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[POV — Sirzechs Lucifer]
Tock-tock. Tock-tock.
The tip of my pen tapped the glass tabletop like a nervous metronome. The house was quiet— that expensive quiet of an old mansion, full of perfumed air and polished memory— but my head still echoed with the council's racket. Overlapping voices, capes dragging— schoo— and egos trying to win by volume, not by reasoning. It's always like that: the louder they shout, the less they listen.
Today, though, the room yielded. Ajuka, with the coolness of someone who dissects a problem the way one takes apart a clock, dropped reality in the middle of the table: the celestial faction could, in its current state, crush demons and fallens and still smile for the portrait. He didn't outsource blame, didn't perfume the numbers. He called "iteration" what everyone wanted to avoid saying: they grew. And a lot. The ghost of Astaroth, yes, sat among us. When Ajuka "washed his hands," he didn't just wash his own. He washed half a dozen, and everyone pretended the water was invisible.
Zekram… ah, Zekram surprised me. I expected a theatrical refusal, some ancestral bellow. I got pragmatism with sharp edges. "Let's proceed, but with steel brakes." He asked for clauses even a god would hesitate to sign—and still approved the direction. The vote was almost symbolic; the pen came down— slash— and the pact, with its locks and protocols, gained a rough draft of future.
Now, hours later, I was home, finally. I opened the wine, a dark ruby spinning in the glass— glug, glug— breathing patience. Waiting for Grayfia.
Some say beauty is a flower. Grayfia is steel. A beauty that doesn't ask for light— she arranges it. The face, classical, wasn't born to spill emotions. It keeps them. And when she decides to release one— the smallest smile, the arch of a brow— the world understands it's been granted a privilege. Her silver eyes hold that cutting serenity of a frozen lake: you see the sky in them, but you know the water bites. The body, restrained, elegant, wears the uniform like signing a sentence: every line is intention, every step has a clock. And still, when she approaches, there's a sweetness that won't accept pampering; it accepts respect. Grayfia is the proven hypothesis that discipline can be beautiful. And, in the end, when it's just the two of us, the sentinel stows the sword and a low laugh— hmm— hands me back my youth.
As if the memory had heard me, the door whispered— creck— and she came in. Posture straight. Serene face. The stoicism that, to me, always sounded like music.
"Welcome," I said, feeling my body warm without any effort. It was almost a reflex: the sight of her, the promise of a truce after politics.
She didn't smile. She only tilted her head. And I knew. The glass paused midair— clink— before finding the table.
"Lord Lucifer," her voice came measured, precise, "the former Lady Astaroth, née Agares, sought out Yuuki Rito."
The wine lost its taste. The excitement, puff, evaporated like mist touched by the sun. The hall seemed to shrink by a centimeter.
"Go on," I asked, dry, trading the husband's mask for the ruler's.
"Rito didn't kill her," she continued, without theatrics. "He only defeated her. Took her captive. For now."
"For now." Two words that spin in the throat like a stone.
The headache walked in— thump, thump— with the calm of an executioner. I massaged my temple, breathed through the nose. Once again, someone on our side pokes the hive with a short stick. Once again, the one holding the swarm is a "boy" who decides whether the sting is worth it.
"How did she reach him?" I asked, already seeing the shape of the disaster.
"On her own. No endorsement. No seal." Grayfia kept her eyes on me, neutral. "Driven by… grief, pride, fear of dissolution. Broken families look for a mirror. She wanted to prove that an 'outside god' can't touch ours and walk away without a price."
"And she paid the price," I finished.
I nodded to myself.
I stood. The coat slid off the armchair with a sigh— fff— and I walked to the window. Outside, the underworld shimmered in its eternal dusk, that light that doesn't change and yet always seems different. The city breathed at a distance, small windows of fire scattered like shy constellations.
"Political state?" I went on, without turning.
"Ajuka received the report from my network at the same time. Zekram already presumed the worst possible scenario and wrote two more. The lesser pillars… are split between 'serves her right' and 'who's next.'" A pause. "Rias and Sona haven't been informed yet."
I smiled without humor.
"Better not. Not yet." The glass called me back; I ignored it. "Extraction impossible?"
"There is no 'extraction,' my lord," Grayfia said, keeping the edge in her tone. "He didn't kidnap her. He defeated, contained, and notified indirectly by preventing any… reprisal. It's a cage without bars: he makes clear the prey only leaves when he wants. And honestly, the prey won't run if the door opens. She fears what's outside."
That's why I love having her at my side: she gives me the whole map, including the streets I didn't want to see.
"Contact?" I ventured.
"Direct, no." She set a crystal on the sideboard; a compact report with discreet seals. "But he left his usual message: 'talk before you test me.'"
A mordant irony: he's more patient than we are. Or worse, he can afford to look it.
I returned to the table and drank the wine, this time without judging the fruity note, the wood, the year. It went down like duty.
"So that's it," I summed up. "Today we sign the first step of a pact, and the same night someone tries to call a private funeral." I heard myself give a joyless laugh. "You know, sometimes I feel like we inherited a house full of alcoholic watchmakers: each one fiddles with the hand they like best and prays time doesn't break."
Grayfia didn't comment. Her silver eyes only brightened a fraction— enough for me to know she also found it funny. So little. So us.
"Proposals," I asked, back to business.
She raised one finger, counting:
"One: we officially state that any extrajudicial action against Yuuki Rito or his family—directly or by proxy—will be considered sabotage of the pact under negotiation. Penalty: expulsion from the council and joint retaliation by the Four Satans."
"That'll hurt," I noted.
"That's the idea." Second finger. "Two: we offer a formal mediation for the former Lady Astaroth to be delivered to the underworld under a term. It's not a 'rescue,' it's a 'transfer of custody for inquiry.' If he refuses, we don't lose; we register good faith. If he accepts, we discipline the precedent."
"And three?" I prompted.
"Three: strategic silence. We don't feed the bonfire with speeches. If there's noise, it comes from outside."
I spent a while weighing the pieces. The wine finally fit. The pain stepped back half a pace.
"And what about Rias?" I let out, inevitable.
"She'll know," Grayfia answered, simple. "Better from you than from others." And then, the blade turned to silk: "I can call her in a moment, if you wish."
I nodded.
"Do it. But… first," and I looked with the kind of attention I only give far from the round table, "sit with me."
She hesitated a second— rare— then came. The sofa received us— fumm— and, for a precious moment, there were no Satans, no pacts, no didactic vanishings. There were two tired people sharing a space that only exists when the door closes.
"You know me," I said softly, almost whispering against her shoulder. "I accept brakes, clauses, all of that. But I fear the day when we can't offer a sense of ground. 'Day's summary: we survived.' That can't become a habit."
Grayfia turned her face toward me. The steel of her gaze softened by a hair.
"Ground is built with routine," she returned. "And routine, with small, firm, repeated decisions. Today you made two: not retaliating on impulse, not hiding the truth from those you love. Too little? That's more than half the work."
I chuckled, short.
"I'll have that embroidered on a banner."
The intercom whispered— beep. The magic in the wall blinked— plic. A message from Ajuka.
"Take it," I asked.
She lifted her palm, and the room took his voice, clean, methodical:
"Sirzechs, Grayfia. I received the same data. I drafted the non-interference protocol and the custody clause. Zekram 'approves with reservations.' Leviathan wants to attach an addendum protecting students— yes, Sona's sister— and frankly, I agree. I'll send it in fifteen minutes. I need your signature and your… tact to announce it to the lesser council. Ah— and one last thing: do not deploy any force toward Sainan. I repeat: none. Good night."
The voice faded— tch. Grayfia and I traded a look. The whole world fit in that gesture: old trust, shared fatigue, uncertain future.
"No force," I repeated. "Only words."
"The right words," she corrected, with the same aim that made her my best decision.
I stood again, now lighter, and walked to the bookcase. I ran a finger over a frame— nearly dustless— and saw a photo from Kuou Academy. Me, Rias, Sona, Akeno, Sairaorg with that smile of someone who always picks the harder path, and— behind the lens— the day the board changed. I remembered the "boy" speaking like someone holding lightning with both hands: "Enough of childish wars." It wasn't a threat. It was… a warning. And a proposal.
"I'll talk to Rias," I decided. "Then to Sona. After that, I'll announce the protocol." I smirked. "And, believe it or not, I'm going to sleep."
"A miracle," Grayfia let slip, with rare humor, releasing an almost imperceptible "hn."
"Take advantage and audit me," I shot back, feigning gravity. "Your husband requires oversight."
She sighed— ha— that soft breath that interrupts battles and lights lamplight. And, for a brief instant, the whole world fit in the curve of the sofa.
The old clock in the room remembered it existed— tling. A single chime. Enough to remind me that time, even in our land, belongs to no one.
"Bring the communication, please," I asked, returning to my post.
"Yes, my lord," she replied, and in the sentence there was work, affection, and steel.
As my wife walked toward the office— precise steps, the sound of fabric that knows where to fall— I picked up the glass again. The wine now seemed less red and more calm. I took a long sip, closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, I saw the council again, heard Zekram talk about brakes, Ajuka draw lines, Leviathan ask for student protections. Above it floated the weight of the silent message: "move the wrong piece and vanish from the board."
I opened my eyes. The house breathed with me.
"Alright," I said to the nothing, or to whoever always listens. "Let's play this right."
From the corridor, Grayfia's voice— crystal-clear— reached me:
"Sirzechs, the documents have arrived."
"On my way," I answered, setting down the glass. "And, Grayfia…"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for reminding me where the ground is."
Silence. A good silence, woven by four hands. Then, the soft sound of a smile that few know.
"Always," she said.
And the night outside seemed to nod.