Chapter 71 As The King Commands
(Apollo)
The order went out like a shockwave through the palace.
Demons scrambled through the halls as heralds shouted in every tongue Hell knew.
“By command of the King— All non-essential personnel are to leave the palace grounds immediately. Take only what you can carry. Leave now or be incinerated where you stand.”
It caused chaos. Of course it did.
Servants shrieked and dropped trays. Guards cursed. Stewards tried to argue with the messengers and were silenced by snarls. Lower demons trampled each other trying to reach the outer gates. Doors slammed, chains rattled, hoarded treasures clattered to the floor as their owners decided they preferred life to gold. The entire palace became a throat clearing itself in panic.
Apollo walked among it all like a shadow of fire, half-shifted form looming over the scrambling creatures of his realm.
His presence cleared paths without a word. Those who were too slow to move were given an incentive by the stone itself cracking under his feet.
He didn’t bother explaining. He never did. If anyone dared to ask why their king suddenly wanted his palace empty, they kept the question locked safely behind clenched teeth. Questions were for beings who did not live at the mercy of his moods; his court had long ago learned that curiosity here was a self-correcting flaw.
Only a handful were summoned to remain. His most trusted ward-weaver. The head of the torture wing. The steward who had held this palace together for centuries. And Cael Asher.
Apollo found the male waiting in the lower hall, as requested—leaning discreetly against a carved column, eyes lowered in proper deference, presence so quiet most demons would have missed him.
Apollo didn’t.
“Cael,” Apollo said, voice rough from too many roars.
Cael straightened at once, bowing his head. “My lord.”
The male smelled faintly of ash and metal, like a soldier who knew how to stay close to battle without ever standing on the front line. His eyes—when he dared lift them briefly—were a shade of ember-brown, nothing remarkable, nothing flashy.
That was what made him useful.
He did not draw attention the way so many of Hell’s peacocks did. He listened more than he spoke. He executed orders without embellishment. He moved through the palace like smoke, through cracks and overlooked spaces, gathering everything and leaving nothing of himself behind. Even the shadows seemed to forget he was there until he stepped out of them.
Apollo had grown used to his quiet competence these last decades. Had almost forgotten that comfort was a dangerous thing to feel toward anyone.
“You will remain,” Apollo said simply.
Cael inclined his head. “As you command, my king.”
“The others will go.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Apollo’s claws flexed once at his sides. “Anyone who asks why—or hesitates—send them to the pits. I’ll make examples later.”
“As you wish,” Cael said calmly, like being surrounded by carnage and threat was perfectly normal. In his world, it likely was.
Apollo watched him a moment longer, his half-feral gaze searching for any flicker of insolence, suspicion, or ambition. He found none. Nothing but careful obedience and well-practised stillness. Good.
He needed men like that now—silent, efficient shadows—to maintain order while he focused on the wildfire he’d brought into his own home.
“Double the wards around the top level,” he added. “No one goes up there without my direct command. No one. Not even the ward-weaver. Not even you.”
For the briefest instant, something flickered in Cael’s eyes. Curiosity. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. His shadows twitched at his heels, a betrayed ripple quickly smoothed to stillness.
“Understood, my king,” he said.
Apollo turned away, the air warping with heat around his half-shifted frame.
He felt the bond thrum once, faintly, like a heartbeat echoing down a long corridor.
Adelaide. She was still alone. Still locked in his chamber. Still wrapped in confusion and anger and that infuriating, irresistible fire.
Hiding her wouldn’t fix what she was. But it might buy him time—to find answers, to find a way to smother this threat, or to twist it into something he could live with. Time, he knew, was the one currency even kings couldn’t counterfeit; he would wring every stolen heartbeat from it.
He stalked back through the ruined hallways, smoke trailing in his wake.
He had made a pact centuries ago as a precaution, thinking himself clever. Now the precaution had grown teeth. And he would do what he always did when the world dared to twist beyond his control.
He would burn everything around the threat. He would keep the threat in his palm. And he would refuse—absolutely refuse—to admit that his heart beat faster at the thought of a girl wrapped in fire whispering his name in the dark.
He was the Devil. He did not fear queens. He did not fear prophecies. He did not fear the past. He would prove it.
Even if he had to tear Hell itself apart to do so. Even if, for the first time in a thousand years, the thing he was trying to destroy was not an army, or a kingdom, or a god—
but the part of himself that wanted to kneel in front of her flame instead.