(AN: Finally, the long-awaited update after a while, I'm so sorry it took so long, everyone!)
Evelyn POV
It's been a few weeks since I last allowed myself something resembling freedom, and today—finally—I have a day off.
A real one.
No council meetings.
No territorial disputes.
No snotty noble Goetia trying to gain favor with honeyed words and sharpened smiles.
No whispers about power vacuums or expectations pressing down on my shoulders like a crown I never asked to wear.
For once, I don't have to worry about being the de facto leader of the Pride Ring in my parents' absence.
The thought alone makes my chest feel lighter, like something long embedded between my ribs has finally loosened its grip.
I hadn't realized just how tightly wound I'd been until now—how every breath lately felt measured, observed, judged.
Even alone, even asleep, I'd felt the weight of Hell watching.
I stand in front of the mirror in my chambers, staring at a version of myself the rest of Hell knows all too well.
Horns polished to a flawless sheen.
Eyes sharp, calculating.
Posture perfected through centuries of being watched.
Judged.
Measured.
Found wanting—or worse, found useful.
This version of me wears power like armor, like a warning. She commands rooms without raising her voice.
She never slouches, never hesitates, never forgets that every movement is being catalogued by someone eager to exploit it.
Today, that version stays behind.
With a slow breath, I let the magic roll through me.
Shapeshifting has always come as naturally as breathing—a gift, an inheritance, really, from dear old Dad.
Unlike most demons who need focus or ritual, mine is instinctive, fluid, almost indulgent.
Magic hums beneath my skin like a familiar melody, responding to intent rather than command.
Bones shift without pain, sliding and reshaping as if they were always meant to move this way.
My height diminishes, my center of gravity lowering as my silhouette rearranges itself into something far more… forgettable.
A hellhound.
Dark fur spills down my arms in a smooth cascade, swallowing pale skin as claws replace carefully manicured nails.
My horns recede, dissolving as though they were never there to begin with, and my face reshapes—jaw lengthening, teeth sharpening, senses blooming all at once.
When I open my eyes again, the reflection staring back at me is common. Unremarkable. Anonymous.
Exactly what I want.
I tilt my head, watching my ears twitch on their own accord, reacting to sounds I'd normally filter out without thinking.
Hell rushes in all at once—distant screams echoing like background noise, raucous laughter spilling from somewhere below, the metallic grind of machinery deep in the ring's underbelly.
I can smell it too now: brimstone and oil, ash and blood, cheap alcohol and ozone. It's overwhelming—and strangely grounding.
Hell never truly rests, but today it feels different. Louder. Sharper. Alive in a way I rarely have time to notice.
Good.
I grab a simple jacket from the rack—something worn, something forgettable—and tug it on, adjusting it to fit my new form.
No sigils. No royal markings.
Nothing that screams Morningstar.
Just fabric and zippers, and anonymity.
Slipping out quietly, I leave power, titles, and expectations locked behind gilded doors meant to impress and imprison in equal measure.
The wards barely acknowledge me now, sliding open without ceremony.
Today, I'm not royalty.
Not a leader.
Not a symbol.
Just another hellhound walking the streets of Hell.
And as the door clicks shut behind me, as the weight of responsibility finally fades into background static, I let myself smile—wide, sharp, and utterly genuine.
Fangs and all.