The peace granted by Octavia's mp3 player lasted exactly three days. It was a record.
On the morning of the fourth day, a package arrived at the palace. It was not delivered by an imp courier or a hellhound. It appeared, perfectly centered, on the main foyer's repaired marble floor the moment the servants turned their backs. A simple box of polished obsidian, tied with a silver cord.
Stolas knew what it was before he opened it. The energy was subtle, sleek, and invasive. Andromalius.
Inside, resting on black velvet, was not a threat, but a gift. A collar. Or, more precisely, a torc. It was made of a strange, dark alloy that seemed to drink the light, and set in its center was a single, flawless indigo gemstone. A note, written in elegant, spidery script, was tucked beside it:
"For the volatile young one. A trifle to help quiet the storm. It harmonizes chaotic frequencies. Consider it a familial courtesy."
Stolas's blood ran cold. It was a masterstroke. A "helpful" gift that was, in reality, a perfectly designed control device and tracking beacon. Refusing it would be a direct insult to a powerful earl. Accepting it meant putting their enemy's leash around Darkness's neck.
"He can't wear that," Octavia said, peering over his shoulder. "It's creepy. It's literally a dog collar."
"I am aware, Via," Stolas sighed, the weight of political games settling on him. "But Andromalius is clever. He has presented it as an act of generosity. To reject it outright would give him cause for formal grievance. He could petition Paimon for intervention, claiming I am neglecting the child's 'safety.'"
"So we're screwed."
"Not necessarily. We must simply demonstrate that the gift is... unsuitable."
Their demonstration came sooner than expected. Later that afternoon, Stolas, in a carefully staged performance, brought the torc to Darkness's room. He made a show of presenting it, his voice loud enough for any potential scrying spells to hear.
"Look, little one! A gift from a... distant relative. To help you feel calm."
Darkness, who had been listlessly stacking loose stones from a crumbling wall corner, looked up. His eyes locked onto the indigo gem. He went perfectly still. Not fearful, but intensely focused. He abandoned his stones and approached, sniffing the air around the torc.
He didn't see a helpful tool. His enhanced senses, his feral instinct, saw something else: a cage. A silent, singing cage made of pretty lies.
Before Stolas could react, Darkness reached out a single claw and tapped the gem.
A sharp, discordant chime resonated, audible only to Stolas and the child. The torc vibrated in Stolas's hands.
Darkness flinched back, hissing. This wasn't the chaotic anger of a tantrum. It was the precise, targeted fury of understanding. He didn't want the noisy-cage-thing near him. He wanted it gone.
He didn't look at Stolas. He looked at the torc, and his four eyes narrowed in concentration. The air in the room grew still, then heavy. A deep, sub-auditory hum made Stolas's teeth ache.
Then, the dark alloy of the torc began to flake. It didn't melt or break. It disintegrated from the molecular level inward, turning into a fine, grey dust that sifted through Stolas's fingers. The indigo gemstone clouded over, cracked with a sound like a sigh, and fell to the floor, inert and dead.
Darkness blew a sharp breath through his nose, as if dispersing a bad smell. The oppressive hum ceased. He gave Stolas a look that was almost accusatory—why would you bring this bad thing here?—then turned and went back to his stones.
Stolas stared at the pile of dust in his palm, a thrill of terror and pride shooting through him. Reactive Adaptation had just manifested as passive, targeted matter deconstruction. His son hadn't just rejected the gift. He had unmade it.
"That... will suffice as a rejection," Stolas whispered.
---
Andromalius received the feedback immediately. The scrying link in the gem died in a burst of static. In his secluded aviary, he smiled, not offended, but delighted. The weapon wasn't just powerful; it was sensitive. It could perceive insidious threats. That made it exponentially more valuable.
A plan began to crystallize. If the direct approach was blocked, one must go through the attachments. The girl, perhaps. Or the foolish imp. A lever to apply pressure.
---
Unaware of the tightening noose, Octavia was having a breakthrough. She'd started drawing in her room, dark sketches of cityscapes and monstrous shapes. Darkness had taken to lurking in her doorway, watching the pencil move.
Today, she tossed him a spare sketchbook and a charcoal stick. "Knock yourself out."
He poked the items, then picked up the charcoal. He didn't draw. He began to make marks on the paper—not pictures, but patterns. Rhythmic, repeating lines of force and pressure. They were seismic readouts, weather patterns, the echo of his own emotional turbulence given physical form. It was a map of the storm inside him.
Octavia watched, fascinated. "You're not just feeling it. You're... measuring it."
He made a low, affirmative grunt, entirely absorbed.
This fragile, creative peace was shattered by a new, jarring sound from downstairs: the aggressive, synthetic roar of a hell-cycle engine, followed by Blitzo yelling.
"STOLAS! GET YOUR FEATHERS DOWN HERE! WE NEED TO TALK BUSINESS! THE KIDLY BUSINESS!"
Darkness dropped the charcoal. His head snapped toward the sound, but the reaction was different this time. His eyes didn't go wide with panic. They narrowed. His lips pulled back from his teeth. It was the same focused expression he'd had before disintegrating the torc.
He wasn't afraid of Blitzo anymore.
He was annoyed.
Before Octavia could stop him, he was at her window, which overlooked the main drive. Blitzo was below, revving his cycle's engine, making it blat and backfire. Moxxie and Millie stood by, looking apologetic.
Darkness didn't summon a wind. He didn't manipulate pressure. He simply looked at the hell-cycle's roaring engine and willed it to be silent.
With a wet, grinding gurgle, the engine died. Not like it was turned off. Like every moving part within it simultaneously rusted solid. Smoke, thick and oily, poured from the exhaust.
Blitzo stared at his suddenly-dead machine, then up at the window. He saw Darkness glaring down, a faint, shimmering heat-haze radiating from his small form.
"Okay! New development!" Blitzo shouted, pointing. "The hell-tornado can now do targeted mechanical sabotage! Do you have any idea what a headache that is for my line of work?! That's a premium service fee right there!"
Stolas rushed into the drive, robes flapping. "Blitzo, what is the meaning of this?!"
"I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse, since clearly he," Blitzo jabbed a finger at the window, "won't! My client—a very discerning, very private collector—has taken an interest in unique supernatural phenomena. They're offering a princely sum for a temporary study lease. Think of it as a... very well-paid playdate."
The air grew deathly still. Stolas's eyes glowed a dangerous, furious red. "You are brokering a bid for my ward."
"I'm providing a lucrative solution to your feral child problem! He's a hazard! He's a PR nightmare! My client can handle hazards! They specialize in them!"
Up in the window, Darkness didn't understand the words. But he understood the intent in Blitzo's posture, the greedy gleam in his eye. He understood transaction. The loud-thing was trying to trade him.
A low, dangerous rumble built not from his throat, but from the ground itself. The gravel of the drive began to shiver and dance.
"Blitzo," Stolas said, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Leave. Now. Before I forget I am fond of you and let him show you what happens when his annoyance turns to wrath."
Blitzo, for once, saw the genuine, terrifying fury in Stolas's face and the gathering tremor in the earth. He held up his hands. "Fine! Fine! But the offer stands! You're sitting on a gold mine of grief, Stolas! Think about it!"
As the imp team pushed their mysteriously defunct cycle out the gates, Stolas looked up at the window. Darkness met his gaze. The rumbling stopped.
The message was clear, from both of them. We are not for sale.
But as Stolas returned to the palace, he knew the bids had started. Andromalius with his subtle gifts, now unknown collectors through Blitzo's crude brokerage. Darkness was no longer just a secret or a burden.
He was a prize. And hell was full of trophy hunters.
In his aviary, Andromalius reviewed the latest report: the child's precise, anti-technological field. He closed the file with a satisfied click. The imp's blundering had provided useful data. The next approach would not be so easily deflected. It would come through a door they had already opened.
He looked at a second file, containing a simple, powerful image: Octavia sitting in the hall, sharing music with the beast through an open door.
Every fortress had a weakness. Every weapon had a heart. You simply had to find the right pressure point, and apply the lever.