The silence in the wake of Magister Corvin's departure was the loudest sound Stolas had ever heard. It was the silence of a battle lost without a single spell cast. He stood in the center of the calming chamber, the humming crystals feeling like a mockery, holding the small, terrifyingly still form of Darkness in his arms.
Octavia hovered, her hands fluttering uselessly. "Is he breathing? Dad, why won't he wake up?"
"He is breathing. His mind has... withdrawn. It is a defense so deep, it mimics death." Stolas's voice was no longer weary or frantic. It was flat. Analytical. The voice he used when calculating orbital trajectories. "Corvin's 'test' was a trigger, but the cause was systemic. The prolonged stress, the threat of being taken... his consciousness could not fight, so it fled."
"Can we bring him back?"
"That," Stolas said, his eyes glowing with a soft, dangerous light, "depends entirely on what we do next. Help me."
He carried Darkness not back to his sparse room, but to the heart of the palace: his private observatory. He laid the child on a divan swathed in astral silk, a fabric that shimmered with captured starlight. Then, he began to work.
Octavia watched, stunned, as her father shifted from a distressed caregiver to a sovereign prince. With sharp, precise gestures, he pulled books from shelves, activated crystal arrays that plotted not stars but psychic resonance, and began inscribing complex barrier sigils directly onto the floor around the divan.
"He is vulnerable now," Stolas explained, his quill moving swiftly. "A catatonic vessel of immense power is a tempting beacon for any soul-eater, dream-thief, or greedy collector. These wards will shield his dormant mind. They will also... send a message."
"What message?"
"That this palace is no longer merely defending. It is fortifying for a counter-strike." He finished the last sigil, and the air around the divan solidified with a faint thrum. Darkness's form seemed to sink deeper into the silk, protected. "Now, we prepare."
---
Andromalius received Corvin's report with immense satisfaction. The dry, bureaucratic language painted a perfect picture: Subject unstable. Guardian incapable. Recommendation: immediate re-custody. The Conclave would vote within three days. The child would be declared a ward of the court, and as the complainant with the most "pertinent expertise," Andromalius would be granted provisional stewardship. It was elegant.
His satisfaction lasted until his own scrying spells flickered and died when trying to peer into the Prince's palace. Not blocked, but burned. The feedback carried a new, unfamiliar signature: not just defensive power, but aggressive, scorching intent. A clear "Keep Out."
Andromalius's smile faded. Stolas was not mourning his failure. He was arming.
---
Within the hour, a new, simpler message arrived at Stolas's palace, not via raven, but blasted in fiery letters onto the main gates for all to see.
"YOU HAVE UNTIL THE MOON'S CYCLE ENDS. SURRENDER THE ANOMALY. OR WE WILL TAKE IT, AND YOUR TITLE WITH IT."
It was signed not by Andromalius, but by a consortium of three mid-tier Goetia houses Stolas vaguely knew were in Andromalius's debt. The pawns were moving openly. The threat was no longer bureaucratic; it was a feudal ultimatum.
Octavia read it, her face pale. "They can't do that, can they?"
"They can try," Stolas said, examining the scorch marks. "They are betting I am isolated. That my... unconventional personal life and this scandal make me weak. They are betting I will choose my title and my daughter's safety over a feral child I never wanted." He turned to her, his expression grave. "They have misjudged on all counts."
"What are you going to do?"
"The only thing left to do, Via. I am going to stop being Prince Stolas, the apologetic scholar." His gaze drifted to the unconscious child on the divan. "I am going to become what my father always accused me of being: a sentimental fool. And I am going to make everyone who threatens this family regret it."
His first move was not to a fellow Goetia. He went to his Grimoire and sent a single, urgent page.
---
Blitzo was in the middle of unsuccessfully trying to sell a haunted toaster to a demon in the Greed ring when the page tore through the air.
"Blitzo. The situation has escalated. My home is under threat of siege. My ward has been psychically wounded. The parties you sought to broker for are now making open demands. I require your unique services. There will be substantial, immediate payment. Come at once. - S."
Blitzo read it, his eye widening. Then, a huge grin split his face. "Moxxie! Millie! Pack the big guns! We're going to war! And by war, I mean a very well-paid freelance protection gig!"
---
Stolas's second move was internal. He sat with Octavia in the observatory, the silent Darkness between them.
"I need you to do something for me, Via. It is the most important task."
"Anything."
"I need you to talk to him."
"He's unconscious, Dad."
"His mind is adrift. But a mind, especially one so powerfully connected to emotion, does not vanish. It is lost in its own currents." Stolas placed a hand on the ward barrier. "You have a connection with him. A thread of understanding that I, for all my study, do not. Your voice, your emotional signature... it may be a lifeline he can follow back. Tell him stories. Tell him about your day. Play your music. Not through headphones. Out loud. Remind him what he is anchored to."
Octavia looked at the small, still form, looking so frail without the crackle of destructive energy around him. She nodded, determination hardening her features. "Okay. I can do that."
For hours, she sat. She talked about stupid, mundane things. She described the aggressive new growth in the garden after his "fertilizing" incident. She complained about a new album she disliked. She played soft music from a speaker, filling the observatory with sound. She even, hesitantly, read aloud from one of her darker poetry books.
There was no response. Not a twitch. But Stolas's instruments, monitoring psychic resonance, showed a faint, steadying pattern. The chaotic storm of Darkness's mind was not calming, but it was ceasing to dissipate further. The anchor was holding.
---
Blitzo and I.M.P. arrived with a clatter of weapons and noise. Stolas met them in the scorched foyer, his demeanor chillingly businesslike.
"Blitzo. Your buyer. Who were they?"
"Uh, a very secretive, very rich... entity. They used a middle-demon. Why?"
"Because they are part of the consortium now threatening me. I want you to find that middle-demon. Extract from them the true identity of the buyer. I do not care how. I will pay triple your usual hazard rate."
Blitzo whistled. "Hell yeah, we can do extraction! That's like kidnapping with better branding! What's the catch?"
"The catch," Stolas said, his eyes glowing, "is that you will be operating against Goetia interests. There will be consequences if you are caught."
Blitzo's grin was feral. "Sweetie, consequences are my business model. Cash up front?"
---
As night fell, Stolas performed his final act of preparation. He stood before a large, ornate mirror that did not reflect the room. He spoke a name not used in polite company.
The mirror's surface swirled, then cleared to reveal a lavish, chaotic boudoir. A familiar, grinning face with radio dial eyes filled the view.
"Well, well! Prince Stolas! To what do I owe the pleasure? Finally ready to spice up that dreary home life of yours? I have fantastic rates for royal meltdowns."
"Alastor," Stolas said, ignoring the jibe. "I require information, not entertainment."
The Radio Demon's smile widened, a static crackle underscoring his words. "Everyone requires something, dear Prince! But information is my favorite currency. What's the topic?"
"The Earl Andromalius. His holdings. His recent acquisitions. Specifically, any artifacts designed for psychic subjugation or entrapment."
"Oho! Moving in shadowy circles, are we? That boring old bird has been shopping in some very interesting markets lately. It seems he's frightfully interested in things that... quiet noisy minds. Cage restless souls. For a friend, of course." Alastor's eyes gleamed. "It would be such a shame if someone were to... intercept his next delivery. A true tragedy of postal service."
Stolas allowed himself a thin, cold smile. "A tragedy, indeed. What is your price for such tragic information?"
"For now? Just a front-row seat to the coming festivities! I do love a family squabble. The details are on their way. Tune in next time!" The mirror went dark.
Stolas turned back to the observatory. Octavia was asleep in a chair, her voice hoarse from talking. Darkness remained still. But on the psychic monitor, a new, tiny, coherent pattern had emerged. A single, repeating signal amidst the noise.
It wasn't a thought. It was a feeling. A sensory memory.
The pressure-warmth-steady-rhythm of Octavia's voice. And beneath it, a new, fainter sensation: the cold-fire-determination of Stolas's resolve.
The anchors were not just holding. They were being woven into the fabric of his dormant consciousness.
Outside, the blood moon began to wane. The Conclave would vote in two days. The consortium's deadline loomed.
But within the fortified palace, the strategy had shifted. The goal was no longer to pass an inspection or avoid a scandal.
The goal was to win a war. And Prince Stolas, with a vengeful imp, a deal with a Radio Demon, and a daughter's unwavering voice, had just finished drafting his battle plans.
He looked at Darkness, then at Octavia. His family.
"Let them come," he whispered to the silent night.