He wandered through the sun-slashed halls, searching, knives burning inside his jacket. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls like the tolling of a clock. He hummed a little tune.

"Young master?"

Bel turned and smiled at the maid, who looked as if she were frozen in place at the end of the corridor. He waved a bloody hand. She gasped.

"I like that sound," Bel announced, striding towards her. The maid stumbled back, her pretty hazel eyes wide like gold coins. "Do it again."

She whimpered. "Y—your highness?"

Bel only stalked closer. He saw her fists clench and her feet shift and knew the exact moment she would dart away. Just as he predicted, she turned heel and dashed down the corridor, auburn pigtails streaming behind her. He gave her a head start of five seconds.

"Don't run away, little maid!" he called, breaking into a run. "We have so many fun games to play…" He turned the corner and stopped, mouth parting in surprise.

Another servant, a woman with a neat blond bun, stood boldly in front of him. "I—won't let you hurt Fia!"

Bel laughed. "You won't let me?" he repeated, stepping closer. He leaned sideways to grin at the maid, Fia. "Did you know? She thinks she can stop the prince."

"Stop, please." The blonde held her stance, terrified but determined. "You can't just go around… killing people!"

Bel sighed dramatically. "Oh, but can't I?" Why couldn't this woman understand that her determination was less than nothing against the power of royal blood? That her resolve was useless and perhaps a bit funny?

One, two, three steps and he stood in front of her, peering up through his bangs at her stubborn gaze. He saw the moment when she made the decision to hurt him, her prince who she would never have the right to lay hands on. Her fists clenched, but it was already too late.

Sshk. The maid screamed.

Bel pulled the blade out of the woman's chest and stepped back to appraise his handiwork. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, breath stuttering as she swayed in place. He watched her crumple to the ground, a pool of blood wetting the stones beneath her body. She was dead.

"Sa—Sa—Sara?" The maid stared down at the corpse, shoulders shaking and hands twitching as if trying to clutch at something that wasn't there. Her teary gaze rose to meet his.

Bel hummed. The bloody knife twirled around his finger. "Was that her name?" he mused. "Ah, well, she doesn't need it anymore."

He hopped over the body and slid the blade between the little maid's ribs. She gave a short stuttering gasp, tears finally spilling from her eyes as she fell. Bel leaned down to retrieve his knife. With a huff, he continued down the hallway.

How unsatisfying, he thought as he walked. In fact, how boring. Boring, boring, everything was boring! For years he'd been dreaming of the day he'd finally give Rasiel the death he deserved, and when it had finally come, he hadn't enjoyed it at all. If only Azrael hadn't shown her stupid face…

A palace guard came into view as Bel rounded the corner. The man's brown eyes widened as they caught the bloodstains on his shirt and the knife in his hand, then narrowed into steel. "Your Highness," he spat, drawing his sword. "I see you've finally cracked."

Bel watched the guard advance with indifference. Silly guard. The smart thing to do would be to run for help, but no one had ever hired guards for their intelligence. This man was going to die.

"You shouldn't attack your prince, peasant," Bel returned, sneering. "Someone like you—"

Whoosh. The guard's blade whipped past Bel's head, missing by more than a centimeter as Bel skipped to the side and windmilled his arms. "Waah, scary!" he mocked.

"You're not a prince," the guard gritted out. He swung again. "You're a monster."

"How rude!" Bel cried. On the guard's next swing, he flicked the knife in his hand towards the guard's exposed underarm. It sliced through cloth and flesh before Bel ducked under the guard's arm and caught it on the other side.

"Fuck!"

Bel snickered through his teeth. "Perhaps this is fun after all…"

/\ o \/ o /\ o \/ o /\

Everyone in the castle was dead.

Bel wandered through the empty halls. His footsteps had slowed, like a clock winding down. He came upon a door and opened it. The sheen of golden hair greeted him; Azrael was seated by the stained glass window of her receiving room, looking down onto the courtyard. There, below a juniper tree, sat their mother. Her head, royal blonde with streaks of grey, was lowered over a book in her lap. She had remained oblivaious to the events around her.

That's right, Bel thought. Everyone was dead, save for his sister, and his mother.

Azrael spoke without turning her head. "Had your fun, Belphegor?"

"Not as much as I could have," Bel complained, but his heart wasn't in it.

A small smile quirked the edges of her thin, pale lips, as if she had predicted his answer. She probably had.

"Thank you," Azrael said, "for sparing Mother."

Bel stared and stared at her, but she never turned to meet his gaze. Her profile was a distant statue. This was the first time he had ever heard her express thanks outside of what was strictly necessary for etiquette, and he didn't know how to answer.

Azrael continued gazing down at the courtyard, seeming not to care for a response.

"Whatever, I guess," Bel said. He took out a knife, but couldn't do anything with it and ended up returning it to his jacket.

When he left his sister, she was still sitting by the window, hands folded neatly on her lap. Her gaze, though her icy eyes were shielded by burnished gold bangs, never strayed from the queen.

The castle seemed emptier as the afternoon waned. Bel took in the scene of desolation—bodies, broken debris, and blood across the walls—and felt a heavy satisfaction bloat in his chest. No matter that his sister would step out of her quarters to her castle and her family in shambles. No matter that his mother would finish her novel only to look up and be shocked by the sights that greeted her.

He'd done what he'd been wanting to do for years; the ugly blue diamond of Ardor's royal stronghold had been swallowed, as it deserved to be, by flames. His flames, of blood rather than fire, sparked and fanned by his own two hands. Vengeance—sweet as anything.

Bel turned and dashed through an open doorway. He fled across countless leagues of rippling emerald grass, through unfamiliar forests and towering mountains, running and running until he could no longer understand the words of the plebeians around him. Hardly anyone was blond. The rulers' eyes were open and honest, or as honest as humans could be. Ardor's coat of arms stood for nothing here.

Much later, when Bel finally returned to where his story began, his tiara would still perch atop his head and his bangs still brush his cheeks—but the world, of course, would hardly be the same.