Enia adjusted her toga-like gown as she stepped into the bustling market of Sityl's capital. Her golden eyes glinted with business hunger. Sylas followed reluctantly, dressed in inconspicuous human clothing—a black tunic, boots, and a permanent scowl.
"Do we have to?" Sylas muttered. "Humans are loud, dirty, and smell like fear."
Enia grinned. "Yes. That's the smell of money."
They arrived at a row of properties where landlords advertised empty shops. The first landlord, a rotund man with a greasy mustache, approached with a salesman's smile that immediately triggered Sylas's fight-or-flight instincts.
"Ah, my honored guests! Fine shop, fine location, only fifty gold a month rent. A bargain!"
Enia tilted her head, lashes fluttering. "Fifty gold? For this dusty rat hole? My dear sir, I've seen corpses more inviting than this establishment."
The landlord blinked. "Excuse me—"
"Thirty gold," Enia cut in sweetly. "And you should be thanking me. With the smell in here, you'll never find a tenant otherwise."
Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose and stepped back, trying to distance himself from whatever this disaster was going to become.
The landlord sputtered. "Thirty? Madam, thirty doesn't even cover the taxes!"
Enia swept her golden hair back dramatically. "Ah, but it covers your dignity, which you are quickly losing in front of your peers. Look at that shopkeeper across the street laughing at you. Pitiful."
The man turned red. "Forty-five!"
"Twenty-five," Enia countered immediately, grinning like a shark.
"Thirty-five!"
"Fifteen."
The landlord's jaw dropped. "You're going lower?!"
Sylas groaned loudly, muttering to himself, "This is torture. Actual torture." He started to walk away, hoping to be invisible. Maybe if he wandered far enough, he could pretend not to know her.
Enia spotted him and yelled after him: "Sylas, darling! Don't wander, I need your tragic expression to make the landlord pity us!"
Sylas froze mid-step. The crowd turned to look at him. His ears burned. "I—No—!"
Enia clasped her hands dramatically, eyes shimmering with fake tears. "My poor brother Sylas! Ever since the famine, his health has been weak. Look at him! So pale, so gaunt—he might collapse at any moment! Surely you wouldn't force such a fragile man to pay more than twenty gold, landlord?"
Sylas's mouth fell open. "I am NOT fragile! And we are NOT siblings!"
The landlord blinked, thoroughly confused. "Wait… famine? What famine?"
"Exactly," Enia said gravely, "you've never heard of it because the survivors don't speak of it."
Sylas buried his face in his hands. "Kill me. Just kill me now."
After a heated back-and-forth that resembled less of a negotiation and more of a duel, Enia finally won the shop for twenty gold a month plus a year of free maintenance. The landlord staggered away, muttering to himself about demonic women and their cursed tongues.
Enia dusted off her toga, looking pleased. "See? That's how you do business."
Sylas muttered darkly, "No, that's how you commit social murder."
.
Back at the newly built Demonic Palace, Luceris was sprawled on his throne with a crystal microphone he'd bullied the dwarves into constructing. He was in an excellent mood. Too excellent.
"I have created technology. I have created government. I have created games," he said to no one in particular. "What is left?"
He sat up, golden eyes glowing with inspiration. "Of course. Music."
And so began the first—and possibly last—concert of Demon King Luceris Vael.
Caelum, the unfortunate soul on duty, froze outside the throne room as an unholy sound echoed through the halls. It was… singing, if singing had been strangled by a banshee and then set on fire.
"OHhhhhh my tail's so blue, my scales so fine, I drowned three lords, now they're all mine—"
Caelum staggered into the room, horrified. "Majesty, what in the abyss are you doing?!"
Luceris twirled his hair dramatically. "I am gracing the world with my angelic voice."
"Angel—?!" Caelum clutched his ears. "Majesty, it sounds like a whale giving birth while being stabbed!"
Luceris gasped. "You dare insult my art?"
"It's not art, it's a war crime!" Caelum groaned, his face pale. He turned green, choking. "I think I'm—"
And then he bent over and vomited into a decorative vase.
Luceris blinked, offended. "Rude."
Caelum wiped his mouth, glaring weakly. "If you want the demons to rebel, keep singing."
Luceris leaned back smugly. "Jealousy looks ugly on you, Caelum."
.
Back in the human realm, Sylas sulked as Enia proudly admired the deed to their new shop.
"You humiliated me," Sylas said flatly.
"You looked very pitiful," Enia replied sweetly. "It worked. Think of it as teamwork."
"I didn't agree to teamwork, I agreed to reconnaissance."
Enia flicked his forehead. "Relax. Now we have a shop. The first DemonPhone store in human lands! Can't you see the vision?"
Sylas rubbed his sore forehead, grumbling, "All I see is embarrassment."
Enia only smiled. "Embarrassment that saved us thirty gold."
Sylas hated that she had a point.
Because demon realm had no production of gold and silver.
By the time Enia and Sylas returned, Caelum was collapsed in the corridor outside the throne room, clutching his stomach. The butler stood nearby, stoic as always, though his left eye twitched.
"What happened to him?" Sylas asked, startled.
The butler answered gravely, "His Majesty decided to… sing."
Enia's eyes widened. Then she started laughing so hard she nearly fell over. "Oh no. Ohhh no. Poor Caelum."
From inside, Luceris's voice rang out proudly:
"La la laaaa, Demon King supreme, I sing, I slay, I build my dream—"
Caelum groaned miserably, covering his ears. "Make it stop…"
Enia wiped tears of laughter. "Oh, this is glorious. Forget the shop—this is the best entertainment I've seen all year."
Sylas muttered, "We're doomed."
He, himself, was a demon, but he felt that they were simply devils in front of him.
Luceris lay sprawled across his throne, clutching his throat like a tragic opera star after a long encore.
"My art," he croaked dramatically, "has exhausted me."
Sylas was crouched in the corner like a traumatized survivor. His golden eyes stared blankly at the floor as though all joy had been drained from his soul.
Caelum, still pale and queasy from the auditory assault, raised his head weakly. "…You're… done?"
Luceris nodded regally. "Yes. The world isn't ready for my brilliance. I shall… rest my voice."
There was a moment of silence. A long, blessed silence.
And then, as one, Sylas, Caelum, and the butler pressed their hands together and whispered, "Thank the gods."
Another silence followed. Their eyes all widened at the same time.
They froze. They were demons. They didn't pray to gods.
Slowly, awkwardly, the three turned to look at Luceris.
Luceris raised a brow, golden eyes glinting with amusement. "Excuse me?"
The butler cleared his throat with professional calm, though the tips of his ears burned. "Ahem. What they meant to say, Your Majesty, was… thank the Demon King."
Sylas coughed violently. "Yes. Right. Thank the Demon King. For… for his mercy in ceasing… that."
Caelum, still too nauseous to think straight, blurted, "Thank the Demon King for not murdering us with his voice!"
Sylas smacked his arm. "Idiot!"
Luceris leaned back, lips curving into a sly smile. "Oh, don't thank me all at once. You'll make me blush."
The three demons exchanged a look that said the same thing: better awkward gratitude than another song.
.
.
Far away in the glittering heart of the Sityl Empire, another kind of performance was taking place—this one much less honest, but no less dramatic.
Inside the gilded halls of the imperial palace, a girl in silken white sobbed prettily into a handkerchief. Her delicate frame trembled, tears sparkling like dew on her long lashes. It was a picture-perfect display of maidenly sorrow.
Too perfect.
Cassian Draven, the Grand Duke of the North, leaned against a marble pillar in the shadows, watching with ice-cold eyes.
The "princess" was supposed to be his niece. A few days ago, however, the entire court had learned that she wasn't who she claimed to be. The real imperial princess—his actual niece—was missing, stolen away at birth. And this girl, this fake jewel, was the daughter of the rival Duchy of the North. (There are two borders in North, Duchy of North is North-east to be exact) And Grand Duchy of North is North and North-west)
Yet here she was, crying as though she were the greatest victim of all.
Cassian's lips curved, not in a smile but in a blade-thin smirk.
"How touching," he drawled, voice carrying across the hall. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost believe those tears."
The girl's sobs hitched. She peeked at him from behind her handkerchief, eyes widening in feigned fragility. "Uncle… why must you speak so cruelly? I am suffering—"
"Cruel?" Cassian stepped forward, his tall figure casting a sharp shadow across the floor. His black cloak trailed behind him like a stormcloud, his cold gray eyes fixed on her trembling form. "No, little dove. Cruel is stealing another's life, parading in their gown, and daring to weep when caught."
The words sliced sharper than a blade.
Across from her, the Crown Prince—Cassian's nephew—stepped in quickly, placing himself between his cousin and the Grand Duke. His handsome face twisted in anger.
"Uncle, enough! She is still family. Even if she was… misplaced, she has lived with us for years. She deserves compassion."
Cassian's eyes flicked to him, and the corners of his lips curled again, cold and disdainful.
"Compassion," he repeated softly, as though tasting the word. "How noble of you, nephew. Defending a fraud while the true princess rots gods-know-where."
The Crown Prince flushed red. "That's not fair!"
"Fair?" Cassian's laugh was low and humorless. "Since when has fairness ever existed in this palace? You should know that better than anyone."
The Crown Prince clenched his fists, but under Cassian's gaze—calm, sharp, and unyielding—he faltered.
Cassian's attention returned to the girl. She was still pretending to tremble, her tears dripping onto her pale hands. He tilted his head, studying her the way one might study a clever little parasite.
"Keep crying," he murmured, voice full of mocking gentleness. "It suits you. Perhaps one day you'll convince even yourself."
Her lips quivered, but she said nothing.
Bored now, Cassian turned on his heel. His cloak swirled behind him as he strode out of the hall, boots clicking against marble.
The courtiers parted in silence, none daring to meet his eyes.
By the time the Grand Duke left the palace, the entire hall was buzzing with whispers—half about the fake princess's pitiful tears, half about the Duke's merciless tongue.
Cassian heard them all, but paid them no mind. He had no patience for painted tragedies. The truth was missing, and until it was found, everything else bored him.
.
.