I don’t doubt his words.
Not in the least.
A species with a life expectancy of a few thousand years has no real reason to change. Or at least, not swiftly. Demons are much the same. With a plethora of rules and regulations—which they often break for sheer amusement—expectations and standards are… rigid. And they carry hellish consequences… if caught.
My involvement with Druka comes to mind.
Even if I hadn’t already been promised to Kassil, Netharis would have never allowed his daughter to be involved with a succubus. To him, they were servants and playthings, nothing more.
But, lingering on Cyran’s words and the tone he chose to speak them, a small truth emerges. He knows exactly the kind of scrutiny Eve and Cora endured. He’s endured it himself.
He’s never shared much about his past or who he is, despite all the probing questions I used to ask. His reluctance to answer set the precedent between us quite early.
Thus, I stopped asking.
Who am I to fault a fae for failing to find friendship with a demon?
Curling around the towering gray marble fountain, I follow in Cyran’s wake. Peering into the basin, I find gold and silver coins glitter from the bottom of the shallow depth. An odd use of afountain and a bizarre waste of gold. Then again, this realm is filled with curious customs, tedious traditions, and befuddling beliefs I don’t quite understand.
The white marble mausoleum comes into view, a rather impressive structure in the center of the graveyard. Within it, hundreds of those who died in Celesta’s service have been laid to rest, reaching back twelve hundred years.
Lifting my gaze as I trace the tallest tower, blue-silver ripples overhead. But beyond the tower, beyond the ward, a flock of gulls soar west, slicing through the sky toward Kevus Lake. My eyes linger in muted envy.
Cyran pulls the heavy, barred mausoleum door open, its hinges groaning. The sound rips through the graveyard, jarring my teeth and hair—and likely those of the dead. Loud and drawn out, the sound echoes between the stone walls as I grimace.
The wretched sound dies as abruptly as it had been birthed, and Cyran steps aside, claiming his usual post beside the door.
He never enters.
The mausoleum is considered sacred ground—even if the Olloran chapter of Celesta’s devotees no longer exists.
Entering, the same stillness found in the Moon Temple greets me. While not in a state of complete ruin, the sense of mourning is the same. Despite being brightly lit, the lack of life doesn’t feel out of place.
At least, not here.
Yet after this morning’s venture, it’s still unnerving.
Shining magelights line the white hall, clinging to silver candelabra chained from the ceiling. So much white. White walls, white floors, white tombs. It edges on too bright and near painful to look at.
Small, square marble doors form a grid along the walls, many sealed shut by both traditional means and old magic. The low hum of it tingles in the center of my chest and along my skin, setting my hair on edge. Each door features a brass plate, many dulled and darkened with time. Others—many, many others—gleam in the light.
They’re newer.
Barely five months old.
I don’t need to count them to know exactly how many were added following the eclipse.
One hundred and twenty-two.
All of Celesta’s devotees, her priestesses, the High Priestess, and the majority of her council—at least those who were in attendance during the eclipse. One hundred and twenty-two newly forged plates, each with their own name, date of birth, date of death, and title engraved in the metal.
This entry hall is for her witches and acolytes.
Acolytes line the right, witches the left.
It’s the longest hall of the three within the mausoleum.
As I venture along, noting the number of dead versus fresh flowers left along the wall, the sound of trickling water reaches me. It stems from the fountain at the mausoleum’s heart—an identical rendition of the fountain in the courtyard between the temple and Castle Erus.
