold, golden eyes held her in place, it drenched her defiance mid-breath.
Around them, a ripple of laughter echoed from the nobles, each chuckle chipping away at her pride.
"Valkar?" one scoffed, "I didn't know whores could work."
"Just rats with tits," another added. "Hardly demons worth paying."
A growl rose on Lore's lips, her fangs a sneer away. Rats? We fucking built this ship, brewed your wine, kept your luxuries afloat. This city stands because of us.
And this is how they thank the founders?
Amara's grip yanked hard, her claws dragging Lore's eyes to the floor.
"How many times do I need to say it?" she hissed. "You're an adult now. Start acting like one."
"But-" Lore started.
The woman's nails dug into Lore's horn, and a sharp pulse of pain made her nerve endings scream in protest. Her brittle hair frazzled under Amara's grip, the sting of past punishments flaring to life.
"I won't tell you again," said Amara.
Amara released her, a silent order to fall in line. Lore exhaled—a sharp, measured breath, steadying the shake in her hands. The nobles scattered, the remnants of their fucking laughter still ringing in her ears, grating like knives.
She should have kept her mouth shut. Excitement had gotten the better of her, cracked her restraint wide open—a stupid mistake.
Amara was right.
Daydreams and scholarships weren't for people like her—at least, not for those who wanted to keep their place in the demon ranks. Nobility was a luxury, and she had lost that privilege a long time ago.
Scurrying over, she fell in step beside her adoptive caretaker, forcing herself to match Amara's clanking, precisely measured strides. The woman despised lateness, but she hated arriving early even more. Everything had to be exact, a controlled performance—down to the last ticking second.
And Lore, with her accident-prone, nerve-shot self, was the worst offender against that perfection.
Her fingers brushed through her hair—short, jagged where it had been torn out in fits of rage. It never grew past her shoulders. She'd given up trying. The split ends fought every attempt at styling, and the foundation she caked on barely masked the bruises underneath. Every jar, every powder, every layer dipped into her already pathetic funds.
"Stop fiddling," Amara said, not even looking at her. "You'll ruin it."
Lore's fingers dropped.
"…Sorry."
Lore needed something—anything—to keep her mind from spiralling. She scanned the ballroom, thoughts whirring like restless clockwork, desperate for a distraction.
The noble demons lounged across the expansive hall, draped in opulence, their obedient servants hovering like gilded accessories. Pointless. Glittering like jewellery with no purpose beyond being admired. Sure, they were beautiful—hollow things often were.
Tonight's ridiculous fad made a spectacle of itself: spent bullet casings repurposed as drinking cups. Voltite-Alloy, humming with residual charge, sent fizzy bursts of electricity through their drinks, zapping tongues for amusement. She sighed.
What's next? Drinking straight from toilets?
The chaos around her throbbed like a living thing. Curses snapped through the air like stray bullets, punctuated by the sharp crack of slaps. Drunken antics spiralled the way they always did—into a sweaty, writhing mess. Demons screwing against walls, tables, anything that could hold weight.
She wrinkled her nose. Sweat, ozone, and spilt liquor curdling into something filthier. The air was thick with it, the whole room steeped in indulgence and rot. Her tail flicked in irritation.
This is why she hated Amorica. The whole city was a damn brothel.
"Hurry," Amara barked.
A yank—sharp, practised—jerked Lore off balance. But instead of heading for the exit, where the Valkar likely waited, she was dragged straight into the mess.
The noise hit first—a rising swell of moans, gasps, the wet slap of bodies.
"Wait—" Lore dug in her heels. "Didn't you say I was meeting the Valkar?"
Amara didn't answer. She shoved Lore forward, straight into the thick of the depravity.
The Thalin women flicked their whiskers, their thick tails curling as they sucked, fucked, and howled. Heat and sweat rippled through the space, thick enough to choke.
Lore's gaze whipped down. The tiles gleamed wet, thick with a slick goo that looked ready to melt through her shoes.
Fuck.
She clamped her eyes shut, pulse hammering. The air was humid with breath, with bodies, the stench clawing at her. The crowd pressed in, bodies tangling, walls of flesh closing like a vice—tighter, firmer, harder.
She needed to leave. Now. Get the hell out of here. Her bubbling thoughts erupted into action. She pivoted on her heel, bolting for the windows.
Today.
It had to be today.
She couldn't do this anymore—couldn't stand another second in this rotting carcass of a city; she hated it, hated it, SHE HATED IT.
The walls felt tighter with every breath, closing in, crushing her under their stink, their heat, their filth.
Then—
"Lorelai."
The voice strangled her like fingers tightening around her throat.
Amara.
Her tail went rigid, muscles seizing as she froze mid-step.
"Now."
Amara's voice snapped like a whip, her finger pointed sharply to the spot beside her, a silent command louder than any scream. Go. Run. Flee. Scream. Anything. Just do something.
"LORELAI!"
Her legs buckled. A single breath stood between her and a sprint—between flight and submission. She could run. She should run. But her body betrayed her. Her muscles locked in place, and before she even registered the movement—
She walked back.
Back to Amara's side.
Back to her place.
The fire inside her flickered, sputtered—gone.
Not today. What was she thinking?
The blow came exactly as expected—a sharp slap to the back of her head.
"Ouch," Lore muttered, barely flinching. The sting felt Dull. Familiar. Expected. As if she'd already braced herself for the impact.
"Try that again, and I'll rent you out." Amara said. She flicked a glance to a naked Saurian, his hand rummaging his scaly snake. "I even have your first customer."
A slow, cold horror curled through Lore's gut. Her stomach twisted, her tail wrapping in tight submission before she could stop it. Her body betrayed her—just like it always did.
She latched onto Amara's arm, breath strangled in her throat. Her mind rebelled, but her mouth begged.
"I'm sorry! I won't do it again—I'll behave."
Amara smiled, cool and unbothered, as if she hadn't just dangled her over a precipice. "Good. Now let go before I change my mind."
Lore's fingers dropped away, but the sickness in her chest stayed.
Her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat, a constant, pulsing beat of hatred. Not at Amara—at herself. She always messed something up.
She was supposed to be strong. A Valkar. A ruler. Monarchs didn't beg. Monarchs didn't plead. They didn't cower.
And yet here she was—broken down to glass and splinters.
Lore stood by Amara's side, observing as the Mongal woman called for the elevator. Apart from the Gravium-powered device, Lore was fixated on the demon guarding it.
The inquisitor.
A creature of glassy black eyes and soulless stillness. Reinforced with diamond-forged bone and powered by two cores, she must have weighed as much as a crystalline motorcycle. And that was before the armour—Durg silk reinforced with Saurian scales, titanium mesh, liquid gemstone canisters jutting from her back.
A quarter metric ton of pure, engineered might.
Next to her, Lore felt fragile. Brittle-boned, skin-thin, breakable.
She leaned in slightly, feeling the low, thrumming hum of the gemstone canisters vibrate the air around her. Her fingers curled into a tight fist.
What would it feel like—to have that kind of power woven into her flesh? To be durable. Indestructible. To stand so utterly untouchable that others felt the same choking fear she felt now?
She wanted it.
She deserved it.
Her tail flicked. If only inquisitors had souls, she'd ask them a million questions.
Did it hurt—to have every bone replaced? Was the weight of all that diamond suffocating? Or did it feel like freedom—to fly in the void, to hold so much strength, to be untouchable?
But she could only wonder. Only imagine.
Her mind glittered with ideas, each more tempting than the last, until—
"Hey."
The voice slithered through the air, curling around her like oil.
Lore turned, her tail stiffening. She expected another reprimand, another demand—not this.
The Saurian stood before her, naked, gawking. His slitted eyes drank her in, lingering too long. She wrenched her gaze away, heat crawling up her neck.
"What are you looking away for?" Ego's voice purred.
Lore's throat locked, her pulse tight in her chest. Thank hell Ego only spoke in her mind.
"What do you want?" she snapped.
She didn't look down—she refused to—but like a blade drawn to an open wound, her eyes wanted to drift. Curiosity or disgust? She couldn't tell. The pull of flesh whispered, subtle but insistent, a siren call that wasn't hers.
"Come on," Ego's voice slithered, pressing against the edges of her thoughts. "You know you want it. Stop denying it."
"Stop it," Lore hissed under her breath. But was she speaking to the Saurian—or to herself?
She shook the voice away. This wasn't what she wanted. Not like this. Not here. The Saurian moved closer, eyes flicking to her horns. Then her tail.
A sudden deep, crawling hunger stirred inside her, but not the kind he wanted.
Her fists tightened, nails pressing into her palms. She could pound his scaly skull in. Rip his forked tongue out before he had the chance to flick it at her again. Skin the snake.
"I've never licked a succubus before," he mused.
Her vision flared red.
"Excuse me?" Lore's voice snapped, her legs locking. "I'm not a succubus!"
But the tension in her muscles begged for release. The heat of rage, of something darker, something hungry, curled inside her ribs. She'd kill him. She'd gut him and enjoy it. Fuck Amara. Fuck the rules. Just give her this—let her claws carve, let her teeth tear—
But he kept talking. Kept breathing. His hand wandered lower, forked tongue flicking out, wet and obscene. His breath clung to her skin. Hot. Thick.
She wanted to shrink away—but the other part of her wanted to bite his fucking throat out.
"Don't be shy," he moaned. "Let's see what you're hiding under that dress."
Her tail tucked, instincts snarling at war with each other. Why wasn't anyone stopping this? Why wasn't anyone watching?
Her gaze darted around the room—but there was nothing. Just demons drowning in their own depravity. No one cared. No one noticed. Nothing here was forbidden.
"Come closer," he whispered, too close.
Her body seized up. Heat froze over her skin, locking her inside herself. Her claws twitched at her sides like they'd forgotten how to strike. Her feet screamed retreat, but her limbs wouldn't obey.
"Get away!" she cracked, but her fists hung limp at her sides.
She stumbled back—collided into Amara.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
Amara would protect her. She had to.
Even now, with bile rising in her throat, Lore clung to her—the devil she knew.
But the iron grip on her jaw shattered that illusion, her gaze snapping up into cold, golden eyes.
"I thought you said you would behave."
Amara's grip tightened, her nails biting into Lore's cheeks. Pain flared sharp and immediate, blooming like bruises beneath the surface.
"Are you that eager to be sold, girl?" Her voice was silk-threaded steel. "Just say the word, and I'll have you spreading your legs for the whole realm."
Lore's breath hitched.
Then—
A sticky hand latched onto her shoulder.
She stiffened.
The sensation crawled under her skin like maggots, seeping through the fabric of her dress, leaving a trail of damp revulsion in its wake. The Saurian groaned, thick and wet, the sound slithering through the air—a final, shattering crack splitting through her.
Sight. Scent. Sound. The humid breath at her neck. The hot slime running down her back. Real. It was all real.
Her throat locked, a wish clawing up her ribs—Make it stop. Just make it stop.
"Kill them."
Ego's whisper curled in her ear like a lover's breath. Sweet. Intoxicating. Right. Steam gushed from her lips, her body searing from the inside out. Her claws flexed, her fangs tingled—not in fear, but in anticipation.
She didn't need a weapon. She was the weapon.
She'd tear them apart. Sink her teeth in. Shred flesh.
End them.
The desire chuckled through her bones, molten and hungry, and Ego giggled along with it, dragging her to the edge—
Then—
Amara's grip shifted.
The pressure in her jaw loosened, just barely, her golden eyes flickering—something unreadable, something almost… something—
Gone.
Snuffed out like a dying ember.
And just as quickly, Amara turned on the Saurian.
The scream ripped through the air, jagged, raw, visceral. Blood splattered, hot and thick, against Lore's cheek. The sickening crunch followed, wet and final.
Lore's stomach pitched. Bile surged, burning up her throat as she fought to keep it down.
"Next time you touch my products, I'll take more than that," Amara said.
The Saurian wailed, his clawed hands scrambling, clutching at his ruined flesh.
"You bitch!" he gasped. "You took it! You broke my cock!"
Amara.
No.
Lady Whitfield.
She stood over him, bathed in his misery, her antlers gleaming like a crown of thorns. A devil of cruelty, sharp-edged and radiant.
"A shame," she murmured, lifting her palm.
Something dripped from her fingers.
The Saurian squealed.
"Wait, please, don't—"
Amara cracked her knuckles. The sound was like snapping bone.
Lore's stomach twisted.
Amara was strong. Untouchable. And in that moment, she had protected Lore. But even still, even now, sick curled in her gut.
Lady Whitfield, a devil in a demon's skin.
Amara turned, marching toward the waiting Inquisitor, the open elevator humming with energy.
"Hurry up before I leave you," she commanded.
Lore obeyed before she could think otherwise, stepping onto the steel platform as the metallic doors sealed behind her.
The bloody mess outside was already catalogued in her mind.
Her fingers trembled. She hated Amorica. The chaos still clung to her, a sickness on her skin, a rot inside her chest.
The image of him, bloodied and crying, played again. And again. Red. Dripping. Defeated. Her tail tightened.
Ego's voice smiled through her teeth.
"Kill them all. Be the last one standing. Show the realm House Violette isn't dead."
Lore's lips parted—but no words came. No... house Violette had died long ago. And so did she.