Lucifer and Yahweh walked in silence back to the estate. As the front gate creaked open, they spotted Moses crouched by the firepit, stirring a pot over burning logs. The smoky scent mingled with a sweet milky aroma, wafting gently through the courtyard.
By his side, the little ferret lay still, curled up like a nap-loving puffball. Nearby, a black-faced lamb suckled beneath its mother, blissfully unaware of the world.
"You're back?" Moses asked, gaze fixed solely on Yahweh, pointedly ignoring Lucifer as if he weren't there.
Yahweh gave a small nod but soon halted, sensing something. He turned his head eastward.
Moses poured warm milk into golden bowls and handed one to Yahweh. "Someone crossed the ward along the river this morning. Looked like spellwork. I'll check it out after this."
Yahweh stared into the eastern sky, his expression unreadable. Unseen by mortal eyes, thick black miasma swirled far off, pressed down barely by blue, flickering strands of magic barely holding the corruption at bay.
"I'll go with you," Yahweh said, accepting the bowl.
The goat milk was fresh, still steaming lightly. A cool breeze coaxed a delicate film across its surface. Yahweh stirred the milk with a small spoon and sat down at the table to quietly sip.
Lucifer watched in horrified fascination. Goat milk. The chalky-white liquid sloshed in the bowl. He sneered internally. Gross. Who drinks something squeezed out of an animal?
He had just thought it when another bowl was set in front of him.
He looked up slowly. Yahweh was watching him—expressionless, unreadable.
Lucifer blinked. "This... is for me?"
Moses, still wearing his signature deadpan, gave a low hum and nudged the bowl closer.
Lucifer hesitated, eyeing the milk like it might explode. He was almost certain this was divine revenge. There's no way Yahweh didn't remember.
It had happened during the first days of creation. When Lucifer was born, a young Yahweh had tried to feed him fresh goat milk. The smell alone made baby Lucifer cry—loud, red-faced, hiccuping sobs. Yahweh had coaxed and threatened him into drinking it, and moments later the tiny cherub began wailing louder than ever, vomiting all over himself.
Panicked and unsure how to care for the child, Yahweh had expelled all the milk from his system with divine light. From that day forward, Lucifer swore off milk of all kinds.
Rainwater and berries? Sure. Animal secretions? Never.
So now, staring down the same white sludge, Lucifer looked ready to faint. Slowly, reluctantly, he picked up the bowl like it held poison.
"Uh... Moses, I don't think he wants it," said a voice, cool and clear like meltwater in early spring.
Lucifer turned. Yahweh sat perfectly upright, utensils set aside, hands resting neatly on the table. His eyes—those amber, quiet eyes—watched Lucifer closely.
Moses stiffened. If Yahweh was interceding, this had to be serious.
Had he really just forced the Prince of Darkness to eat something he hated?
Moses went pale. Would Lucifer pluck all his feathers off in revenge?
Meanwhile, Lucifer assumed it was a test of divine punishment. He sighed, accepted the bowl, and sat beside Yahweh. He began stirring, stirring, stirring the milk.
"It'll go cold if you keep that up," came Yahweh's soft voice.
A pale hand reached out, gently pressing Lucifer's to still the motion.
Yahweh turned to Moses, who handed him two jars—one of dried berries, the other fine white sugar.
Opening them, the fresh scent of fruit lifted into the air.
Yahweh, now with his silver hair tousled loose from its ribbon, looked almost gentle. He spooned in a handful of berries, a dash of sugar, stirred it carefully, and then checked the bowl's warmth. Satisfied, he pushed it toward Lucifer.
"Moses added flower nectar during boiling. It won't smell bad. The fruit and sugar help the taste."
He was so close their arms nearly brushed. Lucifer noticed a tiny mole, hidden at the root of Yahweh's eyelashes. A hidden secret. He quickly looked away.
"T-thank you," he mumbled.
He missed the amused lift of Yahweh's brow.
After breakfast and cleanup, the sun was already high. The three of them set out together, walking east toward the Tiber River.
The estate lay nestled between the river and the Tyrrhenian Sea. By the time they reached the broken ward, it was noon.
A girl knelt in the clearing.
Young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with pale skin, playful freckles, and a simple ponytail wrapped under a floral headscarf. Her fingers were woven together in a spell-casting posture, murmuring in an old witch's tongue.
Before her, six candles formed a glowing hexagram midair. Inside the star: a man, middle-aged and twitching.
Dark mist leaked from his body, the corruption so toxic it withered the grass nearby.
The girl faltered as she sensed their arrival. Her chant broke off.
"I-I'm sorry!" she stammered, bowing hastily. "I didn't mean to trespass, but… it's my father. The darkness infected him, and I—I couldn't stop it. I needed help—"
She didn't finish.
The moment the spell weakened, the man surged up, grabbing her throat.
His hands squeezed tightly. The girl choked, gasping for air. Black veins spread under her skin, the miasma invading her blood. Her legs kicked weakly.
The hexagram shattered. The man's power—raw and feral—shouldn't have worked in a holy ward. Yahweh had masked his divine presence, but Moses's light still glowed like a beacon.
Yet the corrupted man showed no fear. He seemed focused only on one thing: killing.
Lucifer looked at Yahweh in alarm. Shouldn't a regular human faint from fright by now?
But Yahweh only watched, arms folded, an old scroll in one hand. Calm. Cold. Unblinking.
Like a god observing from a distant heaven.
Lucifer's stomach dropped.
Then Yahweh turned to him. Their eyes met.
"Go help her," Yahweh said.
Lucifer blinked. "You want me to help? I'm made of the same stuff he is."
He plucked a feather from behind and waved it. "See? Black. Just 'cause I've got wings doesn't make me a nice guy."
Yahweh only said, "She's dying." Then looked at Moses.
The message was clear: If you don't move, your God will be displeased.
Lucifer grumbled under his breath.
With a dramatic sigh, he snapped his black wings open. Shadow and wind tore across the Tiber's edge, powerful enough to crush everything underfoot.
He approached the attacker, cracking his knuckles. "You coming out, or should I rip you out?"
One boot planted firmly on the man's shoulder.
The possessed man faltered, strength visibly waning.
His grip on the girl loosened, fingers trembling like he was moving underwater.
Lucifer scowled. "Quit pretending." He raised his foot to stomp down harder—
Then remembered Yahweh was watching.
Instead, he lowered his leg, cleared his throat, and hissed:
"Move faster, you glorified smog! You're embarrassing the entire dark realm!"