CHAPTER 1
Billy stirred the sauce intently in the copper pot. The wooden spoon traced slow circles through the amber liquid as he inhaled the rich aroma. The spice blend was the result of years of experimentation—wild marjoram from the northern hills, pink peppercorns from Eastern Isle traders, and something special. Something he never mentioned to the other cooks. A drop of his own essence—invisible magic that lent his every dish an indescribable perfection.
But today his hands weren’t entirely steady. Golden sparks flickered in the sauce—almost imperceptible, but enough to make him tighten his grip on the spoon. Not now, he thought. Not here.
The palace kitchen buzled like a disturbed hive. The usual orchestrated chaos of an important evening: sous-chefs darted between stoves, attendants meticulously arranged silver platters, and scullions, their faces slick with heat-baked sweat, turned roasting spits. The air was thick, intoxicating. Piquant notes of distant spices mingled with caramelized sugar’s sweetness, the heavy aroma of seared meat, and the freshness of freshly chopped herbs.
Billy shut his eyes for a moment, trying to sink into cooking’s familiar rhythm. It always calmed him. Here, amid copper pots and wooden cutting boards, he wasn’t Beelzebub, once-master of the heavenly feasts. Here, he was just Billy—a skilled cook who conjured small miracles from ordinary ingredients.
"Twenty minutes to first course!" roared Head Chef Durand, his voice piercing the kitchen. A barrel-chested man with a white beard, his reputation was built on perfectionism and dramatic outbursts. "If we’re late, His Highness might order us roasted instead of the stag! Stations, all of you! Move!"
Billy smiled faintly. Durand always overdramatized. Princes could wait—cooking required time, patience, attention to detail. He swirled the spoon again, and deep within the sauce, a brief golden glimmer flared. Appeared and vanished so fast one might doubt it was ever there.
Dangerous. His fingers clenched the spoon unbidden. It happened sometimes, especially when emotions frayed or memories struck with brutal clarity. Fleeting fragments of the past, splinters of the power he’d tried to bury deep.
He shut his eyes, grounding himself in the here and now. Letting the kitchen’s aromas, sounds, and warmth anchor him to safety—the mundane present, far from a past brimming with glory and horror.
"Billy!" Dino’s voice snapped him back.
The young apprentice stood beside him, clutching a bowl of chopped vegetables. Admiration and confusion warred in his eyes. Nineteen years old—eager, earnest, with warm brown eyes and an insatiable hunger to learn. He looked up to Billy as a mentor, oblivious to his true nature.
"The sauce... It, uh..." Dino fumbled. "I thought I saw—sparks?"
Billy inhaled deeply, forcing calm. "Got nothing better to do, boy?" The reprimand held no real bite. "Fetch me fresh rosemary and black pepper. And quit daydreaming. Focus. Work."
Dino nodded uncertainly, suspicion lingering. Billy watched him retreat toward the spice racks. A pang of unexpected nostalgia struck. The boy’s enthusiasm, his pure love for cooking, reminded Billy of his own lost innocence. Before the Fall. Before he learned what it truly meant to lose everything he’d believed in.
The celestial banquet had stretched beyond sight. Cloud-laden tables groaned under golden plates. Angels in shimmering robes laughed, raising goblets of nectar. And he, Beelzebub, sat at the right hand of—
Billy jerked his head, dispelling the vision. That was before. Before the Fall, the exile, before joining the drifters hiding among mortals. The past had to stay buried. Too dangerous to revisit, especially here, surrounded.
"Here." Dino returned with fragrant herbs. His gaze darted to the sauce, then back to Billy. "Y’know... sometimes, watching you cook, I get the feeling you’ve been doing this longer than you look."
Billy stilled, studying the boy’s face. How much did Dino see? How much did he guess?
"Thanks," he said finally, dusting the sauce with rosemary. The aroma rose—earthy, soothing. "It’s an... old recipe. Prepared it for feasts attended by..." He swirled the spoon. "...important figures."
"More important than princes?" Dino’s curiosity was guileless, oblivious to the precipice he skirted.
Billy’s smile turned rueful as long-lost grandeur flickered across his face. "Yes. Though I didn’t realize how important until too late." His voice softened, distant. "You ever notice, boy? We never value things till they’re gone. Like you, for instance—"
"Me?" Dino blinked.
"Sure." Billy shifted smoothly into his familiar stern-chef persona. "Keep dawdling with questions, and you’ll lose your station. Eh?" He arched a brow, briefly glancing from the sauce.
Dino frowned as if deciphering hidden meaning. But there was no time. The head chef clapped sharply, silencing the kitchen.
"First course! Positions! Begin!"
The kitchen erupted in orchestrated chaos. Billy made the final touches on his masterpiece—the sauce was perfection, with a rich, complex flavor that would leave guests puzzling over its secret. He carefully drizzled it over the perfectly roasted quail, each drop positioned with an artist’s precision.
He arranged the plate with a craftsman’s care—dots of sauce like brushstrokes on the white porcelain, fresh herbs like tiny green sparks, wild mushrooms arranged in a spiral around the meat. Every plate was a small work of art, designed to delight both the palate and the eye.
As the finished dishes left the kitchen in the hands of servants clad in heavy livery, Billy felt the tension in his body begin to loosen. Cooking always had this effect on him—it soothed the storm of memories and muffled the voices from his past. Here, among stoves and pans, he was Billy, the master of flavors and aromas. A solitary ghost of his former self, disguised as a cook.
Chef Durand motioned for him to approach the small door leading to the banquet hall.
"Come, Billy," he said softly. "Let’s see how they react to our creations."
The two crossed to the other side and lingered discreetly in the shadows, where they could observe the guests’ reactions without intruding. Billy always felt divided about this ritual—on one hand, his professional pride wanted to see the pleasure of those eating his food. On the other, proximity to power always unsettled him.
The banquet hall was staggering in its grandeur. The high ceiling, adorned with frescoes depicting scenes from the kingdom’s ancient history, arched above them like a celestial dome. Crystal chandeliers cast flickers of light over silk wallpaper in gold and deep-blue tones. The long oak table was heaped with fine white linen, set with silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and porcelain plates edged in delicate gold.
Candles in silver holders cast a warm, soft glow, creating an intimate atmosphere despite the hall’s enormous size. Portraits of long-dead kings hung on the walls, their stern gazes seeming to watch the event unfold. A perfect stage for a parade of vanity—a masquerade of splendor and lies, masking the true intentions of those assembled.
The nobility had already taken their seats—men in richly embroidered doublets of dark damask and women in gowns that might have been spun from moonlight itself. Their jewels—diamonds, rubies, sapphires—caught the candlelight, scattering radiant reflections across the walls. Everything was designed to impress, to display the wealth and power of the royal court.
At one end of the table sat the heirs—Prince Aldric and Prince Cedric, sons of King Theodorus. Dressed in royal blue and deep crimson respectively, the princes were living embodiments of the rivalry fate had scripted for them since birth. Aldric, the elder by three years, had sharp features and cold blue eyes that seemed to see everything and forgive nothing. Cedric, for his part, had a softer appearance, but his dark eyes held a spark of ambition that could burn everything in its path.
"Watch how they eat the quail," Chef Durand whispered to Billy, leaning in. "So refined. You can always tell a true aristocrat by the way he eats quail. See? Small bites, careful chewing, appreciative glances."
Billy nodded absently, observing as servants brought out the first course. They moved with the quiet elegance of well-trained attendants—invisible, efficient, part of the decor. The guests responded with impressed murmurs at the sight of the elegantly arranged plates, and the aroma of the sauce spread through the hall like a quiet promise of delight.
Prince Aldric lifted the first bite to his lips with the ceremonial slowness of a man who knew he was being watched. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the flavor unfold on his palate. His face lit with pleasure—genuine, unforced.
"Superb!" he declared, nodding approvingly. His voice carried the authority of a man accustomed to being listened to. "Chef Durand has outdone himself again." His gaze found the preening chef. "My compliments, good man. This combination of flavors is... almost divine."
Chef Durand gave a slight bow, accepting the praise with obvious pleasure. Though the sauce had been entirely Billy’s work, the lack of acknowledgment didn’t sting. He had long since let go of any hunger for fame or recognition. To him, those were mirages from a past he no longer believed in.
"My brother has always been easy to impress when it comes to good food," Prince Cedric interjected, his tone laced with a faint, almost mocking note. His smile was refined, but something sharper lurked in his eyes. "Still, I must admit—the cooks have truly excelled tonight."
Billy felt the tension between the two brothers like a physical presence in the room. It was subtle to the untrained eye, hidden behind polite smiles and refined manners, but as palpable as charged air before a storm. Everything—the way they looked at each other, the edge in their voices, even the way they held their cutlery—hinted at a deeply rooted rivalry that could only end one way: betrayal.
The other guests seemed to sense the strain, though most pretended otherwise. Conversations around the table were overly attentive, as if everyone was compensating for the discomfort with exaggerated courtesy.
As the dinner progressed and more refined dishes were served, the chatter gradually livened. Billy used the moment to slip back into the kitchen to finish the final touches on dessert—his carefully guarded grand finale for the evening.
The dessert was an ambitious project—a complex construction of chocolate, caramel, and wild forest berries, demanding both culinary skill and architectural precision. The base was made of the finest dark chocolate, tempered to a flawless sheen. Upon it rose layers of vanilla cream and caramel mousse, adorned with candied fruits and delicate sugar-paste leaves.
As he melted extra chocolate in a small copper bowl over a bain-marie, memory crashed over him with painful force:
He used to prepare ambrosia and nectar, divine delicacies that made mortal food seem bland and pitiful in comparison. He, Beelzebub, had been master of celestial feasts, creator of flavors even the other angels couldn’t imagine. His hands had worked with ingredients that didn’t exist in the mortal world—essences of starlight, crystallized laughter, the breath of eternity.
Lucifer himself—beautiful, proud Lucifer—had praised him, placing a hand on his shoulder: No one creates pleasure like you, brother. Your works are a step from paradise to something higher still.
The chocolate in the bowl suddenly shimmered with golden light, boiling and rising, alive under his touch. The liquid took on an unearthly gleam, its aroma transforming into something beyond mere physical delight—it was a memory of Heaven, a fragment of lost perfection.
Billy gasped quietly and glanced around the kitchen in panic. Thankfully, everyone else was absorbed in their own tasks—Dino was slicing fruit, other cooks were finishing orders, Durand was barking instructions from the opposite end. No one had noticed the small miracle unfolding at his hands.
Stop, he whispered to the chocolate, gripping the bowl's rim tightly. Please, stop. Not now.
The chocolate stilled, the golden glow fading until it vanished. It returned to its ordinary state, though the aroma still carried a faint echo of its unearthly transformation. The risk of exposure had lessened, but not disappeared entirely. An especially observant watcher might still notice something amiss.
Too close. Billy shook his head, feeling the faint tremor in his hands. It was getting harder to control his powers. They flared up more often and with greater intensity—especially when he was emotionally unsettled or when memories overwhelmed him with unusual force. And lately, those memories came more frequently, clearer, more insistent, like demons haunting the shadows of his mind.
Perhaps it was due to this place’s proximity to power. Courts had always been hubs of ambition and intrigue, and such emotions had a way of stirring ancient forces. Or maybe he was simply growing older, weaker, his grip on his own nature unraveling like aged fabric.
As he finalized the dessert—laying the last sugar-paste leaves with tweezers like a surgeon, applying dots of honeyed gold with the finest brush, arranging the berries with mathematical precision—Dino approached him.
"Billy, you need to see this," he whispered urgently, his voice tight with alarm. "Come quick."
Billy paused and looked at the younger man. Something unfamiliar flickered in Dino’s eyes—fear mixed with confusion.
"What is it?" Billy asked quietly.
"Just come," Dino grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the small door. "But be quiet."
He accompanied him to the door, his curiosity mingling with growing unease. Dino quickly placed a finger to his lips, then pointed to his ear before gesturing toward the hall. His motions spoke clearly—listen, but take care not to be noticed.
Billy listened intently. At first, he heard only the usual sounds of an elegant dinner—the clinking of silverware against porcelain, muffled laughter, quiet conversation. But gradually his attention fixed on one voice, rising in volume and tension, drowning out the others.
"...absolutely unacceptable to permit such heretical ideas within our kingdom," Prince Aldric was saying, gripping his goblet so tightly the bones in his hand whitened. "The Order of Azur is right in its fears—too many dangerous elements slither into our society like serpents in a garden."
At the mention of the Order of Azur, Billy felt an icy wave course through his veins. The Order—a religious organization dedicated to eradicating everything they deemed unnatural or contrary to the will of their god Azur. That included sorcerers, warlocks, and most of all, the Fallen. They were hunters who had pursued him for centuries, relentless in their mission to purge the world of "the tainted."
"Heretical ideas?" Prince Cedric retorted with a bitter smile, contempt unmistakable in his voice. "Is that what we call free thought now, brother? The Order of Azur is nothing but a band of fanatics who see demons behind every door and magic in every odd occurrence."
His words provoked murmurs throughout the hall. Some nobles nodded in approval, while others seemed stunned by such open criticism of the Order. Billy could feel the tension in the room thickening like fog.
"Mind your tongue, Cedric," Aldric warned, leaning forward. His eyes burned with something beyond anger—a zealous fervor that made his voice tremble like a prayer and a threat at once. "Soon, when I take the throne, the Order will have its rightful place in our court. They alone understand the true threats facing this kingdom. They alone have the courage to stand against the darkness."
"You take the throne?" Cedric laughed, but the sound held no mirth—sharp and venomous. "Are you so certain our father will choose you, brother? Perhaps it’s time you faced the truth—being firstborn isn’t the only thing that makes a man worthy of kingship. There are other qualities—like the ability to think for oneself, rather than following fanatics."
The tension was now nearly palpable. Guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats; some exchanged uneasy glances while others observed the drama with veiled fascination. A theater of ambition and nascent treachery, all masked beneath civility.
Billy gripped the doorframe, his pulse quickening. This wasn't just a feud between royal brothers. It was a harbinger of something far worse—a political shift that could bring the Order to power. And if that happened...
"I hate to interrupt this... entertainment," interjected an elegantly dressed woman with rubies threaded through her gray hair—Countess Marguerite, one of the court’s most influential women, known for her diplomacy and razor-sharp wit. Her smile was sharper than a blade. "But it appears dessert has arrived, dear princes. Let us leave politics for the council chambers, where they belong."
Her suggestion was met with relieved nods. No one wanted to witness further escalation between the brothers—at least not publicly.
Billy retreated to the kitchen, his hands trembling as he put final touches on the dessert. The words from the hall echoed in his mind like a funeral toll. The Order of Azur, here, this close to power. How foolish had he been to think he could live safely in a city where princes openly endorsed an organization devoted to eradicating his kind?
I should’ve known, he thought as he arranged the last garnish. I should’ve studied the princes’ politics before settling here. But I was so tired of running...
How close were the Order’s knights? Did they know he was in the city? What did they know about others like him? Over the centuries, he’d met Fallen—wanderers like himself, trying to pass unnoticed among humans. Most vanished one day. No one ever knew if they had left—or if the Order had found them.
Servants carried the desserts out, and Billy returned to the doorway, masking his unease beneath professional detachment. Despite the earlier tension, the desserts elicited delighted murmurs. The intricate constructions of chocolate and caramel glimmered in the candlelight like miniature architectural marvels.
For a moment, even the princes forgot their quarrel as they sampled the delicate flavors. Aldric gave an approving nod, while Cedric even smiled—the first genuine smile Billy had seen on him all evening. An illusion of peace, veiling the storm gathering beneath.
But the peace was fleeting, as Billy had expected.
"Know what the Order’s knights told me last week?" Aldric resumed, delicately dusting crumbs from his napkin. His cold eyes fixed on his brother. "That creatures walk among us—things that are not what they seem. Beings with foul, unnatural powers, hiding among ordinary folk like parasites."
Billy froze, blood draining from his face. His heart pounded so violently he wondered if others could hear it.
"Oh, please," Cedric sighed, rolling his eyes with theatrical exasperation. "Next you’ll tell me demons and Fallen serve our supper."
A few nobles chuckled nervously, but Billy couldn’t even force a smile. The irony in Cedric’s words was almost painful. If only he knew how close to the truth he was...
"Laugh all you like," Aldric’s voice cut through the hall like ice. "But the Order has ways to uncover the truth. Sacred prayers, consecrated artifacts, ancient rites. And when they do—"
His words were cut short by a sudden crash. One of the crystal goblets shattered without cause, scattering red wine and shards across the white tablecloth. The lady beside it—young Countess Eleonora—shrieked and recoiled as her gown darkened with spattered stains.
"Gracious!" she cried. "What happened?"
"Damnable glass," someone muttered. "Must’ve had a flaw."
But Billy knew the truth. This wasn’t a defect in the crystal. This was his doing—a result of power seeping through the cracks of his slipping control. The fear and rage Aldric’s words had ignited had found release in the worst way.
The hall erupted into controlled chaos—servants rushed to clean the spill, guests murmured sympathies and offered napkins, musicians in the corner played louder to mask the disruption.
Billy used the distraction to retreat deep into the kitchen. He needed air, a moment away from prying eyes and ears. He slumped by a stove, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Too dangerous, he thought. Far too dangerous to stay here.
The kitchen spun around him; sounds dulled, light blurred. Cold sweat beaded on his skin, a painful knot tightening in his chest. Then, without warning, another vision seized him:
He ran through dark cobbled streets, pursued by figures in silver hooded robes. Their footsteps echoed off stone walls. On their chests gleamed the Order’s sigil—an eye centered within a stylized sun, wrought in silver and gold. In their hands were weapons pulsing with eerie blue light—blades blessed by their priests, capable of inflicting wounds that never healed.
"We found you, Beelzebub," a voice hissed behind him, cold as a tombstone. "Did you think you could hide forever? Did you think your sins wouldn't catch you? None of the Seven can escape Azur's justice."
The scene shifted violently—now he knelt on cold stone in some dungeon cell, wrists shackled in chains not of ordinary metal. They burned like fire against his skin, leaving blackened marks where they touched. The pain was unbearable, yet he refused to scream.
Before him stood a tall figure clad in the richly adorned robes of a high priest of the Order. His face was concealed behind a white mask depicting an angelic countenance devoid of any emotion or humanity. The eyes behind the mask burned with fanatical fire.
"Where are the others of your kind?" the figure demanded, voice dripping with unveiled threat. "Where is the Key you carry? Speak, and your suffering shall end swiftly."
He didn't answer. Couldn't betray the others even if he wanted to. Excruciating pain seared through every cell of his being, yet his lips remained clenched.
Another shift in the scene. He lay on stone floors, barely breathing, feeling his own life force draining like water through a cracked vessel. A familiar figure loomed over him—Lucifer, yet not the Lucifer he remembered. This Lucifer looked weary, tormented, with worried eyes full of helplessness.
"You should have used your power, brother," Lucifer said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Instead of hiding it, you should have embraced it. You should have fought. It's not too late—come with me. Together we can stand against them."
Cold steel touched his throat and an unfamiliar voice whispered: "Run. Now. They're coming for you. Tonight."
Billy jolted back to reality with a sharp gasp, swaying as he braced himself against the kitchen table. His heart pounded madly, his breathing shallow and uneven. His entire body was slick with cold sweat.
Dino stood beside him, eyes wide with alarm.
"Billy!" he called softly yet insistently. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or... something worse."
"Maybe I have," Billy whispered, feeling his hands tremble. The words from the vision echoed in his mind like a funeral toll: Run. Now. They're coming for you. Tonight.
This was a warning he couldn't ignore. The visions always came for a reason—that was part of the Fallen Angels' curse. They glimpsed fragments of the past and future, shards of truths ordinary beings couldn't grasp.
He had to leave the palace. Had to leave the city. The Order of Azur was closer than he could afford, and if Prince Aldric truly ascended the throne... the future loomed like a waking nightmare.
"Dino," he tried to steady the tremor in his voice, "I have to go. Now."
"What?" The young man looked genuinely shocked. "But dinner service isn't over yet, the head chef will be furious if—"
"I'm not feeling well, boy," Billy cut him off, scrambling for a plausible excuse. "Tell him I fell suddenly ill. Say whatever you want—fever, stomach trouble, anything. Just make sure I don't collapse here in the kitchen and cause more chaos."
Billy swiftly removed his apron and hung it on the familiar hook by the door. His movements were automatic, but his mind was already feverishly planning his next steps. He'd return to his modest home in the craftsmen's quarter, gather his few belongings—spare clothes, his savings, the centuries-old recipe book he carried. Then he'd slip from the city before dawn, before the Order could tighten their noose.
But to where? That was the question that had plagued him for years. How far must he flee to escape his relentless hunters? In what city could he find refuge without risking the lives of those who might grow close to him?
And most importantly—what had the vision meant? Who was the mysterious voice warning him? Why had Lucifer seemed so... human? So lost and vulnerable, so unlike the proud archangel who'd once led the rebellion against Heaven?
"You can't just leave like this," Dino insisted, gripping his arm. His voice held genuine concern and confusion. "What's really happening? I've watched you for weeks now and something's clearly eating at you. Sometimes you stare into space like you're seeing things others can't. And today—"
Billy hesitated, meeting the boy's earnest brown eyes. There was something in Dino—his innocence, his open care, his sincere desire to help—that made him want to confide. For a moment, he considered telling the truth. Sharing the burden of centuries of solitude, explaining why he always had to be ready to run, revealing his true nature to this young man who looked at him as both mentor and friend.
But he couldn't. History had taught him a painful lesson: trust was a luxury fallen angels couldn't afford. Anyone who learned their truth became targets for the Order. Anyone who tried to protect them shared their fate.
"Sometimes, lad," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of countless partings, "we must listen to our instincts. And mine are telling me it's time to go. I won't be coming back. Don't ask why. Just remember me as I am now."
Dino stared at him with pained confusion.
"But... you're the best chef I've ever known," he said, desperation seeping into his voice. "I've learned so much from you. Without you... how will I—"
"You'll do brilliantly," Billy interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder. For once, he allowed genuine care to color his words. "You have talent, Dino. Real talent. You don't need me to become a great chef. You just need time and experience."
CHAPTER 2
Dino stood frozen, his hand still suspended mid-air. His fingers trembled slightly—the only sign that time hadn’t stopped, that the world around them still existed. The young man opened his mouth once, then again, as though the words had lodged themselves in his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice came out as a whisper:
"I don’t understand. Why... why do you have to go?"
Billy studied him for a long moment, searching for a way to explain the inexplicable. How could he tell this boy that the visions in his mind were more real than the very room they stood in? How could he describe the chains he still felt around his wrists, the bitter taste of fear in his mouth?
"Sometimes," he began slowly, "there are things we just... know we have to do. Even when we don’t want to."
"But I..." Dino took a step toward him, then stopped. "I thought we... I thought you were happy here. You laughed so much yesterday when I told you about Lord Mornington and the chicken."
The smile that crossed Billy’s face was as bitter as wormwood.
"I was happy. Maybe too happy." He closed the distance between them and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. "Dino, listen to me carefully. Remember me as I am now. And if anyone asks about me... if men with masks or silver collars come looking for the cook Billy Moss... tell them you’ve never seen me. Can you do that for me?"
Dino nodded quickly—so quickly his hair swayed.
"Yes, but... where will you go? How will I find you if—"
"You won’t." Billy cut him off softly. "And that’s for the better."
He stepped back from the boy, every footfall heavy as lead. Behind him, he felt Dino start to move after him, then heard his footsteps halt. The kitchen door closed behind him with a dull thud, severing him from the last shred of normalcy he had ever known.
The palace corridors stretched before him like a labyrinth of shadows and peril. The torches along the walls cast flickering light upon the tapestries, making the woven figures seem alive. Somewhere in the distance, muffled laughter echoed—likely some lord regaling his companions with anecdotes. The sound felt alien, emerging from another world.
What am I doing?
His thoughts swirled like a maelstrom.
Running again. Always running. Why can’t I just stay in one place and fight?
Yet even as he asked himself, he knew the answer. The vision had been too clear, too real to dismiss. The masked figure with a voice like ice cracking, the chains that burned his flesh so fiercely he still felt the pain, the desperation in Lucifer’s voice… All of it was more than memory. It was a warning. It was a threat.
Billy slipped through the side corridors, avoiding the main thoroughfares where nobles still lingered after supper. He knew these halls like the back of his hand—four years working in the palace had been enough to learn every hidden passage, every shadowed alcove. He heard echoes of voices, laughter, the clink of goblets—sounds from a world he’d never truly been part of, though he’d served it every day.
Before reaching the servants’ entrance, he paused to listen. Footsteps. Heavy, confident, coming from the main hall. Billy pressed himself against the wall and held his breath. Two guards passed, engrossed in lively talk of an upcoming tournament. He waited until the sound of their steps faded before moving again.
When he reached the servants’ exit, the night air struck his face like an icy hand. Stars shimmered overhead, indifferent to human dramas below. The moon was new—barely a sliver, casting a sickly light over the garden. He stopped for a moment, breathing in the cold air deeply. It smelled of autumn, of fallen leaves and the winter to come.
How many times have I done this?
The question slipped unbidden into his mind.
How many cities have I fled in the dead of night? How many names have I left behind?
Billy Moss was merely the latest in a long line. Before that, he’d been Thomas Baker in the Northern Kingdom—staying only two years before realizing someone was watching. And before that—Marcus Cook in the western port cities, where storms rolled in from the sea, bearing whispers of strange events in distant lands. Always a cook, always in the shadows, always ready to vanish the moment things went wrong.
But this time was different. This time, the vision had shown him Lucifer’s face—not the demonic ruler of legends that frightened children in tales, but something more human, more vulnerable. The brotherly concern in those eyes had been real, even in the nightmare. The raw pain in his voice when he’d called his name…
Brother.
The word echoed in his skull like a half-remembered melody, like a refrain from a time he could no longer fully recall.
Billy closed his eyes, trying to trace the thought back to its roots. Fragmented images flickered through his mind—seven figures seated around an immense obsidian table, their laughter ringing through a hall of crystal walls. The crushing sense of belonging, of wholeness, something he’d never felt as a man. The certainty of being part of something greater than himself.
And then—emptiness. A shining, agonizing void that had haunted him in every dream, every moment of solitude.
Beelzebub. The name slipped from his lips like a sigh, like a prayer to a forgotten god.
But the memories were broken, shards of a shattered mirror reflecting only pieces of a larger picture he could no longer see. The harder he tried to assemble them, the more they crumbled through his fingers like sand.
Only one certainty remained—he had to run. Danger was coming. And this time, there might be nowhere left to hide.