I awoke in my bed. Body aching; mind numb. Crushed beneath the weight of my failure, heavy heart resting in the pit of my stomach. Beelzebub was gone, and I was the architect of his demise. Not a healer with promise, but an assassin who crafted a poison and called it a cure.

  The Promised Healer.

  Those words, now meaningless, weighed heaviest of all.

  I thought myself so clever, so enlightened, in rejecting it as a fairy tale, just to embrace it the moment it stroked my ego and gave purpose to my madness. A shield behind which I could cower, deflecting reason with delusional grandeur.

  But if it was all a lie, penned by Genesis to give hope to his hopeless victims that they might entertain him once more, why was I was born this way? Whence came these insatiable urges, this desire to make whole that which had been broken, if not divine inspiration? Was my unusual birth yet another lie, spoken by a grieving mother to give her bastard daughter a sense of purpose where she had none?

  Or worse…perhaps my queer physiology — inhuman eyes, garish hair, and knife-tipped ears — meant something darker? I’d seen Beelzebub and Banshee in their former lives. Aside from our ability to walk the Dream, we shared no other similarities. But Lord Genesis and I? We were alike in body and mannerisms. Eating for the sensation, not sustenance. Driven by our nature to destroy or to preserve.

  He sought to make me a Fiend, but if I was not human now, what, then, was I?

  My body curled in on itself, knees tucked into my chest, face smothered in my hands. The air shifted. I was no longer alone; I could not bring myself to face them.

  “Beg your pardon, Fair Lady, beg your pardon, indeed, but I’ve come to invite you to dine with Lord Genesis.” Belial’s offer hung in the air, accompanied by the ticking clock and crackling fireplace. When no answer came, the creature responded with no change in its cheerful demeanor. “As you wish, Lady Celeste.”

  Another shift in the air. I was alone once more.

  My eyelids fell shut, holding back bitter tears, just to open again and let them fall freely. I dared not sleep, lest I awaken in that place. If I felt their pain, however faint, I would be compelled to fly to their side. I could not bear to see them, nor be seen by them.

  So I lay, eyes open, drowning in a hundred thousand thoughts.

  ***

  Good Belial visited me often in my despair, appearing at sporadic times throughout the day to regale me with stories of Heroes and Beasts, symphonies of sweet victory and tragic loss, or to keep me abreast of my family’s comings and goings.

  “They are quite well! Yes, yes, well indeed. Why, I would fancy there is but a month left until they are upon us.” Belial said one evening. “How exciting! Don’t you think, Fair Lady?” They cackled; I remained silent.

  When my mind was not preoccupied with Belial’s reveries, I focused on the crackling fire or the ticking clock, counting the seconds to avoid the burden of my own thoughts. A quiet, aimless existence.

  There were times in the evening when Genesis hovered just outside my door. The air grew thick, hot, and heavy. The fellflame burned with more vigor, as if to impress its unseen master. He never said a word to me, nor I to him. But I knew — and he knew, I’m certain — that we were aware of one another.

  The only sound was his breathing. Low, rumbling breaths that hitched with words unspoken every so often. Within my chest, his persistent ache tightened around my heart, a pain that grew with each passing day.

  Though unbearable, it gave me the little comfort I could find in those dark hours.

  ***

  After countless days in hiding, a familiar restlessness took hold of me. A heavy sigh, the first sound I’d made in days, escaped my lips. I climbed from my bed and, without reflecting on my appearance in the mirror, left my room, following wherever my wandering feet would take me.

  It came as no surprise when I found myself at the foot of the stairs leading to the high tower. The wall of putrid ichor barring the way was thick as ever, crawling with aimless rotflies. They buzzed in protest when I reached out a hand. But with a flash of pigheadedness, I pursed my lips and pressed my fingertips into the searing surface of the rot. As the sting coursed through my arm, I pushed back against it with a fountain of starlight.

  It struggled to deny me entry, but another shove was all it needed to acquiesce to my demands. Strips of lilac and gold spilled through the cracks in its inky surface as my power filled it to the brim. Then, with one final push, it burst into a dazzling flood of sparkles. The rotflies, bewildered and indignant, hissed at me before fleeing the castle in a cloud of buzzing black.

  I waited. Patient, or perhaps fearful. I know not what stilled my feet, but once the last Fellbeast wobbled past, whatever excuse held me in place was gone. Drawing in a deep breath, I exhaled through pursed lips and began my ascent into the tower.

  The stone steps beneath me, ancient and unused for millennia, creaked beneath my weight, every footstep a deafening echo that rang in my ears.

  What lay in wait for me at my destination?

  For months, Lord Beelzebub’s quarters had been little more than a curiosity, so quickly written off as inaccessible. Perhaps uncharitably, I’d imagined a den of filth and decay when I gave it thought at all. But with the rot cleansed, and its buzzing occupants gone, the stale air was no more pungent than that of the rest of Dreadskull. Thinner, for sure, owing to the tight corridor spiraling ever higher into the sky, but not any more unpleasant than that to which I’d grown accustomed.

  After several minutes climbing — and more than one pause to consider turning back — a faint glow of light pierced the shadows. Not the dark copper of fellflame, but something colder. Pale and artificial. My brow furrowed, and curiosity emboldened my steps. The light grew brighter until I reached a well-lit doorway at the top of the tower.

  Beelzebub’s laboratory was not at all what I expected.

  The chamber was quite large, easily twice the size of my garden, devoid of windows and lit by strange, glowing glass bulbs. Heavy metal workbenches lined the outer rim of the obsidian stone chamber. Quite contrary to my imaginings, the chamber was spotless, every surface polished to a sheen, with all of Lord Beelzebub’s implements — beakers, a collection of hammers and chisels of different shapes and sizes, and various metal contraptions I had no name for — meticulously arranged on a shelf labeled in elegant script on small, thick strips of parchment. The air smelled of tobacco and steam. It was cold and sterile, but somehow cozy.

  But most striking of all, so much so that I couldn’t help but gasp, covering my mouth as if I might stir a sleeping ghost, were the paintings lining the walls. They were unlike any I had ever seen before. Glossy, easy to hold between one’s fingers, capturing in perfect detail those contained within, bearing none of the telltale signs of an artist’s hand: slight imperfections, smudges, or brush strokes.

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  And there were so, so, so many of them.

  More than could be counted, lining every corner of every wall, from the surface of the workbenches, up to the curve of the ceiling. Overlapping, but never covering the faces of those shown.

  None of them smiled. They all stared, watching without blinking, at the center of the room.

  Still covering my mouth, I stepped into the center of the laboratory. Though I kept my eyes low to avoid looking at any of them, my skin crawled with every move I made, knowing they were watching. Making my way around the perimeter of the room, I paused at each table to observe the late Fiend’s handiwork.

  Metal, it seemed, was Beelzebub’s forte.

  Small artifacts with rounded metal pins I dared not pull.

  Barreled implements with a padded grip of various proportions. I picked up the smallest I could find. It fit snugly in the hand, my finger resting on a mechanism designed, it seemed, to be squeezed. Again, my fear got the better of me, and I set it aside.

  Throughout the laboratory, more devices — more weapons — lined the tables. Phials of fellblood rested in one corner, labeled with the names of Lord Genesis, Good Belial, Lady Banshee, and Lord Beelzebub, himself. Most of them were still full, but the last was nearly empty.

  My investigation brought me to a journal at the bench directly opposite from the door. Heart pounding, I reached for it with trembling fingers, pausing when I recalled the countless glares weighing upon me.

  “My apologies, good sirs and ladies.” I said aloud in a dry, cracked voice. “It is not my intention to infringe upon your host’s privacy. I simply wish to learn more about the man I…the man I…”

  Unable to bring myself to say the words, I bit my lip and shook my head and took the journal in my hands. The leather binding was undamaged despite its owner’s clawed appendages, the pages worn and frayed at the edges, but otherwise unbent. With what I hoped was matching care, I opened the cover and turned to the first page.

  They were Beelzebub’s research notes. Penned in the same elegant, curved script as the labels and written to fit as much onto the page as possible. There were crude sketches of the devices I’d found around the laboratory, with lines and labels detailing every inch of their design.

  Though I couldn’t make out the words, I recognized the madness. It reminded me of my own notes.

  A pang of anguish twisted like a knife in my gut. Had I tried harder to make amends, to see the man behind the monster, what conversations could we have had? I longed to know what it was he pursued with such single-minded determination, to know what methods he’d employed. To know how alike we might have been, were we not at odds from the very start.

  I came across a page filled with the same repeating letters, stretching from one margin to the other, filling it from top to bottom. It continued on the next, then the next, and on, and on until the writing stopped entirely.

  “Forgive me, Lord Beelzebub. But, I must know.” I closed my eyes and stepped into the Dream.

  ***

  Once there, I retrieved Belial’s lexicon. The words on the page appeared within it, spelling out in Valaean:

  I cannot die

  How had such pain escaped my notice?

  Had it been buried by our mutual animosity, or simply ignored due to my obsession with the Fiend Lord?

  No. Mayhap it had been so long since these words were penned that the ache was buried too deep to be felt anymore? So many decades or centuries passed that it no longer hurt to know his was a cursed existence with no end. An awful fate, accepted as his inevitable reality.

  Choking down my sorrow, I prepared to wake, but glimpsed something written at the bottom of the last page. As my eyes traced the letters, the lexicon dutifully translated it:

  Genesis has found a new prospect. Some child from nowhere. Rubbish! Utter rubbish to still think there is a way out. Even more so that it might be discovered by some little girl playing with flowers!

  ***

  When I returned to the waking world, I was no longer alone. A silent sentinel watched over me, his presence a welcomed warmth that fought against the dreadful chill that had overtaken me. My eyes opened, but I did not turn to face him. Instead, I closed the journal and set it down.

  “We’re meant to find a way to destroy you.” My words hung heavy in the air. He did not deny them. “That is why you confine us to this castle, provide us these quarters, and task Belial with granting us that which we require for our experiments.”

  His silence was deafening.

  I turned at last to face him and found no smolder in his eyes. Their emerald heat dulled to embers, staring unseeing at the strange paintings lining the walls. He wore neither a domineering smirk, nor a fearsome scowl. Only a frown that spoke volumes where his words failed to manifest.

  “Why?”

  At last, he offered me an answer, though it was one I both expected and loathed to hear.

  “So that this story can at last be given its proper ending.” His eyes met mine; our hearts ached as one. “A Hero must rise who can slay the Beast. Those who fail become Beasts themselves, set loose upon the world to stoke its fear and hatred in a never-ending cycle of violence.”

  With every word spoken, his heart and mine splintered.

  “If such things bring you no joy, Lord Genesis, can you not just walk away?” I took a step toward him, and he drew back. Expression darkened, fangs bared. But the fire in his eyes remained listless and dull.

  “It is my nature.” His growling voice wavered, a claw rising to clutch his breast in its bloodied grasp. ”It is what I am, Celeste. What all Fiends are; what I made them into. Just as you cannot stop yourself from tending to others, neither can I stop myself from harming them. I am violence.”

  “Then why is my treatment different from theirs?” My voice rose and cracked, echoing in the silence that followed. I wiped my eyes and took another step toward him. This time, he did not draw back. “You did not turn me, did not ravage my home. You stayed your hand and listened to my plea for no reason but that you desired to do so.” I laid a hand on his chest. “If violence is the sum of your being, why is it not turned against me? We speak of fairy tales and hero’s journeys. You keep me in comfort, show me kindness if not with your words, then with your actions.”

  My voice softened. “I do not see a Beast when I am with you, Genesis.”

  “Then you are blind.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I am not. I see the man behind the guise of the Fiend Lord. You needn’t make your Fellbeasts have mannerisms beyond destruction — favorite foods, purrs, and playfulness — and yet, you do. There is no violence in remembering the Heroes who fought against you. My father’s statue, given a place of honor just outside your throne room, serves no darker purpose.”

  As I spoke, the agony within his heart pierced deeper, our entwined souls bleeding red. It scorched the air within my lungs and boiled in my stomach, but through the pain, I pressed further. Stealing the distance between us, I laid both hands against his chest, tracing the scars that marred his unbreakable iron flesh.

  A flicker of starlight danced on my fingertips. A growl rumbled in his throat, but he did not retreat from me.

  “You mourn Beelzebub’s death, as I do. Do not deny it, I feel the pangs of loss within you.” My starlight poured into him, embracing the pain, following it back to its source. “When you speak of this inevitable end between us, your heart aches. I can hear it calling out.”

  Genesis was silent as the light emanating from me grew brighter.

  Nestled in his core was a knotted clump of thorned vines. Crushing us as my starlight embraced it, kneading it in a desperate attempt to break through. My vision blurred, his solemn gaze the only thing that remained in focus. Unblinking. Unwavering. Dwindling beacons of emerald in an abyss of obsidian.

  “I will not kill you.” My voice was distant, disconnected as my body dissolved into radiance. Try as I might, even unbound from the constraints of my vessel, there was not enough starlight to purge the depths of his darkness.

  His hands touched mine, claws piercing what remained of my flesh with a sweet, tender sting. They drew me closer until my cheek rested against his chest.

  Captivated by the thundering of his heartbeat, my eyes drifted shut.

  “I know.”

  The walls between us broke, drowning me in a flood of suffering. It swallowed up my radiance, reduced it to a flicker. I pushed back, but all my strength and more wasn’t enough to weather the storm unleashed by those two words.

  His grip on my hands tightened, claws digging into my flesh, filling the air with the scent of burned incense.

  “How long do you intend to fight the inevitable?” Genesis’s voice rumbled in his chest in a joyless chuckle. “You have done what no other in ten thousand years could. You’ve created the Answer that will slay the Fiend Lord. The prophecy of the Promised Healer was a lie…and you fulfilled it nonetheless.”

  A tremble ran through him. His grip grew desperate; his pain unbearable.

  “With my death and your power…you can mend the world, Celeste.” Voice hitching, he continued in a whisper. “And eventually, the day will come when you will read your children the tale of the Promised Healer, and how it was the Maiden who, at long last, slew the —“

  “No. No, I will not…I refuse to entertain such an ending, Genesis.” Drawing back, I raised my head. His expression was unreadable, but in the depths of his dark eyes, I swore I could see a glimmer of something brighter. “And I will never stop fighting against such an abhorrent end.”

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