Chapter Twelve
Lucifaad, Lucifaad Territory
Lucifaad.
The cradle of all Devilkind crafted from Lilith's genetic material on the blood of Lucifer himself.
This decrepit city is a massive arcology that hosts the largest concentration of Devils in the Underworld.
It is home to over 12 million inhabitants who were formerly loyal to the Houses of Lucifer, but that allegiance has been fractured over the decades by the brutal treatment of its citizens.
Lucifaad is divided into two halves called the Spires and the Underhive.
This divide precedes the city's political and economic conditions plaguing its people.
The seat of power for each Satan clan is a quartet of colossal spires garrisoned by their subordinate Extra Demon clans.
Each tower surrounds and protects the Eternal Palace, an impregnable fortress that casts a long shadow over Lucifaad.
The Palace is protected by the elite Infernal Guard, where Grafyia Lucifuge performs her duties as guardian of the Lucifer Clan.
Lucifuge rarely departs the Eternal Palace unless Sirzechs is spotted on the frontlines.
Bashalum keeps her on the tightest leash possible to avoid any 'accidents' that would permanently or temporarily remove her from the field.
Cyrus aimed to ensure the former, but contingencies must be established.
While Grayfia's death or capture was the main objective, his secondary function was to undermine the city's defense capabilities, and the best way to accomplish that was to provoke as much chaos as necessary.
And he knew how to bring a city to its knees.
As Ahri walked the decadent streets of Lucifaad, Cyrus hid in her shadow, allowing her to bypass several Inquisitor checkpoints without issue.
Viktor's death hadn't become common knowledge yet, and the Vastayan was milking this temporary ineptitude for all it's worth.
While she delved into the heart of Lucifaad, Cyrus was constantly harassed by the entity stalking him in the Shadow Realm. Even the most basic form of demonic art drew this malevolence like a moth to the flame.
It consistently blanketed him in a wave of shadows and spoke in a low whisper. Its words were often muffled and challenging to comprehend.
However, Cyrus was able to decipher one sentence in its garbled messaging that was practically being clawed into his mind.
I WILL SERVE AS A MONUMENT TO YOUR FAILURES
"Shut up already." Cyrus's growl ghosted over Ahri's ears, freezing the Vastaya solid as a surge of resentment flooded over her.
"What is it?" Ahri inquired in a hushed voice.
"Nothing," Cyrus pulsed his arcana, momentarily dispersing the entity and sending it back into the unknown. "How far until we reach the garrison?
"We're close, and there's no shortage of Inquisitors near-" Ahri ducked into an alleyway, avoiding a heavily guarded checkpoint cutting off access into the adjacent district.
"What is it?"
"There's a roadblock ahead." She dejectedly answered, her amber orbs taking in the sight of several Inquisitors storming into a family home with spears at the ready. "I'll have to go around this lot."
"Just get to the garrison so we can locate Vander's daughter," Cyrus commanded. He couldn't see what Ahri was bearing witness to, but he needed her to focus on the task at hand. "The sooner we can make contact, the better."
"Patience isn't really your strong suit." Ahri's skin burned in retaliation for her sarcastic remark. Even the slightest bit of resistance activated the command seal along her spine.
"I have an abundance of patience, but only for people worthy of it."
Ahri forged ahead, scaling a corner building and entering the Novagrad district with a dramatic flair that momentarily drew curious eyes. The Vastayan didn't linger and fled back into the mass of Devils before an Inquisitor came to investigate the disturbance.
"Spoken like a true Noble," Ahri rebuked, sliding through the dense crowds of civilians toward Xalerk Plaza's garrison. "You and Caitlyin might just get along."
"Speaking of, do you trust her?"
"She was a pompous little shit who gave up her cushy life to be an Inquisitor, not exactly the most trustworthy of occupations, but the girl has a heart of gold. I met her during a raid on one of Vander's suspected encampments. She owes me a few favors, and I'm cashing one in on your behalf."
"Lucky me."
"You have no idea." Ahri cooed back mockingly, her amber eyes monetarily alight with amusement before Cyrus physically intervened. The Kimaris stepped from her shadow and dragged her into a nascent alleyway before pressing her against the cement wall.
Without warning, Cyrus took Ahri's skull in both hands and spoke in a hushed voice the ancient pretext.
"…Ceàird Sgàil." The Vastaya managed to discern the final words to his sentence before a hand snatched her heart in a tight grip.
"Argh-!" Cyrus silenced Ahri's cries of anguish by cupping his hand over her mouth and pouring his arcana into her system.
Anchoring his shadow step to a sentient being's soul was a painful process worth the benefits. Cyrus had meant to anchor Ahri earlier, but their escape from Nova Babylon took priority, and he had yet to find ample opportunity until now.
"Gods damn you, Cyrus." Her laboring breath echoed against his skin as he struggled to keep her steady. "What the hell was that?"
"An anchor." The Spartan explained, stepping away from her personal space while keeping an arm on her shoulder. "Should we be separated, I locate you within mere moments. It's…institution is painful."
"No shit!" Ahri hissed back, ignoring the command seal's reprisal. "You couldn't have done this in a cleaner part of Lucifaad. I can literally smell the toxins we're stepping in."
"Find the Inquisitor," Cyrus dismissed her gripes and turned his back on her. "I…I'm going for a walk. Pulse your arcana when ready."
The ire festering in Ahri wavered under the slightest dip in his voice, taking the winds out of her sails and leaving her with genuine concern.
In the short time they'd been together, Ahri had already grown accustomed to the constant waves of serenity that Cyrus seemingly exhumed. It was a welcome contrast to the volcano of volatile emotion that was her former master.
For the Vastayan, seeing and feeling Cyrus act so...uncertain was worrisome.
"Family trouble?"
Their departure from Nova Babylon wasn't strictly the cleanest exit Ahri had ever been a part of, and Cyrus spent most of that journey in relative silence.
"If only it were that simple." She held her tongue as Cyrus's infernal energy displaced from her shadow before melting into the packed crowds of civilians going about their daily lives.
For all the little Devil's reservations, it was painfully evident he cared about this family to some degree. The perplexing issue that tormented him was the shame he experienced for those who adored him so much.
With a resigned huff, the Vastaya turned back towards her intended destination. Her master was such a dramatic little Devil, and she found his fallacies as appealing as they were irritating.
Ahri hoped that this…moment of solitude would help Cyrus for the better.
Lucifaad wasn't kind to the lost or the damned.
l==l
Cyrus found this Underhive to be eerily similar to the warrens of Ferax.
Between the noxious fumes lingering in the air, the toxic waste gathering into hazardous pools, and the constant distrusting stares its citizens gave one another, Cyrus was hard-pressed to remind himself this wasn't the place he once called home.
He emerged from the shadows of a dimly lit alleyway, drawing a few glances but remaining innocuous. Cyrus had to keep his eyes from scrutinizing the apparel these devils chose to wear down in the muck of Lucifaad.
One of the most jarring aspects of Devil society was the wide range of clothing available to their people. Nobles were consistently dressed in a Renaissance fashion, while their subjects could be found wearing attire from as early as the 15th century to the late 20th.
The people of the Underhive were a mix-match of eras most likely brought about for need rather than style. As a result, Cyrus chose an attire that wasn't too dissimilar to his time as an orphan of Ferax.
A ragged jacket covered his torso, and a set of insulated breeches designed to stave off the freezing nights kept his legs from the elements.
Steel-toed survival boots protected his feet, and their hardened material quickly countered the toxic waste. His hands were shielded by a pair of hard-knuckled tac gloves buried in his jacket's outer pockets.
To conceal his identity, Cyrus kept his hood past the brim of his forehead and poured a small concentration of his shadow craft to mask his facial features in a shroud of darkness.
Cyrus fell into the dense crowds with practiced ease, keeping his head forward while his eyes evaluated every Devil that brushed by him.
The citizens of the Underhive were as grim as their environment. Their skin was rough, and their voices held together in a coarse tone. Many slid past him without a second thought, their bodies tempered by the claustrophobic conditions.
Merchants sold their wares in insecure shops, prostitutes plied their trade in back alleys, and vagrants idly scanned the crowds for their next mark. It was everything Cyrus was once accustomed to experiencing when he was a child, but he was different now.
Everything was different.
If he wanted to truly understand the people of Lucifaad, he needed to feel their struggles and raw emotions.
And there was no better place to do so than a bar.
THE LAST DROP
Cyrus stared at the illuminated sign with interest, his gaze falling towards the long line of patrons seeking entry before finally settling on bouncers keeping everyone out.
"Sgàil Folach." A shroud of darkness dissipated his flesh and bones until only the spectrums of a wraith remained. Once the doors swung open, he took his chance, sliding past the oversized bouncers and rematerializing his human form upon the rafters overlooking the club.
Taverns and bars were the beacons of commerce for an Underhive, but it wasn't just for money or pleasure. Information was as powerful a tool as coin in these parts, and knowledge held dominion over all.
His chosen place of commerce seemed to be a popular location for the locals. Patrons filled every space; even the high tables without chairs were fully occupied.
Cyrus could do without the incessantly loud music pounded into his brain, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
The Spartan descended onto the lower floor and appeared amongst a mob of inebriated patrons on the dance floor. His developing physique still sat just below six-feet tall, just enough to look over the heads of most patrons without drawing too much attention.
Cyrus kept a low profile and steered clear of intoxicated customers dancing or drinking the night away. His crimson gaze spotted a few tables where narcotics were being enthusiastically handed about, and several addicts held vacant expressions.
Eventually, Cyrus settled into an isolated chair between two groups of overtly enthusiastic patrons sharing several shots of liquor.
The bartender gave him a once over before motioning towards Cyrus's hood. Reluctantly, the Spartan followed the man's silent command exposing his youthful appearance for all to see.
"How'd you get past the bouncers?" Cyrus glanced over the man's curious expression and relaxed the tension in his curled fists.
"They aren't very good at their jobs," He replied, throwing a glance backward on instinct rather than fear. "Both spend more time staring into space than watching their new guests."
The bartender had a laugh at his quip, cleaning the rim of his serving glasses before replying. "Think my Boss would be interested in that little detail. He dislikes weak links."
"Weakness is relative. They're bouncers for a reason, just like you are a bartender." And just like he was a Spartan. "All of you have capacities specific to your craft, speaking of. What do you recommend?"
Cyrus eyed the top bar liquor with a clinical gaze. He didn't recognize any lower-quality brands, but a few bottles of Irish whiskey momentarily caught his attention. He used to sample whiskey as a street kid out of curiosity rather than any potential indulgence.
Kids could be idiots when they were fucking around on their own.
"For a squirt like you, a sippy cup…." The bartender replied, sharing a humorous glance with another bar patron as he handed her a pair of cocktails. "…But I'm feeling generous. I'll let you pick a vintage drink that nobles tend to indulge in."
Cyrus ghosted over the finely gathered collection, eyeing a familiar brandy his moth…Elerin dabbled in. He ignored the ache in his heart and the subtle attempt by Thierum to ascertain his origins by offering up a liquor that only Nobles drink.
"I don't need that." Cyrus retorted, ignoring the way Thierum stared back. "Give me the strongest drink you have."
"A devil's cocktail coming right up." While the bartender applied his talents to Cyrus's drink, the Spartan glanced over the club and began tallying the armed guards and thugs hiding in the shadows.
A flick of his finger sent a subtle wave of concentrated arcana into the dimly lit sections of the nightclub. The guards detected a minor shift in the winds, which alarmed a few, but his actions remained undetected.
When Cyrus turned back, a cocktail mix was slid into his palms by an overtly eager Thierum. He wasted little time indulging in this little spice of Underhive life and gulped down a mouthful of liquor.
Thierum watched the bitter taste play out on Cyrus's expression. The tightness in his eyes and teeth grinding were side effects of a devil's cocktail. Eventually, the soothing swish of alcohol consumed the Spartan's senses, and his tastebuds welcomed the pleasant flavor.
"Too tough for you?" Thierum inquired with a smile that set Cyrus on edge.
"Not in the slightest." The cocktail was bitter and relied on brute force to instill its alcoholic properties, but he'd drank heavier bottles before.
"You're an odd one, aren't ya?" Thierum palmed a dirty glass and ran a clean rag over its lip.
"So people keep telling me." Cyrus retorted, a hint of vexation entering his tone.
"You an orphan?" He wouldn't be the first sob story to come walking in here, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.
"No." Cyrus supplied, savoring the cocktail's bitter taste once again. "I have a…family, so to speak, but we don't exactly get along."
"Most families don't at some point in their lives, so I'm sure you'll figure it out, kid."
"Hmmm." It wasn't precisely sage advice, but Cyrus was here to enjoy his drink and listen to the local chatter.
A couple a few rows down from him discussed a lockdown in the Moonlight district. The details were sketchy, but rumors indicated that unknown assailants attacked a group of Inquisitors in broad daylight.
Cyrus filed that information away for later use if necessary and continued his eavesdropping in peace before Thierum engaged him with an inquiry of his own.
"I got a question if you don't mind." Cyrus nodded in acceptance, drawing his gaze away from a few gangers failing to conceal their expedited pace toward him. "What brings you down here?"
"I need information on the Firelights." Thierum's eyes shied away from Cyrus while he tended to his cocktail. The regulars around him were ushered out by a loose circle of thugs eying the Kimaris as if he were a wolf caught in a snare.
"You shouldn't have come here, kid." The bartender warned.
Things were about to get interesting.
"Why's that?"
"Because this isn't a place for Nobles." A voice called out from the VIP levels of the club, and Cyrus stared at a single red orb glaring at him with a narrowed gaze. That intense gaze traveled toward the mass of drunkards and partygoers unable or unwilling to move. "Get out."
Cyrus ignored the clattering of chairs and glass as the nightclub emptied out faster than a phantom deploying its lance. His eyes may have been focused on the half-empty cocktail, but his arcana and senses were already tallying the total number of thugs and bouncers forming a loose circle behind him.
The well-dressed Devil, whom Cyrus presumed to be the bar's proprietor or supervisor, swept his palm across the bartop before occupying the open space to his right.
"Who are you?" The Devil asked, sweeping the bartop of drinks and forcing Thierum to step back from the shattered glasses.
"No one in particular." Cyrus dipped the half-empty cocktail in a mock salute that grated on the Devil's nerves. "Who are you, old man?"
"Silco. The proprietor to this…." The Devil waved towards the dance floor, now sparsely occupied by his thugs. "…fine establishment."
"Good for you." Silco's gaze narrowed at Cyrus's nonchalant response, and he made eye contact with a brown-skinned devil lurking in the shadows alongside a few of his men.
It wasn't like Cyrus to be so reckless, but the last few days left him seeking out a conduit for his frustrations. He may have come here looking for information on Vander's daughter, but he also hoped some fool would do something idiotic.
And this finely dressed moron giving him the stink eye was playing right into his hands.
Did this go against everything Cyrus was taught, not just as a Spartan but also as the street kid who grew up knowing infamy was a surefire way to live with a target on your back?
Absolutely.
Did he care?
Not tonight.
"Enough games." Cyrus focused more on his cocktail than Silco's ravings, which appeared to irritate the Devil if the tension in his voice was anything to go by. "The Underhive is vast, but few can enter my domain without tipping off my guards or my runes, child."
The word struck a chord inside Cyrus, and a feeling of pure unadulterated rage boiled at the bottom of his stomach.
Something as insignificant as words should not have provoked such a violent response, but Cyrus' Devil side craved retribution, and for the first time in his life, he was eager to indulge that vexing part of him.
"I'm many things, old man. A child isn't one of them." The temperature inside the nightclub dipped at his cold statement, but the finely dressed Devil ignored the vestiges of demonic energy leaking out of Cyrus.
"Is that so?" The Devil motioned for two overtly muscled bodyguards to flank Cyrus on either side. "Then you wouldn't mind one of my men escorting you to our back room where we can…evaluate your attitude."
"As you wish," Cyrus lifted his nearly finished cocktail in one hand and flashed the nightclub proprietor a nonplussed glance. "But can I finish my drink first?"
"I would be a poor host if I didn't allow someone their final drink."
"Thank you." The Kimaris drank the rest of his cocktail in a single gulp, slamming it onto the bartop and shattering the glass in his hand. Cyrus ignored the thugs brandishing their magic and stared into Siloc's undamaged eye. "Mr. Thierum makes a fine cocktail, and as a courtesy, I will allow everyone here to find a new source of employment for the rest of their natural lives."
Cyrus's threat was momentarily answered by stunned silence, and Silco glanced about the room with an intrigued glim in his amber orb.
As the Underhive Boss, Silco rarely had to personally deal with arrogant devils who bit off more than they could chew.
His name alone kept the other syndicates in check, and his connections to the extra demon House Kelandora prevented the Nobles from delving too deep into the Underhive.
Silco may not have been the most martial of his race, but his strength relied on intelligence and instinct. This boy was setting off an alarming amount of demonic energy burrowed into the ground below him.
A cursory glance towards Sevika, his right hand, indicated that this…child was more than meets the eye.
He reeked of noble blood.
And their kind seldom graced the Underhive with their presence.
Why the boy wanted information on the Firelights was inconsequential.
An example needed to be made.
Silco did not earn his overall position as Underhive Boss if he permitted an adolescent upstart to disregard his authority.
"There's a hundred of us, boy," Silco responded, leaning against the bar and hovering over Cyrus' slumped figure. "I'd wager you could put up a decent fight but wonder what house saw fit to send you down amongst the rabble. Nebiros? Belphegor? Or maybe it was those fools from House Satanchia."
"I can assure you it wasn't any loyalist house." Silco's unblemished eye flashed with intrigue, and Cyrus caught a glimpse of excitement upon his vicious sneer.
"Even better," Silco's men stepped closer toward their Noble bounty. If the boy claimed to be of a Renegade House, his bounty would be worth more than a few of his thug's lives. "I don't suppose you would make my life easier by telling me which one before I sell your carcass to the Inquisitors."
"Don't worry, old man…." Incredibly a sly grin adorned Cyrus's pale face. "…You're about to find out."
Two words that drove fear into the hearts of Angel and Devil during the greatest war their people had ever seen echoed throughout the nightclub.
And only then did Silco realize his folly.
"Dubhra Garrach." The illuminating lights cracked and broke under the weight of imperceivable darkness, and more than a few of Silco's men flinched under a shower of sparks.
"What the hell!?" Astraran, one of Silco's enforcers lingering in the shadows, felt something slither past his leg, and when he looked down to investigate, a black tendril with sharpened teeth bared its fangs. "Oh sh-!"
The tendril smothered his cries of anguish as rows upon rows of sharpened fangs tore into his throat, spilling crimson blood onto the floor below. Astraran's corpse pitched forward and landed on its horrified face before his cadaver was dragged into the darkness.
The only evidence of his death was the pools of blood spilling down the dance floor steps. Silco heard the muffled scream, but Astraran had already vanished when he turned to investigate.
The next casualty was a thug looming off to Cyrus's right, his hands occupied by an oversized machete before a black tendril pierced his heart and drove him into the far wall.
Sevika turned just in time to see one of their thugs get cut down. Her legs were severed below the knee, and then she was dragged into the shadows where only the damned could hear her screams of anguish.
"To arms!" Sevika narrowly avoided a pair of tendrils piercing her sternum, parrying one sharpened wisp and slashing the other in half.
By now, everyone in the nightclub realized they were being torn apart by the seams. Every dark fissure erupted with black tendrils that ruthlessly butchered the thugs without hesitation.
One of Silco's bodyguards managed to save the Underhive Boss from a brutal skewering but, in the process, ended up taking his place. A single tendril erupting from Cyrus's shadow cut the faithful guardian in half and left Silco scrambling for safety.
Cryus remained motionless throughout the chaos. He seemingly ignored the cries of the dying and the shrieks of the damned, utterly indifferent to the carnage around him. He didn't relish in the fatalities of these thugs, nor did he care for the savagery he inflicted upon them.
They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and made the poor decision of working for a Devil who crossed the wrong Spartan.
"DIE MAGGOT!" Cyrus kicked off the bar top, avoiding a blast of magical arcana to the back of the head. His heartbeat slowed as he gazed indifferently into his attacker's piercing eyes.
One of Silco's men tried their luck at a quick and decisive end to this massacre, but Cyrus's instincts kept the man from a glorious kill.
Cyrus reacted first, stepping into his attacker's guard and driving his hand through the thug's heart. A clench of his fingers ruptured the critical organ and delivered the thug into the hands of whatever afterlife Devils walked into.
"Where'd you run off to, Silco?" Cyrus searched the surrounding carnage for the arrogant Devil who had set this massacre in motion. He stepped over several corpses, ignoring how his Dubhra Garrach's tore into the marred flesh with ease.
After a thorough search across the bloodied dance floor and upper pavilions, Cyrus was forced to concede that Silco had managed to escape his wrath leaving his men to suffer in his wake.
There were still dozens of bouncers and thugs fighting off his Dubhra Garrach, but their will and strength of arms were fading. He charged directly into a mass of terrified Devils, carving a trio of them in two with a simple flick of his Dubhra Sleagh.
The sharpened stave bit indiscriminately into flesh and bone, leaving more corpses for his Dubhra Garrach to feast upon.
The Spartan in him relished in the familiar adrenaline of combat, and the Devil demanded he put these fools where they belonged.
Beneath.
His.
Boot.
Cyrus was more than happy to oblige.
He glanced over the piles of butchered dead and quietly ascended a flight of stairs leading to Silco's office.
He didn't come to this city as a liberator.
That wasn't his prerogative, nor would it ever be.
Cyrus was here to sow chaos.
And unfortunately for Silco, his life would become its foundation.
l==l
Fear was not a foreign concept to Silco, but this…Noble was nothing like the fools he'd spent a dozen lifetimes dealing with.
At the apex of the Great War, Silco fought in the Infernal Legions under the banner of House Nebiros, and his Cohort had the unique distinction of serving under the Shadow Lord himself.
He would be hard-pressed not to recognize the power of House Kimaris.
*BANG!*
His guards flinched at the heavy thud as a body slammed into the double doors separating his office from the main corridor. A beastly roar followed a terrified scream, and the shrieking replaced the rip and tear of flesh.
"We're all going to die." Silco's bark of amusement drew surprised looks from his guards, but none expressed their outrage when a second clap of noise impacted the barricaded doors.
*BANG!*
Silco fished for a cigar in his pocket, pulling the tobacco-laced product from its box and igniting it with a flick of his wrist. The misty contents leaked into his lungs, and he exhaled a deep breath that mixed the smell of smoke with the rancid odor of decaying corpses.
A gloomy mist seeped through the cracks in the doors, prompting several of his men to trip over themselves in reckless panic.
The scuffles outside finally tapered off into a lengthy silence, and not even the beastly roars from the shadowy creatures could be heard.
Heartbeats elevated, breaths turned into lengthy exhales, and fingers began to release a veil of perspiration.
The door gave way at the lightest touch and revealed a row of razor-sharp teeth belonging to one of the most terrifying creatures in the Underworld.
A Manticore veiled in darkness craned its head and let loose a petrifying roar that sent Silco's thugs scrambling for safety. Its massive frame smashed through the entryway, muscling through the low ceiling and knocking the doors clean off their hinges.
Silco endured the wrath of an Archangel laying waste to his entire Cohort and a Grigori Harlequin burying her daggers through his Legionary armor, but the sight of a fully grown Manticore was a sight that could terrify even the most stalwart of Devils.
He expected a massacre to see arms and legs fly across his carpeted floor before the inconceivable ensued.
"Leave." A voice as cold as the lands of Seracan echoed across the chamber. When no one dared move, a humanoid figure appeared in the Manticore's shadow. "Now."
His thugs complied, and Silco watched them slither past the massive beast before disappearing both from sight and mind.
Violet eyes crinkled with confusion, but his attention ebbed away towards the hooded Devil seated across from him. "Lord Kimaris. Your reputation precedes you."
"I didn't realize I had one." It wasn't a statement of ignorance but a lack of care for his reputation.
"Oh, but you do, my exalted lord." Silco retrieved his fallen cigarette and reignited it with a flick of his fingers. "One does not simply unravel decades of meticulous planning without someone noticing. Viktor's untimely death is still circulating amongst the Loyalists, but you can be assured they will seek retribution."
"I'm counting on it." The boy had a certain belligerence that Vander would have liked, but that was dangerous for even a Noble to carry.
"Be careful what you wish for, boy." Cyrus gave off no outward reaction to his demeaning statement. "There are a great many Loyalists that could slay you without breaking a sweat."
"I believe you." The Kimaris relaxed into his seat. "But I'm not here to trade banter."
"Then what are you here for?" Silco wasn't an idiot; he understood why the Kimaris had visited him but needed to hear him say it.
"Information," Cyrus began. "Lucifaad has been under siege for the last few months, but this civil war continues with no end in sight. I intend to fix that."
"And why would I help you?" Silco's eyes glazed with a subtle gleam. "I was once a loyal servant of House Nebiros and had never once balked in that duty."
"Had, Silco." There was a deadly edge to Cyrus's voice, and Silco instinctively leaned away from the dark tendrils licking at his arms. "You will tell me everything I want to know, and the only choice you have in the matter is how you die…."
"…Quickly." A strand of darkness wrapped itself around the crime lord's throat, siphoning the oxygen from his breath and pinning him against his chair. "Or slowly."
At that moment, Silco realized that for all his brilliance, there was nothing he could do to stop Cyrus.
No trick, no scheme, no bargaining, and no manner of bribery to influence the noble's mindset.
Because these weren't the actions of a Devil.
They were the actions of a Demon.
Like many before Silco, he sang like a bird and spilled every important detail one of Cyrus's stature should know.
And in that moment of brief silence, hope for survival tainted Silco's thoughts.
It didn't last long.
"Thank you for your cooperation."
A tendril emerged from the shadows and buried itself into Silco's left eye, slicing through the retina and burrowing itself into the meat of his skull. Cyrus didn't spare him a second glance as brain matter exploded from every orifice, and the Manticore feasted on Silco's flesh.
There was no time to deliberate action.
He had a city to burn.