Zaliyah slowly stirred awake, He didn't know what hour of the day it had bled into, only that his mind felt like wet wool and the last thing he recalled before the darkness took him was cursing Xulthas's name.
Then came the sudden shift in temperature—the sensation of being lifted, carried, and lowered into an expanse of water so hot it made every nerve ending in his battered body snap awake.
A sharp gasp tore from his throat.
Above him, a deep laugh vibrated through the air, Instantly burning away the fogginess in Zaliyah's brain. He whipped his head around, his violet eyes locking onto the familiar walls of Xulthas's private bedchamber.
Instead of pulling away, Zaliyah exhaled deeply and leaned his head back against Xulthas's bare chest.
They sat together inside the deep wooden soaking tub, Xulthas positioned directly behind him, his arms banded securely around Zaliyah's slender waist. With his free hand, the warlock reached up, lazily tangling his fingers through Zaliyah's wet hair, his thumb tracing the curve of a shoulder already mottled with the dark, bruising evidence of the night before.
"Are you okay?" Xulthas murmured, his voice was low against Zaliyah's spine.
Zaliyah rolled his eyes so hard it physically strained his eyelids. "Of course I'm okay," he retorted, his voice raspy "No one has ever died due to intercourse, Xulthas. Save the dramatics for Thalassa"
Xulthas chuckled, He truly would never change, He thought, marveling at how even after being dismantled in bed only hours prior, Zaliyah still possessed the sharp tongue of a cornered viper.
Scooping a palmful of the steaming water, Zaliyah splashed it over his face, scrubbing furiously at the stubborn remnants of dark charcoal makeup and rose powder that had somehow survived the wreckage of their intimacy. As the water dissolved the pigments, the painted arches of his brows dissolved back into their natural, ghostly white.
His thoughts, however, drifted past the soap and the steam, Sylaris... Was she already awake? Had the nursemaids brought her breakfast? . He couldn't wait to see his daughter, this was the longest they'd been away from eachother.
He wondered what time it was, too. The curtains were drawn tight across the high windows, blocking out the light. Was it still morning? Had the sun reached its zenith, or was the crimson wash of a northern sunset already bleeding across the snow?
"I'm glad I wasn't hallucinating yesterday," Xulthas Said, his fingers pausing in their massage of Zaliyah's scalp. "What happened to your hair?"
Zaliyah stilled. Turning his head just enough to look back over his shoulder, he let his expression curdle into one of feigned, fragile melancholy. His lower lip trembled—just a fraction—and his voice dropped to a softer tone. "Is this appearance offensive to the commander's presence?"
Xulthas gritted his teeth, Of course he didn't hate the hair. For nearly five years, he had only seen Zaliyah with long White hair. This sudden reversal, this framing of jet-black locks against pale skin, was a shock his senses hadn't fully processed yet.
"I don't hate it," Xulthas muttered, "I'm simply... surprised."
Zaliyah turned back around to face the front, dismissing the topic with a subtle shift of his shoulders as Xulthas's large hands resumed their work, sliding soap across his spine with almost reverent care.
"At any moment now, the royal inquisitor will visit us," Xulthas said,
"Malachi wants me back," Zaliyah cut him off instantly,
Xulthas smiled against the wet skin of Zaliyah's shoulder, continuing his slow washing of the other man's hair. "Clever as ever. Though, to be precise, Malachi doesn't want you back. It's the empress and Nyxian pulling the strings."
"Nyxian...?" Zaliyah muttered the name, his brow furrowing as he tried to drag the memory to the surface. He had always possessed a staggering apathy for faces and names he deemed unfamiliar or useless; if someone didn't amuse him or threaten him, they slipped out of his mind like sand through a sieve. Malachi and Kizari were exceptions—etched into his memory with the permanence of branding irons. Even now, the vivid, horrifying image of Malachi drenched in blood, black winds unfurled behind his back like tattered sails, and jagged horns erupting from his skull remained burned into his mind like a cursed painting he had gazed at only yesterday.
Nyxian...? he questioned himself internally, Suddenly, images of a little girl with pale skin, red eyes and long black hair made it's way into his mind, he remembered the little girl calling him "Sister in-law" mad how Malachi would effortlessly carry her.
"Nyxian is the youngest crown princess, who also happens to be the king's favorite sister," Xulthas replied.
Zaliyah flinched, Xulthas words seemed to pull him back into the present.
Sensing the sudden tension, and misinterpreting it as terror, Xulthas shifted. He wrapped both of his arms around Zaliyah's smaller frame, pulling him against his chest and resting his head heavily between Zaliyah's shoulder blades.
"You don't have to go back if you don't want to," Xulthas spoke, his tone carrying a foreign gentleness. "I would write a petition to the capital, If you wish to stay here, then you shall stay here"
Zaliyah froze. Then a breathless laugh burst from his throat.
It was the first time Xulthas had ever heard him laugh so carelessly, so devoid of sarcasm or malice.
Twisting around in the narrow confines of the tub, Zaliyah faced the commander directly. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the floor. Without hesitation, Zaliyah reached up, cupping Xulthas's scarred face in both hands, his thumbs brushing the high ridge of Xulthas cheekbones.
"You need not coddle me, Commander," Zaliyah whispered, his voice soft. "I am no longer the fragile, weeping young master of the Ruo Han, After all... I am the treasured consort of the crown."
Xulthas leaned in without a second thought, pressing his lips passionately to the inside of Zaliyah's delicate wrist, where a pulse beat beneath the skin. "Of course... of course you are."
Zaliyah didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes bored straight into Xulthas's gaze, unblinking, locking the other man in place. "I need your unwavering support. Not just passing compliance, not just a bed for the night. I need you to stand beside me when the walls come down."
"I will," Xulthas rumbled instantly, "I'll do more than stand beside you. Name your enemies, Zaliyah. I'll pull them down by their roots."
Zaliyah listened, studying the unhinged devotion blazing in the Xulthas eyes. Deep down, beneath the layers of his ambition, a voice whispered: Is this love, or is it just lust so blinding, that it has scrambled his wits?
He didn't want to name it. He didn't want to label whatever strange, dark attachment Xulthas had grown towards him over the past four years. Labels invited weakness, and weakness got people killed. If he was going to exact his long-awaited revenge on Malachi and his villainous queen, he needed power, undeniable leverage. And right now, he was curious to test the boundaries of how deep Xulthas's devotion truly went.
He had to know how far the leash stretched.
"If I ask you to commit the ultimate sin," Zaliyah murmured, tilting his head like an inquisitive bird, "If I ask you to march your armies not for the kingdom, but against it... would you do it?"
The question hung in the steam-filled air.
Loyalty was the single most sacred currency among demons. They were ruthless, bloodthirsty beings who spat on human virtues like mercy, charity, or selflessness, but loyalty—that was their religion. From the lowest, mindless beasts up to the high-class and the nobles. Every demon was bound by an unyielding tether to the throne and the state. Treason wasn't just a crime; it was an aberration, a fundamental break in their nature.
Xulthas fell silent.
The quiet stretched between them. For the first time since the conversation began, Xulthas didn't quickly reply. He stared down at Zaliyah, his green eyes shifting with the weight of centuries of military conditioning, of oaths sworn in blood to a crown he had served his entire life.
Zaliyah sighed deeply, a bitter corner of his mouth turning down. I knew it, he thought, the disappointment was quite visible on his face. When push comes to shove, blood and steel to the state always win.
"I knew you couldn't," Zaliyah whispered, pulling his hands away from Xulthas's face to turn back toward the front of the tub. "It was foolish of me to even—"
"Yes."
The single word echoed in the chamber.
Zaliyah stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. He turned his head back, staring at the Xulthas in shock.
Xulthas's expression cold, devoid of hesitation now. "You asked if I would betray the kingdom for you. My answer is yes."
A dangerous thrill raced down Zaliyah's spine, though his voice remained serious as he reminded Xulthas of the stakes. "The punishment for treason is death, Xulthas. Public beheading at the execution tower. And if you hold a high position... your entire bloodline is stripped of every title, every scrap of land, every coin, cast out into the wastes."
Xulthas let out a dark, raspy laugh, reaching out to tuck a wet lock of black hair behind Zaliyah's ear. "I know the laws of the realm, little elf. I am a demon after all. I've broken every law worth breaking since the third age. Only yesterday I broke one of the most sacred laws in the realm....What is one more?"
Yes. Zaliyah sometimes forgot that beneath the tailored robes and the civilized veneer, Xulthas—just like Harun, Iruna, and Thalassa—were monsters. No matter how human they chose to present themselves, they were predators wearing skin.
Xulthas leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to the center of Zaliyah's forehead. "You're worth the pyre," he murmured.
Slowly, Zaliyah reached up, pressing his lips to the jagged scar that cut across the bridge of Xulthas's nose. Then, he wrapped his arms around the man's neck, burying his face against his shoulder and holding him. "Thank you," Zaliyah whispered into the hollow of his collarbone.
As they sat there wrapped in each other's arms, the water around them slowly losing its heat until it matched the chill of the frost creeping up the outside of the windowpanes, a dark, victorious smile slowly stretched across Zaliyah's face.
I should have let him bed me years ago, he thought, Men really are nothing more than brainless slaves to their desires, so easily tamed with a touch.
Minutes bled past in silence. Finally, Xulthas pulled back, He stood up from the tub, water cascading off his body.
"Don't move an inch," Xulthas commanded,
Zaliyah nodded his head, resting his chin on his crossed arms at the edge of the tub.
Xulthas walked toward the far side of the bedchamber, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. He pulled on a pair of loose, white trousers and tossed an outer robe over his broad shoulders, gathering his long, dripping black hair and twisting it up into a messy knot at the crown of his head.
With a flick of his wrist and a muttering of ancient syllables, a bright emerald arc of magic tore through the air. In a shimmer of emerald light, his painting equipment materialized on an easel right before him—charcoal sticks of various grades, fine-haired brushes, and a wooden palette smeared with dark oils.
Zaliyah watched him from across the room, raising an eyebrow. He is hopelessly obsessed with painting, isn't he?
Xulthas caught the look over his shoulder, a smirk touching his lips as if he could read every thought running through Zaliyah's mind. "Just you," He muttered,
"Huh?" Zaliyah tilted his head, feigning ignorance.
"You're the only person I've ever painted," Xulthas said, picking up a piece of charcoal and testing the edge against his thumb. "Usually, I paint the peaks of the northern mountains, or some unusual beast that happens to cross my path and pique my interest."
Zaliyah let out a dry, humorless snort, resting his cheek against his palm. "I suppose, I am a beast that piqued your interest."
Xulthas laughed as he stepped back toward the tub, settling onto a low stool he dragged across the floor. He lifted his charcoal, his eyes locking onto Zaliyah with the hyper-focused intensity of a predator tracking a deer through deep brush.
Zaliyah hadn't done anything outwardly impressive to warrant a promise of treason; he knew Xulthas was primarily driven by a possessive lust. He had caught the commander watching him for years—undressing him with those bedroom eyes.
But until today, he hadn't realized just how deep that "desire" went, how easily the mighty commander of the Northwest could be reeled in by a drop of makeup.
Slumped slightly against the rim of the tub, Zaliyah let his head droop, his wet black hair spraying in chaotic, ink-dark strands across his face and shoulders, framing his features in a way that looked effortlessly ethereal.
To Xulthas, it was the most breathtaking sight the realm had ever produced.
Raising his hand, He began to sketch with passionate strokes. He didn't just capture the physical geometry of Zaliyah's face; he captured the ugly, raw truth of the aftermath.
With swift movements of the charcoal and a fine brush dipped in dark sepia ink, Xulthas meticulously rendered the stubborn smudges of makeup that Zaliyah had failed to wash away from his cheeks and eyes. He mapped the sharp, delicate slope of his collarbone, the contrast of those snow-white eyebrows against the newly dyed black hair.
He didn't shy away from the evidence of his own hands, either. Every dark, blossoming hickey bruised across Zaliyah's upper chest and shoulders was recorded with detail, down to the swollen, sensitive peak of his left nipple. Even the haunting expression of melancholy that crossed Zaliyah's face—that fleeting look of a man plotting a war in his head while staring into empty space—was locked onto the parchment with accuracy.
Around the edges of the figure, Xulthas swept his brush with watery grays and blues, capturing the gentle ripples of the water whenever Zaliyah so much as shifted a finger.
The room grew dead silent, Only the sound of Charcoal scraping against paper and the howling of the snowstorm could be heard