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Oleander grinned despite himself. As a child, she had always filled her pockets with pilfered sweets.

But then the memories twisted.

Wisteria was sitting behind him, deft hands braiding his hair. She was lecturing him about his conduct for some upcoming event. Her voice, once warm, had grown haughty. Even as she became formidable to the world, her touch on his hair remained gentle. As if to say, I still care for you, in the only way she knew how.

The memory shifted again, sharp and painful. They were older now, voices hoarse from shouting. Wisteria and Hemlock, slowly excluding him from their lives, without explanation. When their father had given Oleander foul assignments, he had jumped at the chance to prove his worth.

A memory more recent burst forth, one where the two of them stood dripping lake water onto the floor of the silk spider’s cave while they yelled at each other. He watched his sister closely, without the need to be forming a defence against her he was able to see things he’d missed while in the heat of the moment. Wisteria wasn’t angry at him… not really. She was heartbroken.

She’d had tears in her eyes. Her voice shook when she spoke and her hands moved twice to reach for him before she pulled herself back.

He’d been so caught up in in the argument that it hadn’t struck him then… but that might have been the one and only time he’d ever seen her cry. She had cried for him and he, ever true to nature, just kept defending his right to be an egotistical ass.

Gods below, he should have just fucking apologised.

The familiar urge to turn his anger inward, to hate himself, rose up fast. Right behind it came the old, reliable instinct to shove the whole ugly mess of feelings somewhere deep inside himself, bury them, smother them, and never look at them again.

Instead, though, he let himself sit with the discomfort, cradling it like a wound. Because shoving everything down had done nothing but fester in the dark. He needed to finally put in the time and effort to face his mistakes, to take responsibility for them, and to take charge of healing his own wounds instead of pretending they weren’t the reason he’d spent the past few years tearing himself apart.

When the memories finally cleared, he found his sister silently watching him, uncertainty clouding her gaze.

“Tell me why you’re here, Oleander,” she whispered.

“I couldn't help you but… I want to help Perine if I can.”

“I don’t know if you can help her.”

“I didn’t try hard enough to help you. The least I can do is try harder to help her.”

Wisteria turned away slightly. “It’s not your job to save us.”

“It wasn’t your job to protect me from our father.” He shot back, his words firm and pointed.

“I’m your older sister.” Her eyes snapped back to his, holding his stare with a sharpness that felt like a challenge.

“And I’m your brother. I thought we agreed that we help each other now. That’s what we do.” His gaze never wavered. Their eyes locked, the silent sorrow between them filling the space.

“Yes, well. There’s that.” She cleared her throat, then took a slow sip of her tea, eyes distant. “But it’s not only Peri and me. We were just the first ones.”

“What does that even mean?” Oleander’s voice was quiet, but his confusion was evident.

“All right, I don’t know everything. I don’t even understand everything I do know.” Wisteria took a slow drink and looked away. “But,” She exhaled sharply. “the way male demons become immortal, or immortal-adjacent, demands sacrifice. The way demonkind maintains control of Hell? That requires a sacrifice too.”

She glanced at him, measuring her words. “Apparently, the Grand Dukes have decided that the sacrifice will be chosen by Slang’s Bite. Convenient, don’t you think? Since the only ones who get blessed by Slang are demonesses.”

Oleander frowned. “Why should that matter?”

“If, for centuries, only male demons were allowed to dictate which prophecies were seen,” Wisteria gave him a pointed look. “and only male demons were permitted to interpret and share them… then I think the question answers itself, don’t you?”

Oleander opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“I looked into it,” Wisteria continued. “Slang’s Bite represents some kind of new beginning. Not a sacrifice.”

“What sort of beginning?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated. “But I think that if demonesses were allowed to come together—to actually work together—we could have created something beautiful. A Hell where we don’t need to Ascend. A world where male demons can’t leech off of us at every turn.”

“Which is why the Grand Dukes targeted you.”