Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #11: The Crime of Wasted Time]

Log Date: 12/24/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Jayta’s Journal

We are defined by our traditions.

Our celebrations, our rituals, the rhythms that make up the longer arc of our lives, and which we use to measure our time as we make our way through life. These traditions are often tied to the seasons, sometimes fading when civilizations spread to other worlds. Those which survive must change to accommodate the reality of a new world; they must tie to something in our culture that speaks beyond the turning of the seasons. Our traditions must speak to something more about who and what we are as a people — otherwise they are merely vestiges of a culture that no longer represents what we’ve become.

What each spacefaring society retains in terms of tradition varies from civilization to civilization, a conversation that is had between members of a society stretched between stars as they try to figure out who they are, and what defines them even when they are separated by lightyears. It is usually a more localized conversation, as each society springs from different roots, and what is celebrated by one society may not be celebrated by another. But there are some traditions that, unmoored from their original religion or season, transcend the barriers between cultures, as they come to stand for something more than what they originally represented.

And some of these more universal holidays transcend even the barriers between the living and the dead, and are celebrated equally by both.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Greater Common Room

4:06pm SGT

“Alright, buffet tables set up, alcohol bar managed… wait, where are the ice buckets? You can’t serve some of these wines warm. Aritska! Run to the kitchen and tell them we need ice buckets and an ice cooler! Taiga— good gracious, why are you hanging the kissing berries that high? People need to be able to pick the berries off it, they can’t do that if they can’t reach it. Lower the string a bit, not everyone has wings like you.”

I watch from one of the many doorways leading into the greater common room. The room is usually vast and empty, save for some lonely tables and couch sets, but now it’s bustling and filled with activity. Danya is throwing out orders left and right into a group of harpies and House staff, who are setting up tables and decorating the room. Kitchen servers are ferrying platters into the room, setting them up on tables as soon as they become available. I’d always known that the larger rooms and ballrooms in the House were used for events like this, but this was the first time I’d seen one put to use.

And for a Krysmis party, of all things.

“Jayta!” Danya snaps as she catches sight of me. I jump at the shout, a little startled, and fight the instinct to shrink away from her as she comes stalking across the room towards me, her heels clicking over the floor. Her hair is out of the bun she usually keeps it in; it’s been styled and curled, and she’s put a bit more effort into her makeup than she usually does. The result is a tall, commanding brunette in a black dress with a daring slit along the side — freed from her pinstripe suit and her tight bun, this is the first time that I’ve looked at Danya and remembered that she is, in fact, a succubus.

“Good to see you’ve finally decided to join us.” she says as she reaches me and starts to look me over. “I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost in your closet after I told you to go get dressed. I see you’ve elected to go with one of the modest affairs that was provided for your high-society events.”

“Um… yes.” I say quietly, feeling very self-conscious. Danya had told me to get dressed for the Krysmis Eve party, and it’d been a while since I’d put on a dress. I would’ve rather attended in my House uniform to avoid drawing any attention, but Danya had made it clear that wasn’t an option. So I’d dug through my wardrobe until I’d come up with what I thought would be the most modest option: a simple, pale, white-blue dress that went down to my ankles, and with long sleeves with little loops on the end for my middle fingers. Though it was a little snug, it wasn’t nearly as daring as Danya’s dress.

“I suppose this will do.” Danya says, her lips pursed as she sets one hand on her hip. “It fits you well enough to make you the envy of anyone that wishes they had the waistline of a prim little tatterdemalion like you. Hair is decent… could’ve done more with your makeup, but it’s better than overdoing it. Mmm. Yes, I suppose this will do.”

I don’t say anything to that, despite feeling heat rise to my ears. I’d never really done a big kind of event like this; it was the kind of thing that only rich people did in their big fancy houses during the holidays, with their catered staff and servants. I’d only ever dressed like this on the few occasions that I’d attended weddings. All the Krysmis parties I’d attended had been jeans and sneakers and ugly sweaters and puffy winter jackets, not all of… this.

“Is something the matter, Jayta?” Danya asks, arching an eyebrow. “I am detecting an abnormal lack of whining and muttering.”

“Do I really have to attend this party?” I ask reluctantly. “Can’t I just… stay up in my room until everyone’s gone?”

“You are an avenger for the Lord of Regret. Representing him at formal occasions is part of the job.” she answers in a clipped tone, stepping around me. “That includes being present when other representatives of the House of Regret are convened here for a celebration.”

Even though it’s not stated, I can tell she wants me to follow her, so I start after her as she stalks down the hall. “So… the guests are going to be other demons that work for him?”

“By and large, with a few special guests that Lord Syntaritov deems worthy of attending.” Danya says as she strides down the hall. I don’t see how she can move so fast in heels; I’d be tripping over myself and breaking a leg. “Think of it as a company party. The people you’ll meet will be coworkers, colleagues, and peers. We will all share something in common: our service to the Lord of Regret.”

“Why don’t I ever see any of them at the House, then?” I ask, trying to keep up with her.

“Because Lord Syntaritov’s influence stretches through many cities in Sjelefengsel, which in turn requires a local presence to maintain that influence.” Danya explains. “Lord Syntaritov cannot be everywhere at once, and so he has others in his stead to be there for him, to represent him and carry out his agenda. What you see here at the House is merely the sheltered core of our operations, the heart of an influence network that expands far and wide across Sjelefengsel.”

“What are they like? The other demons that work for him, that is.” I ask as we reach the grand foyer, and I follow her up the stairs.

“As much as I wish to respond with sarcasm, your question is a valid one, given that Lord Syntaritov’s methodology varies greatly from that of his other peers in the Seventh Circle.” Danya says as she clacks her way up the stairs. “One generally expects the workforce of a demon lord to be the scum of mortality, given that this is hell. And a large share of contract demons are those who let their ambition or greed get the better of them, and paid for their mortal gains with their souls. This is true, to some degree, for Lord Syntaritov’s underlings. He has damned demons that were assigned to his jurisdiction who were scum in their mortal lives, and he has contract demons in his employ who sold their souls away for greed and vice. But not all of them are such. Lord Syntaritov has a peculiar habit of taking in outcasts, rejects, the grieving and forlorn. Perhaps it is because he is the Lord of Regret, and so these types draw him more than others, but not all among his staff are vice-laden degenerates like Harro. And to that end, a number of them are… decently well behaved, at least as far as demons go.”

“I mean… Harro’s not too bad.” I say hesitantly as I crest the second floor behind her. “He helped me on one of my tasks. And I don’t like to admit it, but… I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do it on my own.”

Danya pauses, head turned slightly as if she was about to say something, but her lips just draw tight instead, and she continues walking. “I have already warned you about Harro, multiple times. If you insist on forming your own impression rather than trusting my counsel, then I wash my hands of the matter.”

The tart disapproval in her voice is irritating, but I’m not in a mood to try and argue with her right now. We walk in silence for a good portion of the hall, and it’s only when we start to near Danya’s office that she speaks again.

“This all being said, I would have you bear in mind that though Lord Syntaritov’s underlings have a lower quotient of criminal predisposition than the lieutenants of other Lords, it does not mean that they are wholly benevolent.” she says as she stops at her office door, pressing a hand against it. The seal of the House of Regret flares to life on the surface of the door before fading away, the door unlocking. “Every demon has an agenda. The vast majority are seeking to escape, or make their existence here more bearable. For some, their loyalty to Lord Syntaritov outweighs this, but for others, they will gladly scheme and plot behind Lord Syntaritov’s back. And they will not hesitate to ensnare others in their machinations.”

“I don’t want to deal with all that.” I say, following as Danya opens the door and steps in. “Can’t I just… skip this party? Please? I’ll just stay up in my room, read a book, I won’t cause any trouble, promise…”

“It’s not a matter of you causing trouble. It’s a matter of responsibilities.” Danya says, crossing her office to a glass cabinet. “I know you would rather withdraw from a fraught social engagement such as this, as would I. Despite being billed as a ‘party’, it’s more akin to a minefield cloaked in niceties and social posturing. But it is our duty, for you as an avenger and me as his head of staff, to attend and represent.”

“Why can’t he represent himself?” I demand as she unlocks the cabinet and opens its doors. “He’s going to be there, right? There’s no need for him to drag the rest of us into it if he’s going to be here as well.”

“It’s true, he will be here at this event.” she says, thumbing through what look to be clipped flowers kept in glass cases. “But it will not always be so. Eventually, you will be required to go to events in his stead, and represent him in an official capacity as his avenger. So far he has held your hand and accompanied you on certain tasks that would normally be handled by an avenger alone, so he can show you the ropes rather than throwing you into the role. But eventually, you will have to start undertaking those tasks on your own, with the responsibility of representing your Lord as best you can.”

“What is that?” I demand as she turns back around with one of the glass boxes, a white flower with broad petals contained within it.

“This is a lotus flower.” Danya explains, unlatching the clips holding the box shut. “I thought it would go well with your hair tonight.”

“I’m not some mannequin for you and Raikaron to dress up, Danya!” I snap at her. “I’m not a trophy for you all to show off to the rest of your demon friends!”

Danya stares at the sudden outburst. After a moment of tense silence, she waves a hand, the door swinging closed at the gesture, and motions to one of the cushioned benches in her office. “Sit.” she orders.

I’ve got a sinking feeling that I’ve pissed off Danya, and though I don’t want to, I can’t bring myself to defy her. My little outburst of defiance is short-lived; I move over to the bench and sit down, fidgeting with my fingers and avoiding looking at her as she walks over. There’s sterile click as she opens the glass box and pulls the lotus out of it.

“It’s funny that you should be so worked up about being asked to look your finest.” she says as she fiddles with the clip on the underside of the lotus. “Funny to me, that is, though I say ‘funny’ only in the sense of irony and black humor. I will admit that ever since I first met you, I have despised you for whatever natural beauty you have. Despite the fact that it was often buried beneath an avalanche of self-pity and moping, and your painfully pedestrian wardrobe.”

I look up at her. Her eyes are fixed on the lotus as she strokes and fluffs it, as if making sure it was in prime condition. “You? Envy me? Like, have you seen yourself…?”

“How I appear now was not my appearance during my mortal tenure.” Danya says, pulling a chair over and sitting down in front of me. “Succubi and incubi are vain, pathetic creatures, little demon. Nearly all of them were normal or unattractive people, desperate to look like something other than what they were, either for their own sake, or for the sake of winning the affections of those that they pined for. So desperate that they would sign away their souls for it.” Reaching forward, she carefully nestles the lotus in my hair on the left side. “I was one such person. A lonely little librarian, with no friends, no social skills or graces. Mousy and unattractive. Lost in my fantasy books, wishing for my prince… or wishing I could be one of those daring, attractive heroines, and not what I was. Meek, short, timid, shy.”

I’m dumbfounded. “You… used to be human? Like me?”

“In the inexact sense. You’re prettier than I ever was.” she answers, adjusting the clipped flower a little, making sure it wouldn’t slip under its own weight. “I was a Marshy in what used to be an industrial town that was slowly crumbling once the factories shut down. I should’ve left, just like all the other young people did. Maybe if I had left, I would’ve grown, might’ve found my prince. But the town was all I’d ever known, and trying new things was scary. I never found it in myself to leave. The loneliness was terrible, especially in the winter, when everything was cold and dead. It can drive a person to do… desperate, pathetic things.”

I watch as she takes her hands away from my hair, now that the flower is firmly seated in place. “What did you do…?” I ask, hesitantly, feeling like I already know the answer, but wanting to ask anyway, even though I’m not sure I want to hear it either.

“As a librarian, I had access to a number of tomes, some of them rather dated.” she replies, standing up and taking the glass box off the corner of the desk. “And in my desperation, I took to studying chthonic volumes. Most were nonsense or forgeries. But buried among all the jibberish and trash, I found a ritual for summoning the Blackthorn Demon.” The doors of the glass cabinet click open again, and she sets the empty box back inside. “Which you and I know as our Lord and master — Lord Syntaritov.”

Closing the doors of the cabinet, she locks them once more. “I called upon him. I begged him to change me. To make me taller, more beautiful, more confident, more funny. To make me anything but what I was. I was more than happy to sell my soul for that. And he…”

“He tricked you into a contract?” I guess.

Danya looks over her shoulder at me, her hands still on the doors of the cabinet. “No. You know our Lord; you know his warped kindness, his disruptive wisdom, his stygian clarity. He gave me more than what I asked for; he gave me the power to change myself into what I wanted. And he gave me one month to prove that it was worth it. If I could do that, he would let me keep my soul, and keep whatever form made me happy. And then he left.”

“And you weren’t able to prove to him that it was worth it when he came back?” I ask, a little confused.

“Correct.” she says, taking her hands off the cabinet and turning around. “There were no princes in that town. Only pigs. And it took Lord Syntaritov granting my wish for me to finally see that. To finally realize that my life was not a fairytale, and that there was no perfect prince out there for me, and that I was not a hero.” The bitterness in her voice is almost palpable as she drags her fingers along the edge of her desk. “That is why I despised you when you first came to the House. A pretty little thing, given every privilege. The best room in the House, and a rank you hadn’t earned… a veritable little fairytale princess, and all you did was bitch and moan about how unfair it was. And you still bitch and moan about how unfair it all is.”

I wince at that. “I mean, I didn’t ask for any of this…”

“Just because you didn’t want it doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable. Would you rather be picking weeds in the flowerbeds all day, like the groundskeeping staff? Or toiling away at the counter like the kitchen staff?” she demands, glaring down at me. “I worked my ass off when I first came into the employ of Lord Syntaritov. I staggered and stumbled and fumbled my way through becoming a spy. It took me years to work my way up through the ranks and dethrone the head succubus in his employ, and years more to earn my own spot here within the Lord’s very own House. Only to watch a fresh young thing like you be accorded the same rights and privileges as someone at my rank. What was my sin? Pining for the impossible? My only mortal flaw was doing nothing with my life. While your hands were bloody from the start, and how are you rewarded? Not with toiling in the flowerbeds, or cleaning toilets, or with a taking a dip in a magma pit, but with power and privilege.”

I hunch my shoulders, wilting beneath Danya’s harsh words. It hurts to hear it because she’s right, but I don’t like thinking about the fact that she’s right. I don’t like thinking about it at all, because if I start thinking about it, I realize that I do have it pretty good compared to most other demons in Sjelefengsel.

“To respond to what started all of this in the first place, Lord Syntaritov does not ask you to dress your finest so he can show you off to others.” Danya goes on. “He asks you to dress your best for the same reason that he asks it of me, and of Harro, and of all of his subordinates attending this event. It is because he has a vision for our better selves, of who we can be. You are not a trophy; you are a work in progress. One that, if you ask me, is a lost cause, but he believes in you, even if I do not. And I admit, seeing you cleaned up like this gave me a brief glimpse of the kind of lady you could be, even though it was eclipsed mere moments later by your perennial ingratitude.” After a moment to let that all settle in, she gestures to the mirror on the back of her office door. “On your feet. I would like you to see yourself.”

Getting up, I walk over to the mirror. Danya shortly joins me as I study myself in the mirror; the blue-white dress, the pale blonde hair, the granite-grey eyes. Along with the lotus in my hair, it makes me splash of brightness against the grim colors of the House.

“Unhunch your shoulders. Chin up. Be at ease, but do not slouch.” Danya orders, standing behind me like a tall, dark shadow. She brings two fingers up, touching them to the thorny collar mark wrapped around my neck — just the same as the one that winds around her own neck. “We are the property of the Lord of Regret, but this is not something to be ashamed of. We are the women of the House of Regret, and though you have not earned it yet, we are both members of the Sixth Circle of Sjelefengsel. Aside from Lord Syntaritov himself, we are the individuals with the most authority in this House. There will be others at the party tonight whose authority and rank matches our own, but does not exceed it. Everyone at the party will either be your peer or your subordinate, like unto you in stature and regard in all but one respect: they are guests here. You and I are residents, and as such, we hold the esteem of our Lord.”

“Am I supposed to be proud of that, or something…?” I mutter. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be ‘proud’ about the fact that someone else owns me.”

“There is pride in service rendered with grace and elegance, just as there is pride in a job well done.” Danya replies tersely. “You are a woman with power and authority. I expect you to behave in a manner becoming of such responsibilities tonight.”

“Responsibilities I never asked for.” I remind her.

“Moping is unattractive, Jayta.” she chides.

“Maybe I don’t want to be attractive.” I mutter.

“Oh really? You simply happened to bludgeon another girl to death that happened to be taller, better endowed, more social, more athletic, and more confident than you were? Simply for kicks and giggles? There was no envy or insecurity involved, mm?” she asks tartly.

I glare at her in the mirror. “I hate you.”

“You hate that I tell the truth.” she retorts. “If you don’t want me doing that, you shouldn’t be telling idle mistruths. You do want to be attractive, Jayta, just as every other girl does, and just as I once did. The difference between you and I is that you already possess what I sold my soul to obtain.” Reaching around me, she pulls the door to the office open, our reflections sliding away. “Now if only your attitude matched your looks, you might actually be desirable, instead of merely attractive.”

It takes a second for the insult to process, but when it does, it stings. I don’t have a ready comeback for it, which is just as well, because Danya steps around me and stalks through the door, headed back down the hall. I’m left standing there, my pride bruised as the implications of Danya’s words finish sinking in.

That my ex hadn’t cheated on me because the new girl was prettier, but because she had a better personality than me.

Jayta’s Journal

I never was much for parties.

Mark it up to the fact that I was the sister of a witchling. My brother was always the center of attention at a given event; whenever we arrived to a social event, we were always welcomed warmly, but Jazel more so than anyone else. Hosts would go out of their way to make our family feel comfortable, but Jazel would always receive special attention. The first to be offered food, a good chair, a spot at the table, the best cut of the treats at hand. The witches that would host the events would use their power to set seating arrangements so they could place their daughters next to Jazel… not that it would’ve yielded any results, given how dense my brother could be.

But the point was that I came to resent parties and social events because of this, especially the ones we attended as a family. I was always sidelined, invisible, hidden in the shadow of my brother, a brother that didn’t really appreciate the attention he was being given, and didn’t know what to do with it. I hated dressing up and trying to look good when I would just end up ignored in favor of my brother, who was too often owlish and awkward, embarrassing to be around. And even when people would talk to me, it was just to ask me questions about my brother — nobody was ever interested in me.

So I grew to hate parties. And the coven, and witch culture at large, but I had a special distaste for parties. They were ordeals that were to be evaded if at all possible, but if you had to go, you suffered through them until you had reached the minimum time required for attendance, and ducked out as soon as it was polite to do so. And in the interim, you loaded a plate with food, found a good corner to hide in, and hoped nobody would come bother you before you could slip out.

And even with my brother out of the picture, it didn’t seem like parties were something I’d ever be able to enjoy again.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Greater Common Room

7:34pm SGT

Two hours and a half hours in, it’s feeling like this party is going exactly how I thought it would.

It’s a good deal more uptight than the celebrations that the coven had when I was a kid; everyone that’s attending is dressed to the nines. The men are all suited up, the women likewise, unless they’ve elicited to wear a dress. And though everyone is polite, there’s an unsettling undercurrent running through it all; a feeling that even as all these demons mix and mingle, laugh and socialize, each of them is watching the others carefully and closely, as if sizing each other up and looking for weakness or an opening. I remembered what Danya said about dethroning the head succubus and taking her place, and realized this wasn’t just a party — it was an opportunity for other demons to scope out their competition.

I’m not interested in that, and I don’t want to be a part of it.

It doesn’t help that some of them have taken passes at me. I don’t know if word got around or what, but everyone seems to know who I am. Drinks have been offered my way, along with invitations to join social groups, but I don’t like the way everyone looks at me. It reminds me of the way people treated me at celebrations back in the coven — as if I was just a way for them to get closer to my brother. It feels the same way here, like people think that befriending me will give them better access to Raikaron.

Just a stepping stone on the way to a bigger goal.

So I’ve relegated myself to the corner of the greater common room, alone and miserable, nursing my drink and plate of fruit, waiting for this ordeal to be over. It’s easier to keep an eye on everyone when I’ve got my back to a wall, and I can see people coming and going as they filter in and out of the room. This is the room where all the food and drink is, so people cycle through here pretty frequently, but tend to move on quickly as well, back to some of the other rooms where there’s dancing or music or casual games. The harpies are the most frequent visitors, creeping into the room in small groups or on their own, sneaking up to the tables to start stuffing their mouths before getting chased away by the kitchen staff.

“Well you look right miserable tonight!”

The deep, booming voice startles me, and I jump in my chair, fumbling to catch my plate of snacks and spilling it all over the floor. Sitting down on the chair on the other side of the corner table I’m at is a massive, eight-foot demon with black, scale-hardened skin and thick goat horns spiraling out from both his temples. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a tropical-print shirt; something about him seems familiar, but it’s still a moment before I realize where I’ve seen him before.

It’s Brian, the demon that runs the Exchange in Hautaholvi.

“I. Uh. Where.” I stutter, floored by the fact that he came to the party. I don’t know how he managed to sneak up on me; I’m sitting in the corner and he’s so big that could probably suplex a four-door sedan. Even if I was zoned out, I figured I would’ve seen him coming from clear across the room. “H-hi?”

“Long time, no see, little demon!” he says cheerily, sticking a toothpick in one of the melon slices in his snack bowl, which looks like a thimble in one of his massive hands. “Sorry about startling you. Figured you would see me coming, but you had this thousand-mile stare going on. I guess you were thinking about something?”

“I uh… yeah.” I say slowly, before realizing I’ve left a mess of fruit all over the floor. I lean forward out of my chair to start picking it up and putting it back on my platter. “Just lost in thought, I suppose. How c-come you’re here? I thought you worked for another Lord…”

“I do! The Lord of Greed. But I get along well with Blackthorn, enough that he sends me an invite for his Krysmis party every year.” Brian says, leaning one of his massive arms on the table, which creaks beneath the burly weight. “You look mighty fine tonight. How come you’re not hanging time with any of these other handsome demons?”

I hunch my shoulders a little. “Everyone’s out to get something here. I didn’t want to be part of the game.”

“Ah.” he says a little more softly. “The game, is it? The struggle for power and status, to claw your way to the top of the pile.” He uses his toothpick, dwarfed by his massive fingers, to push his melon slices around in his bowl. “I’ll tell you a secret, little demon. No one wins the game down here. Not even the Lesser Lords that hold our chains, or the Greater Lords that hold their chains. We are all prisoners here, one way or another.”

I finish picking up the spilled fruit, setting the plate back on the table. Now that it’s been on the floor, I’m not going to be eating any of it. “Is that supposed to comfort me, or something?”

“It is! No matter what Circle you’re in, we all have something in common.” Brian says, jabbing another melon slice. “Not even your good Lord is exempt from the vicissitudes of the game. Speaking of which, where is he?” Brian straightens up a little to scan the room, leaning his arm a little heavier on the table, which creaks perilously beneath his muscle. “I haven’t seen him since I got here. Is he hiding somewhere?”

“I haven’t seen him either, come to think of it.” I say, looking around the room. “Isn’t it rude not to attend the party you’re hosting?”

“Oh, he’s here, I’m sure of it.” Brian says, popping the melon slice into his massive maw. “He treats us to that gorgeous voice of his every Krysmis, then usually we do the drawing for the Iron Liver.”

“The Iron what?” I ask, looking at him.

“Iron Liver. It’s a drinking contest he hosts every New Year’s Eve.” Brian says, scanning the room. “It’s a hell of an event, a real hoot. Last one standing earns the Iron Liver title until next year. There’s only enough tickets for twenty participants. Five are reserved for his own demons, and the other fifteen are auctioned off to bidders across Sjelefengsel. With as much as some of those tickets go for, I’m sure he makes a pretty penny off of it.”

“Seriously?” I say. “People will pay through the nose to attend a drinking contest?”

“Not just any drinking contest.” Brian says, shaking a melon-tipped toothpick at me. “This is the Iron Liver. The drinks that are served there are hard to get anywhere else because they’re Dreaming draughts. Magical drinks — powerful, wicked, wild. They don’t just make you drunk, they do things to you. Regular liquors will knock you down for a day or so. Dreaming draughts can screw you up for weeks, or sometimes even permanently alter you.”

I recoil at that. “Hungover for weeks? Why would anyone want that?”

“Hangover! Hah!” he chuckles, slapping a hand against the table, rattling everything that’s sitting on it. “No no no, little demon, a hangover is tame compared to what a Dreaming draught will do to you. Last time I participated in the Iron Liver, I was left-handed for a fortnight afterwards. But that’s nothing compared to what I’ve seen some people walk away with. Danya will never tell you this, but she had to participate once, and the last drink she had before she went under was something that set her hair on fire. The effect stuck for eight days. She had to sleep with her head in a shallow bowl of water during that time because she couldn’t lay down without setting her pillow on fire.”

All I can do is stare at him in horror. “Why would anyone want to participate?”

“Because it’s fun, little demon!” he says, leaning back in his chair, which creaks in protest. “Some of the side effects are cool, others are annoying, but the thrill of each draught, the way it makes you feel… it reminds demons of what it felt like to be alive. Dreaming drinks do that, you know. They make you feel things. Regular drinks, they just bend your head out of shape and make you fuzzy. But Dreaming draughts affect you, can change your body and change what you feel. They’re magical, in the literal sense, and drinking them is magical, in the sense of experience.”

I still have my doubts. “Where does he get the drinks, then? If they’re so rare, I figure he’s not making a lot of profit, even selling off tickets to the contest.”

“He makes them, of course.” Brian says, popping a chunk of melon in his mouth. “He’s a creature of the Dreaming; it’s a part of his culture, where he comes from. You didn’t think he’s always been a demon Lord here in Sjelefengsel, did you? He’s still got connections to the Dreaming, and that’s probably where he gets his ingredients from so he can brew the draughts.” Looking around, he stabs his toothpick back into his melon bowl. “As a matter of fact — why don’t we go find him right now. I want to make sure I’m part of the raffle for the drawing of Iron Liver tickets.”

“Find… who? Raikaron?” I ask as Brian stands up to his full, towering height.

“Of course. I figure he’s got to be around here somewhere.” Brian says, picking up his melon bowl. “He’s not a fan of crowds, but he’ll put up with them when the job requires it. Come, let’s go find him.”

“I don’t know if we should…” I say doubtfully. The thought of seeking Raikaron out is a little scary to me; I’ve been conditioned to never approach him unless he orders it. Going looking for him was something had never crossed my mind.

“It’ll be fine, trust me.” Brian says, waving it off. “Your Lord’s much nicer than other Lords. Besides, you can claim you were showing me around the House.” He stops by my chair, holding one of his arms out to me. “Please?”

I think that’s the first time anyone here has asked me anything nicely.

“Yeah… yeah, I guess I could.” I say, standing up hesitantly. With his height, his offered arm is at the same height as my head. I can’t really put my arm through his at that height, so I just reach up and place my arm against his black-scaled skin, which is warm and rough to the touch.

“Besides, this way, you won’t have any of the other demons bothering you.” Brian points out as we start walking. “I used to be a bouncer at the succubi strip clubs. Good times. You meet a lot of different sorts, working at a place like that.”

“Really?” I say, looking up at him. With his size, I’m not surprised. He looks like he could give Lust’s bodyguards a run for their money. “Did you… meet Lord Syntaritov there?”

“What? Oh goodness no.” he guffaws. “No, Blackthorn, he’s a different sort. I know him from the Exchange; he’s been selling me emotions for years. Buyers use them as psychological poisons, or as components in curses or spells. He’s a good source; there are not many in Sjelefengsel that can harvest emotions as easily as he can.”

“How does he do that?” I ask as we pass from one room to the next. “I saw the vials at the Exchange, but…”

“Haven’t the damnedest idea.” Brian replies blithely. “All I know is that he’s a creature of the Dreaming, and creatures of the Dreaming can touch and hold and shape memories, emotions, and dreams the way that some people shape and hold dirt or clay. I think I asked him how he did it once, but he deflected or just refused to answer. Would you like some melon, by the way?”

“I’m good, thank you.” I decline politely, aware of some of the other demons glancing in our direction as we make our way through the parlor room. “If you don’t mind me asking… how did you end up here in Sjelefengsel?”

“Let’s just say that if you’re offered a deal that’s too good to be true, it probably is.” Brian says vaguely as we depart the parlor room, cycling into the grand foyer. “You think he’s upstairs?”

“Maybe.” I say, staring up the double-winged staircase, before I tilt my head back down. I can hear something down the main hall, something like… music. “Do you hear that?”

Brian pauses, stopping his melon-chewing to listen. “I do, actually. Sounds like he’s already gotten started on his evening performance. Right on down this way, it seems.” He starts down the main hall, and I pick up the pace, trying to keep up with his longer stride.

“I didn’t know he could sing.” I murmur as I follow Brian.

“Well, he doesn’t sing for just anyone. I’ve only heard him sing during the Krysmis Eve parties.” Brian says. “Beautiful voice, though, incredible, really. He could make a career out of it if he wanted, but I suppose he’s got better things to do, being a Lesser Lord and all that. No need to win fame and acclaim when you already have authority and power. And Sjelefengsel’s already got plenty of music idols.”

“Wait, Sjelefengsel’s got a music industry?” I asked as the music starts to get a bit closer. “I thought you guys got all your media from the mortal plane, instead of creating any of your own.”

“Well, our music industry certainly isn’t as robust as the mortal industry, but it’s still there.” Brian explains. “It’s usually made up of contract demons, and supported by damnation demons. The vast majority of them are succubi or incubi, to no one’s surprise.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.” I say as we near the living room, getting quieter as the sound of music starts to grow. Reaching the threshold, Brian quietly eases into the room, which has an abundance of well-dressed demons on the couches and chairs or leaning against the walls. Raikaron is by the fireplace, dressed as he usually is in his scarlet tie and slim-cut vest; but his sleeve cuffs are unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow, which is practically scandalous by his well-dressed standards. In the corner of the room are the three white raven harpies, one on a baby grand piano, another on a sax, and the last one on a drumset, providing accompaniment.

But it’s Raikaron that holds my attention. He’s making noise I’ve never heard before, noise I never expected to hear out of someone like him. His voice is rich and smooth, deeper than I’m accustomed to, like a fountain of dark chocolate — melodic and swaying easily from note to note with the practiced ease of a professional lounge vocalist. As we watch, he starts in on an altered, jazzy version of a popular Krysmis song on the mortal plane.

I don’t say it often, but hot damn, I’m captivated.

I’m dreaming of a red Krysmis

Just like the ones we all know

Where the magma glistens

And demons listen

To hear the damned screaming — oh ho ho!

I said, I’m dreaming of a red Krysmis

With every contract that I sign!

May it be one hell of a time

And may your Krysmis be oh-so-fine…

“Pretty good, isn’t he.” Brian murmurs, giving me a little nudge with his elbow.

I’m speechless. The words are awful… but it sounds so good, he makes it sound so charming and playful, that I have to fight to keep myself from tapping along to the beat. It’s rich and dark, in more than one sense — plainly cruel and depraved, but deliciously so. The very definition of a classy demon.

I raise a hand to my mouth. “I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much.” I whisper. “He’s amazing.”

“I know, right?” Brian says starting to bob to the beat a little. “Just makes you want to sing right along. It’s a real damn shame he doesn’t do it more often.”

“I didn’t know he could sing like this.” I murmur behind my hand.

“Well, I’m glad I made your night.” Brian says, popping another melon slice in his mouth. “Blackthorn’s a real gentleman, a real stand-up fellow, if you ask me. It’s a shame someone like him is trapped here in hell; I think he could really make a difference out on the mortal plane.”

“Trapped?” I say softly, looking at him. “He didn’t end up here because he wanted to?”

“Oh, well he might well have.” Brian says, giving a little shrug. “But sooner or later, whether we came here because we wanted to or not, we all end up trapped here.” He gives me a knowing look. “That goes for even the great among us.”

He doesn’t say anything more, leaving me to dwell on that. I don’t stay focused on it for very long; Raikaron has my attention, his rich, smooth voice teasing my ears and sending shivers down my back. I’d never thought it could be so pleasant to listen to him — it bothers me that I’m enjoying this as much as I am. I’m not the only one that feels that way; by the time he finishes, there’s no small amount of clapping in the room, some of it grudging. Some of the attendant demons raise their glasses, calling for another.

“For that, I will have to politely decline.” Raikaron says, holding up his hands. “Three songs will have to be enough, I am sure that you all are tired of listening to me by now. Besides, we all know why you all are really here. Danya?”

Danya, who’s been in the corner of the room, holds up what looks like a glass bowl with marbles in it. “Those of you who have attended in prior years know the rules. One marble per demon; cheaters will be disqualified, and if you win a ticket, you cannot give it away to another. The harpies will be passing them out; you may decline if you wish, but we will all judge you for it.”

With that, she sets the bowl on the floor, and the harpies that have been waiting at her side — largely crows and shrikes — dart forward, grabbing handfuls of the marbles and running off with them. Most of them run out the other doors, presumably to hand out marbles to everyone else, though two of them stay in this room, making the rounds of the demons in here and passing out marbles.

“Danya?” Raikaron says expectantly, glancing at her. “Will you not participate this year?”

“I would hate to take the opportunity away from others.” Danya replies drily.

“Weeeeak!” calls one of the demons, and the others start jeering.

“What, are you afraid of a little bit of Dreaming booze?”

“Nah, she’s scared she’ll drop in the first round.”

“C’mon, just take a marble, statistically speaking you’re not even going to get a ticket.”

She stares flatly at them, then rolls her eyes, reaching down and picking a marble out of the bowl and holding it up. “There. Is my courage sufficiently proved now?”

“That’ll do.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Watch her get one of the tickets.”

“Oh gods, Danya getting sozzled? I’d come to see that.”

A nudge brings my attention around; Brian’s bumped my shoulder, and I look down to see that one of the shrike harpies is grinning up at me with a mouth full of jagged teeth, holding a handful of marbles out to me. I recoil a little. “I don’t…” I begin.

“Go on, little demon, it’ll be fine.” Brian says. “There’s dozens of demons in this House right now; it’s not like you’ll win the raffle. Even if you do, you might enjoy it more than you realize. It’s not often that one gets to drink Dreaming draughts down here in Sjelefengsel.”

I have my doubts, but I reach forward and hesitantly take one of the marbles. The harpy grins, then prances along to another gaggle of demons. Holding it up, it doesn’t look like there’s anything special about it; it’s just a translucent, sea-green marble, like any other marble you’d get at a craft or hobby store. Looking to the side, I can see that Brian is fumbling with a similar such marble.

“Wait, are you allowed to participate?” I ask. “You’re not one of Raikaron’s demons.”

He grins at me with teeth that look as flat and sturdy as miniature tombstones. “What your Lord doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You can’t blame me for wanting to get in on this, can you?”

I give him a critical look. “I’m pretty sure you have a natural advantage here, big guy.”

“You’d think. Unfortunately, size has no intrinsic value when it comes to Dreaming draughts.” Brian says, finally getting his marble between his massive finger and thumb, and holding it to the light. “Metabolism and biology don’t provide advantages with drinks that come from the Dreaming. I’ve seen big guys drop on the first round of the Iron Liver, while little toothpicks like you go for rounds and sometimes even outlast everyone else.”

“I do believe that should be everyone.” Raikaron says as the harpies start filtering back into the living room, dumping their remaining marbles back into the bowl. He turns to the white raven harpies — Trinity, I think he called them — and extends a hand to them. “Are we ready?”

All three of them incline their heads. “All that shall participate have received, Father.” they answer in their unsettling unison.

“Excellent.” he says, raising a hand with thumb and middle finger pressed together. “Then without further ado — let us find out who shall drink, and who shall watch.”

He snaps his fingers, and throughout the room, there’s pops and hisses as many of the marbles evaporate into fizzling smoke that fades away. Mine doesn’t do that, though - instead, it uncurls into a little glass salamander. I let out a little shriek as it scampers across my hand, and I swing my arm away from myself on instinct, trying to fling it off my hand. It hangs on though, making its way to my forefinger, and wrapping around the base of it, clamping its tail in its mouth to form a ring before going still again.

It takes me a moment to notice the silence in the room and realize that everyone’s staring at me after my shrill outburst.

“Guess you weren’t ready for that, were you?” Brian chuckles, giving me a nudge as he sizes up his own hand. His marble likewise uncurled into a glass salamander, though it’s struggled to wrap around one of his thick fingers, and seems to have stretched itself to the limit to nip the tip of its tail and hold it in its mouth. “Looks like you and I are going to be drinking buddies, little demon!”

“This should certainly be interesting.” Raikaron remarks, studying me as he starts rolling the cuffs of his sleeves back down to his wrists. “At any rate, you all know the score. We will convene again in seven days for the Iron Liver, on an evening such as this, to see who takes the title. We will have a multitude of participants and guests from across Sjelefengsel, so do bring your best.” As he begins to button his cuffs once more, he nods to Danya.

“With that business concluded, we will now excuse our Lord.” Danya says, taking a fresh champagne flute from a platter provided by one of the kitchen staff, and raising it to Raikaron. “May his judgements be merciful.”

“May his judgements be merciful.” echoes the rest of the room, those that have glasses raising them as Raikaron politely inclines his head, then takes his leave through one of the side doors. Once he leaves, the room relaxes, though a few glances are sent my way by the other demons.

“I wouldn’t bother if I was you.” one of them says as I try to pull off the salamander ring around my finger. “Unless you want to cut your finger off, it’s staying on there until the Iron Liver.”

“Why’d you take a marble if you didn’t want to participate?” another asks.

“I didn’t! He pressured me into it!” I protest, pointing at Brian.

“In fairness to myself, it was statistically unlikely she’d get a spot.” Brian points out.

“Did he now.” Danya says coldly, casting a withering look at Brian. “Statistical improbabilities are not statistical impossibilities, Brian.”

“C’mon, how bad could it be?” Brian says, waving a hand.

“I mean, there was that one time Danya’s hair caught on fire for a week…” a familiar voice says behind us. I turn to see Harro there, leaning in the hallway, arms folded with a general air of amusement.

“Not that you would know the risks associated with participating in such an event, Harro.” Danya says tersely. “And probably for the best. I doubt an emotionally-challenged brainlet like you would last very long in the Iron Liver.”

“S’ppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” he smirks, raising a hand and waving his fingers. On one of them is a glass salamander ring, much like the one me and Brian are wearing.

The demons in the room let out hoots and hollers at Harro’s comeback.

“Dayum, gott’em!”

“Man, he played that smoother than a fresh shave.”

“You gonna let him get away with that, Danya?”

Danya’s frosty, dark blue gaze silences them. “I suppose we will find out, Mr. Garkia.” she replies. “As a matter of fact, I’ll bet you a favor that Jayta will last longer than you will.”

“Wait, what?” I say, alarmed.

“Oh, we’re betting on it now, are we?” Harro says, pushing off the wall. “So if I manage to hang in there longer than Jayta, you’ll owe me a favor? I mean, how could I turn that down?”

“Look, little demon, no offense, I’m going to put my money on Harro.” Brian says to me.

“But I never agreed to this!” I protest.

“It’ll be fine, Jayta.” Harro says. “Most of the drinks at the Iron Liver are exciting, but harmless. Except for the one Danya had a while back.”

“Keep pushing it, Harro.” Danya says, sipping from her champagne flute. “I’ll enjoy the look on your face when you hand me that favor.” With that, she turns and makes her way to the door that Raikaron left through, calling over her shoulder. “Jayta, attend me. I will fill you in on the Iron Liver.”

I’m at a loss for this whirl of events, but Brian gives me a light pat on the back that just about knocks me on my face on account of how large his hand is. “Go on, maybe she’s got some tips or tricks for you. She might know a few, since she’s participated in an Iron Liver before.”

I stagger forward, then hurry after her. Trying to keep up with her long stride is a cardio workout unto itself, and by the time I’ve caught up to her, she’s stepped into one of the side rooms, waiting for me to arrive. Once I step inside, she closes the door behind me.

“I didn’t want to do this!” I burst out, holding my hand with the salamander ring out to her. “Brian pressured me into taking a marble!”

Danya looks at my offered hand like I’d just dropped a dead mouse at her feet. “Noted. But you ought to disabuse yourself of the notion that I can remove that ring from you or transfer it to someone else. I do not have the power or authority to overrule the binding enchantments of our Lord.”

“What?” I cry. “You mean I have to do this?”

“I did not say that.” Danya says, sounding exasperated and tart. “Calm down and lower your voice, child. You are an abnormality among the demons of this hell, you know that? Most other members of this House would’ve fought each other for a spot in the Iron Liver.”

“Oh, I’m weird for not wanting to get blackout drunk and pass out in front of a bunch of strangers?” I retort. “Well excuse me for being a little more classy than that!”

“The point of the Iron Liver is not getting blackout drunk. It is to get a chance to sample the rarest of draughts, elysian nectars that are rarely found here or in the mortal plane.” Danya says, setting her champagne glass down on a desk. “Although, admittedly, intoxication is an unavoidable side effect of the format of the event. As is eventually passing out from that intoxication, if you’re not the last one standing. And… I suppose also the emotional and physical side effects that come from the drinks as well, those can sometimes last for weeks if a particular drink hits you hard…”

“This isn’t helping sell me on this, Danya!” I complain.

She sighs. “Would that you could hear yourself. You sound so impetuous and shrill, like a spoiled child… but I hear you. If you do not wish to participate, you do not have to. You will simply let Lord Syntaritov know you do not intend to participate, and when the time comes, you will simply sit it out instead of being in the lineup.” She looks aside, tapping a finger against her chin. “It is perhaps for the best anyhow; I challenged Harro in spite, and reflecting on it now, I realize I likely made a generous overestimation of your ability to handle Lord Syntaritov’s concoctions.”

I stare at her in disbelief. “Wait, are you— you’re saying you’d bet on him over me?”

“Harro has some idea of how an Iron Liver goes, and of how heavily Dreaming draughts can hit a person. You do not.” Danya states factually. “And if I am being entirely honest, I do not relish the thought of seeing the look on his face when I have to cede a favor to him.”

I can’t believe this. She’s treating it as if it’s foregone conclusion, simply assuming that I couldn’t hold my own against him. Which, in a normal drinking contest, I definitely couldn’t. But Brian had said that size doesn’t matter when it comes to these draughts. So I should have just as much a chance at this as anyone else, big or small. Yet here Danya is, calling me whiny and childish and assuming that I can’t hold my own with the rest of these demons…

Oooh, this just burns me up.

This, atop everything else. I’m tired of being treated this way, like I’m weak or incapable or can’t hold my own with other demons. Curling my hands into fists, I huff at her and wheel about, marching back towards the door and yanking it open.

“Excuse me?” Danya says at the huff. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to my room and my cat. I’m done playing demon dress-up for tonight.” I growl over my shoulder at her. “And I’ll be in the lineup next week. We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m done drinking you all under the table.”

Danya sighs again. “Jayta, participating purely out of spite gives you no qualitative advantage—”

“Well, you can take your qualitative advantage and shove it up your ass!” I snap back at her. “I’ll win without it, and prove that I’m not as weak or naïve as the rest of you always seem to think I am! Hell, maybe I’ll actually earn that rank that I already have that you don’t think that I deserve!”

Stomping out of the room, I shout “And a merry goddamn Krysmis to you too, Danya!” as I stride down my hall, making my way to the nearest stairwell that’ll take me upstairs to my room. There aren’t many guests wandering the hall, but those that do are wise enough to stay out of my way as I stalk through the House on my way back to my room.

Even without my brother here, this party’s gone about as well as I expected it to.

Jayta’s Journal

It wasn’t just the parties that were miserable. It was after the party as well.

It’s hard to really capture the feeling, and why it felt so bad. It was because of a lot of things, but if I had to narrow it down to one main thing, it would be the sense of lost time. Of realizing that you’d just given up two or three hours of your life that you couldn’t get back. That it had effectively been wasted and you’d gotten nothing in return for it; realizing time was marching on, dragging you along. And on the drive home, often staring into the darkness of night, thinking about all the things you could’ve been doing, instead of politely suffering through some garish excuse for a social event.

That bothered me most of all, that sense of lost time.

We’re all mortal, and we all will die some day. In that context, wasting time is a terrible crime, second only to murder, which forcefully commutes the victim’s remaining time. To waste someone else’s time was an atrocity; it is malicious, and rudeness incarnate. It is to take from someone something that cannot be given back to them once it is gone. It is a cruel theft; money can be earned back, and precious things can be remade or reacquired for a sum. But time, once it is gone, cannot be recovered.

And having to deal with that bitter truth after every party I went to made it unlikely I would enjoy one ever again.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Jayta’s Room

7:56pm SGT

By the time I reach my room, most of my indignation has scaled off into mopey irritation. There’s some relief to be had in almost slamming my door shut, and knowing that I’m alone and don’t have to put up with people anymore. Well, almost alone.

Cinder’s curled up on my bed, her tail twitching lazily; I’m sure she knows I’m here, she just can’t be bothered to open her eyes and acknowledge my presence. I start to pull my arms through the sleeves of my dress as I walk over to my bed, intent on yanking it off and flopping down next to my cat in a paroxysm of self-pity, but I pause when I see that a small, neatly-wrapped box has been placed beside her. Letting my arms slide back through my sleeves, I reach down and pick it up, studying the crimson wrapping paper and the gold bow on top, then the handwritten tag hanging off it.

To: Jayta

From: Raikaron

Oh great, what was this. A Krysmis present from the demon lord that had manipulated me into being his slave? Just lovely. With his warped sensibilities, I could only imagine what the box might contain. Maybe his twisted version of a present. Turning about and sitting on the edge of my bed, I start to rip open the wrapping, pulling the top off and peering into the tissue paper within. There’s three things inside: a bracelet like the one I have for my spaceball bat, except this one has a shotgun charm on it; a little blue collar; and what looks to be a small, folded note. Pulling all three out, I look the collar over, and see a metallic nametag hanging off it that has Cinder etched into it.

Oh good. I was gonna have words with him if he’d gotten the collar for me. Getting a collar for my cat was more acceptable, though.

Trying on the bracelet, I find that it sizes itself to my wrist, same that my other bracelet did. Setting the box to the side, I pick up the note and unfold it to find that it’s written in Raikaron’s elegant, flowing cursive. I’ve never been great at reading cursive, and I’m even worse at writing it, but Raikaron’s seems pretty consistent — I can pick out the letters fairly easily, and the note isn’t as hard to read as I’d thought it’d be. Sitting my heels on the edge of my bed’s frame, I rest the note on my knees and lean forward a bit to read it.

Dear Jayta,

It is my sincere hope that you are enjoying your Krysmis. I know the last four months have been difficult to adjust to, and that you still regard me with some animus, which is understandable given the circumstances of your employment. That being said, I have greatly enjoyed your presence around the House of late. You have matured somewhat as a demon, and your inquisitive nature has endeared you to some of the more consequential members of the House. The House is a little more lively when you’re around, and I appreciate that.

In this box you will find, as requested, the plasma shotgun that you brought back from your collections task involving Mordokowicz. It has been reconfigured and enchanted to instead draw upon the power of your contract, and as long as it is used in the line of duty, you should never need to resupply it with ammunition. However, as this is primarily a work-related gift, I have included something else that has more personal relevance to you.

As you may have deduced from the nametag, the collar in there is for Cinder. This also has been enchanted with the same shadow phasing ability that you possess among your chainlinks; in short, it will allow Cinder to phase through walls and solid objects of some thickness. I had noticed that she had been waking you up in the middle of the night to let her out to use the litterbox; this will allow her to exit the room without having open the door for her, and thus allowing you an uninterrupted night’s sleep. She will merely need to be trained to use it.

I hope that you’re able to enjoy these gifts, and your time here with us. Although I know that it does not seem like it on account of Danya’s brusqueness, we enjoy having you here, and watching you grow and mature. I hope that in time, you might be able to feel the same way about us.

Merry Krysmis,

Raikaron Syntaritov

I stare at the note for a long time, trying to figure out what to feel. Angry, in being reminded that I’m a prisoner here; angry, for him having the audacity to say that the House is better with me around, after I was more or less forced to come here. But also a little touched that he paid attention to something like noticing I wasn’t getting a full night’s sleep for Cinder, and trying to arrange something to fix that.

It was, as it always was with Raikaron, a mixed bag. Kindness wrapped up in cruelty, even though I’m not entirely sure he was aware he was being cruel. Reading the note again, I realize that he had gone to lengths to give me compliments he had never spoken out loud. I didn’t know if he was speaking for himself or the entire House, but he’d stated twice that everyone enjoyed having me around. And I’m… confused about how I should feel about that.

Sighing, I fold the note back up again and tuck it in the box. Picking up the collar, I twist around and lean back on the bed, taking advantage of Cinder’s drowsiness to slip the collar around her neck and fasten it. She doesn’t protest too much, merely stretching her legs out and yawning, then relaxing into purring as I pet her.

I still wasn’t happy about how most of tonight had gone, but… getting a present and cuddling with my cat wasn’t the worst way to end it.