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Once the tea had settled, he strained it and moved to the table, continuing his reading while sipping. The tea was woodsy and filled with notes of lemongrass, lemon peel, and a hint of liquorice root. Sweetly refreshing, and painfully tied to Perine in every way.

Earlier that evening, he had spent time with his brother at Moonbeam Tavern. Hemlock had been as unruffled as ever, signing that Asmodeus had approached him a few days ago, reminding him of his duty to find a demoness as a mate. Mating with a demon was considered a taboo in their family, even though demons were often a source of fleeting pleasure.

It was unsettling. As much as he had judged Perine and the Holy Circle for their narrow-mindedness, he realised his own Circle, especially his father, was just as closed off. They simply hid behind the Holy Circle’s more public display of bigotry.

Hemlock had laughed it off, signing with a smirk, >He needs me for the non-verbal magical creatures. I’ll choose whatever damn mate I want.I find her... nice.What can you do?<

As they polished off their second glass of wine, the conversation meandered to other subjects. They’d moved to the fireplace after indulging in lasagna, and for the first time Hemlock treated him as an equal, not a little brother to protect, but a friend.

Oleander had crept into Brightmore Manor to rummage through his mother’s tea collection. The place was empty, so he padded through his childhood home and found nostalgic peacefulness slide over him. He decided to enjoy his tea there, alone in the kitchen his mother had lovingly designed. Long windows lined the ceiling, with mirrors placed artfully throughout, causing the room to radiate soft moonlight. He’d just begun sipping his tea when the door to the side of the kitchen swung open.

Asmodeus stormed in, dishevelled, his eyes wild. The moonlight, once soft creams, turned a cold and sharp silver. Without a word, he grabbed Oleander’s face, his fingers bruising as he stared deeply into his son’s eyes.

“You look different,” Asmodeus grunted.

Oleander raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh really?”

“There should be a shadow in your eyes.”

“Is there not?”

“The Devil’s still there, right?” Asmodeus’s breath was foul, his face contorting with a menacing twist. “You’re still keeping him safe?”

“I’m keeping him safe,” Oleander replied evenly. It wasn’t a lie—at least, not entirely. His words settled between them, a calculated reassurance that quelled his father’s anxieties.

“Good.” Asmodeus paused, the tension thick in the room. “That’s good.”

With a sharp shove, Asmodeus pushed Oleander’s face away. “There were demons who doubted. Strange things are happening. Like last time. There’s been talk—” His expression shifted to something darker. “No need to bother you with all that.”

His father collapsed into a chair opposite Oleander, his posture sagging with exhaustion. “That’s my problem to handle. As long as you’ve still got the Devil inside you, that’s all that matters.”

Oleander sipped his tea, the silence stretching between them as he pondered his father’s words. “Why did you make me take the Devil into my body? Won’t he try to take over?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case,” Asmodeus responded hastily, the lie dripping with forced certainty.

Oleander hummed mockingly, his response a cold blade. “No, of course not. That’s not something you’d do to your own son.”

“Exactly.” His father nodded, hearing none of the irony and taking blunt comfort in the words said.

Oleander studied his father, his gaze unwavering. It was a moment of rare clarity between them—one where his father’s manic tendencies were dulled by the weight of Oleander’s presence. Asmodeus seemed more at peace believing his son was still possessed, as if he preferred Oleander’s soul trapped by the Devil rather than losing the power his son’s compliance represented.

Oleander broke the silence, his tone sharp. “I have a question about my mother.”

Asmodeus’s expression softened slightly. “Ask away. Though I can’t promise I’ll have all the answers.”

“Why didn’t you ever get someone to help her raise us after she... lost her mind?” Oleander’s words hung in the air, fragile with the unspoken history.

His father rose to pour himself a drink, his back turned to Oleander. When he spoke again, his voice had lightened, almost cheerfully. “She didn’t lose her mind until you were all practically grown. You were walking by then, or crawling—hardly a baby.”

Oleander hid his disgust behind a sip of his tea as his father turned back and sat. “How did she lose her mind? I’ve never heard the full story.”

Lips curling into a half-smile, his father took a thoughtful drink. “She wanted to be a soothsayer. Thought it would help the family, bring us some advantage. Naturally, I indulged her, gave her what she wanted. Found a way for her to bargain with a spirit from the Lake of Knowledge. But something went wrong. She came back an absolute lunatic.”

“Ah,” Oleander said carefully, his tone steady despite the storm of emotions in his chest. “Well, that’s a bit of bad luck.”