The peace after the garden's defense was brittle, but precious. A new routine, born of siege mentality, took hold. Octavia's hallway sessions with the mp3 player became a daily anchor. Stolas had the palace's external wards strengthened with layers of misdirection and alarm spells that sang directly into his mind.
Darkness, for his part, seemed to understand the concept of "watch." He took to perching on the highest windowsill in his room, one green eye always slightly narrowed, scanning the horizon. His power didn't spike in anxiety; it settled into a low, watchful hum, like a sleeping dragon. The territory was quiet, and he was the reason.
This fragile calm was shattered not by a sneak attack or a magical probe, but by a single, perfectly formal summons delivered by a phosphorescent raven. It landed on Stolas's breakfast table, dissolved into elegant script in the air, and spoke with Paimon's unmistakable, disinterested drone.
"Prince Stolas. Your stewardship of the lineage's anomaly is to be assessed. A representative of the Lunar Conclave will call upon you at the zenith of the blood moon to evaluate its containment, threat level, and your fitness as its curator. Prepare for inspection."
The script flared and vanished. Stolas felt the blood drain from his face. The Lunar Conclave was a committee of mid-tier Goetia nobility—bureaucrats and careerists who thrived on procedure and humiliation. This was Andromalius's true move. He hadn't sent a thief or a spy. He had filed a complaint and invoked official protocol. The representative would have every right to examine Darkness, test the wards, and interview the household. And they would walk right through the front door.
"He can't let them near him," Octavia said, her voice tight with fear. She'd heard the message. "They'll poke him, and he'll... he'll end them, and then we'll be in real trouble."
"I am aware," Stolas said, his mind racing. "We must prepare him. Not to hide his nature, but to... present it. As controlled. As managed."
It was a ridiculous notion. Preparing Darkness for a bureaucratic inspection was like preparing a hurricane for a job interview.
Their first attempt was a disaster. Stolas tried to explain, using simple words and calm tones. "Visitors will come. Important visitors. They will look. You must not... break anything."
Darkness listened, then looked at Octavia for translation. She just shook her head helplessly. "Just... try not to set anyone on fire, okay?"
The word "fire" seemed to give him an idea. Later, when a servant brought fresh linens, Darkness, perhaps trying to demonstrate his understanding of "not breaking," attempted to gently take the sheets. His control was imperfect; a static charge leapt from his feathers. The linens didn't catch fire—they instantly desiccated, aging a hundred years in a second and crumbling to dust in the servant's arms.
"Note," Stolas whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Passive decay field manifests under social pressure."
The day of the inspection arrived. The blood moon hung heavy and red in the sky. The representative was not the towering, intimidating figure Stolas feared. It was a demon named Magister Corvin, a slender, bespectacled owl-like Goetia with dull grey plumage and a ledger that floated beside him, a quill scratching notes autonomously. He was the epitome of dull, ruthless bureaucracy.
"Prince Stolas," Corvin droned, not bothering with a bow. "By the authority of the Conclave, I am here to assess Subject: Darkness, per the concerns of Earl Andromalius regarding negligent custody and public hazard. You will present the subject."
Stolas led him to the west wing, Octavia a silent, furious shadow behind them. He had placed Darkness in the center of the "calming chamber," hoping the harmonizing crystals would help.
Darkness stood rigidly, as Stolas had painstakingly coached him. Stand still. Do not hiss.
Corvin entered, his lenses glinting. He did not speak to the child. He addressed his ledger. "Subject appears bipedal, avian-base, multi-ocular. Signs of extreme feralization. Confirmed." He floated closer, peering. "Emotional state?"
"The subject is calm," Stolas said, the lie tasting like ash.
"Calm," Corvin repeated, the quill scribbling. "We shall see."
He produced a small, resonant tuning fork from his robe and struck it. A pure, piercing note filled the room.
It was the wrong frequency. It was like a needle jammed into Darkness's brain. He flinched, a full-body spasm. A hairline crack shot up the stone wall behind him.
"Note," Corvin said, unmoved. "Subject displays high-tone sensitivity and reactive geokinesis. Mark under 'volatility.'"
"Please," Stolas said, his voice strained. "He is sensitive. Your methods—"
"Are standardized," Corvin interrupted. "Proceed to threat assessment: Provocation test."
Before Stolas could protest, Corvin made a sudden, sharp gesture with his claw—a simulated attack. It was a feint, meant to trigger a defensive response.
Darkness didn't see a test. He saw a threat. The hairline crack in the wall widened. A low rumble built in the floor. His feathers began to lift, sharpening.
"Stop this at once!" Stolas commanded, stepping between them.
"Prince, you are interfering with a Conclave-mandated—"
The argument, the raised voices, the crushing pressure of the unwanted attention—it was all too much. The sensory overload, which had been building since the summons, reached its peak.
Darkness didn't attack Corvin. He didn't unleash a quake or a storm.
He shut down.
His four eyes rolled back. His wings went limp. He folded in on himself, not into a protective ball, but into a total collapse, like a puppet with its strings cut. He hit the floor with a soft thud, unconscious. The rumbling stopped. The room was silent, save for the frantic scratching of the magical quill.
Corvin stared, then consulted his ledger. "Subject exhibits catastrophic emotional dysregulation leading to system collapse. Mark under 'structural instability' and 'unfit for current custodial environment.'"
"You did this!" Octavia screamed, rushing to Darkness's side. "You broke him!"
"Objective data has been gathered," Corvin said, snapping his ledger shut. "The Conclave will review. You will be notified of our decision regarding the subject's re-homing. Good evening."
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Stolas knelt beside Octavia, his claws trembling as he felt for a pulse. It was there, slow and deep, as if Darkness had fled into the deepest recesses of himself. He was cold to the touch.
"He's not waking up," Octavia whispered, tears of rage and fear in her eyes.
Stolas gathered the small, limp form into his arms. The child was lighter than ever. He had not fought. He had not destroyed. In the face of a threat he couldn't claw or blast away, his mind, in a final, terrible act of adaptation, had simply… left.
The inspection was over. Andromalius had won. He had proven Stolas unfit by using their own rules to break the very thing he was supposed to protect.
But as Stolas held the unnaturally still child, a new, cold fire ignited in his chest. This was no longer about politics or shame. They had broken his ward. His brother. A child.
The Goetia had just made one fatal, bureaucratic error.
They had turned a harried prince into a vengeful father. And Stolas knew exactly whose feathers he would pluck first.