Chapter Three: Sinister Gathering

  Predicus

  The citadel was quiet. Unusually quiet.

  After the training session—and Deimos’ unsettling display of strength and mercy toward Slaughterer—rumors swirled like smoke. Whispers danced from one hall to the next, not just about Deimos, but about Predicus and his methods.

  It unsettled the Sin of Pride.

  Predicus had expected a warrior: powerful, compliant, merciless. Instead, Deimos had been volatile, defiant, borderline insufferable. Yet somehow, in a single night, something changed. He wasn’t just dangerous anymore. He was influential.

  Predicus sat on his obsidian throne, spine straight, eyes distant. Barbados stood beside him, loyal and silent, holding a silver brass call bell in one hand and a cup of peacock feather tea in the other. The scent was smooth, rich—exactly how Predicus liked it.

  One hand tapped impatiently on the throne’s armrest. The other clutched the Spear of Dominance, its shaft humming with shadow lightning.

  Nearby, a cluster of diplomats murmured amongst themselves. Too loud. Too careless.

  “That battle was epic,” one muttered, replaying the scene on a floating crystal. “Such bravado from the new guy.”

  “Inspiring,” another added, eyes wide. “He swayed Slaughterer better than Lord Predicus could.”

  That line hit like a blade between the ribs.

  Predicus stiffened. They dare compare me to him? The one who held Nethos together, who kept Heaven’s wrath at bay?

  He almost rose, his spear crackling with silent fury. But Barbados gently offered him the tea, eyes flicking toward the diplomats. A signal: not now.

  Predicus took the cup. Sipped. The flavor was perfection. Still, it didn’t wash away the bitter taste of being outshined.

  Only the best ruled a realm. That was him. Deimos didn’t frighten him, not truly—but he disturbed him. There was a difference.

  “I wonder where he came from,” one diplomat whispered. “Such power hasn’t been seen since the Sins emerged. With the right training... he could surpass them.”

  They laughed—loud, thoughtless. Then fell silent as they realized who was watching them.

  Predicus’ gaze sliced through them like razors. Panic crept across their faces.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

  The quiet stretched into agony.

  Then, with a simple motion of his spear, he beckoned them forward.

  They obeyed instantly, heads bowed, kneeling before him like sinners at an altar. Not one dared meet his eyes.

  Predicus rose slowly, snatched the crystal from trembling hands, and inspected it with disdain.

  Then he shattered it with his spear.

  None of them said a word. They knew better.

  He turned his gaze back to the kneeling diplomats, his smile calm but his tone sharpened with steel.

  “Remind me,” he asked, voice dipped in velvet and venom, “why Nethos rules with vigor, not clemency?”

  He lifted the chin of one of them—a woman with a trembling breath. His touch was cold, commanding. Her eyes locked onto his, sweat beading at her brow.

  “Nethos stays strong through resolve,” she stammered. “Kingdoms of weakness fall to compassion... that’s why Nethos needs powerful leaders like you, my lord, and a council of... other powerful entities.”

  It wasn’t the perfect answer. But it would do.

  Predicus let her go.

  His attention drifted sideways, locking onto a mural along the throne room wall. A depiction of the war against the Devil—himself and the others battling not with kindness, but merciless force. It was a reminder: mercy does not win wars.

  Then he looked further. Another mural. This one broken—its once-intricate carvings chipped, faded. Meant to be forgotten. And yet it remained. A reminder of why he had to protect his people.

  Predicus sighed and motioned for his diplomats to rise.

  “I have a council meeting soon,” he muttered. “When are the others arriving? This gathering is... highly important.”

  They exchanged looks, whispered quickly among themselves. One stepped forward, holding a glowing crystal timer.

  “Approximately thirty minutes, my lord. The reason for the delay is unknown.”

  Crack.

  The cup in Predicus’ hand shattered—tea and shards cascading to the floor. His frustration had finally bled through the cracks.

  He ran a hand down his face, then rested his head on his fist. The diplomats took the hint and backed away in silence. He waved them off.

  Only Barbados remained.

  No words passed between them.

  Predicus stewed in silence. Thoughts roiled in his skull. No wonder Nethos is losing the war—useless council members, soft-hearted fools. Without me, this realm would collapse like glass beneath a boot.

  He reached for the silver brass call bell beside him. Each rhythm summoned different attendants, and this rhythm—four precise, harmonious rings—signaled one thing.

  Grooming.

  The doors creaked open moments later, revealing an entourage of royal groomers. They entered like a glittering army, armed with horn polishers, blacksteel files, a mirror that shimmered with unnatural light, and other vain instruments of divine vanity.

  Barbados shot him a look. The “seriously?” kind of look.

  Predicus met it with a smug grin.

  They began their work immediately. Before being escorted away, Predicus leaned toward Barbados, cupping his mouth to whisper.

  “Find Deimos,” he murmured. “Quietly. Don’t get caught. And remember—you serve me, not him. Don’t start forgetting that.”

  Barbados nodded. But Predicus saw it—clear as blood in snow.

  Doubt.

  Even Barbados was faltering. Deimos’ influence was spreading like a sickness. Infecting his servants. Weakening them.

  I have to end this, Predicus thought, his rage wrapping tighter. Before all of Nethos bends the knee to him. They must fear him—only then will they follow me.

  This council meeting would decide everything.

  The fate of Nethos was about to be carved.

  “My lord, please—accompany us to your green room,” hummed the head groomer, orbiting Predicus like a moth to divine flame. He didn’t wait for a response. With a snap of his fingers, two female stylists appeared and seized Predicus by the hands, guiding him forward like a prized artifact on parade.

  Another servant scurried ahead with a broom, sweeping away any dust that dared touch the floor in front of him. Predicus, towering over them all, tolerated the fuss. If he had to endure mortals, at the very least he expected premium service.

  He didn’t even reach the room before the styling began. One groomer held a mirror at eye level. Another trimmed his horns with a precision dagger. Someone else dusted his wings like they were sacred relics. The manager flooded him with questions and aesthetic options, already spiraling into a monologue of styling ideas. Just before Predicus could open the green room door, a groomer stepped in to polish it first.

  Only then was he allowed to enter.

  The stylists led him to his seat—an ornate, velvet-lined chair carved from obsidian and moonstone. They settled him in with a ceremony.

  Around him, ten groomers flurried into motion. One removed his armor piece by piece. Another selected robes of shimmering elegance. A third doused him in cologne that smells like fire and dominance. One polished his horns, another his claws. Cosmetic lights adjusted. Compliments were whispered into his ear like affirmations from lesser gods.

  The head groomer inspected them all, clipboard in hand, expression severe.

  Predicus raised a single hand. The room froze.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. His expression—cool. Analytical. Perfect. Everything was sharp, flawless. He didn’t need to say a word. His silence was enough praise.

  The manager stepped in to straighten his collar, giving one last nod of approval before flashing a thumbs-up.

  “Looking extraordinary, my lord. You’ll outshine the others—as you should,” he purred, brushing a final speck of imaginary dust from Predicus’ shoulder. “But whatever the council says today… don’t let Bylon talk you into raising taxes again. He’s desperate.”

  Predicus chuckled, still admiring himself. Bylon—Sin of Greed—was obsessed with tax policies that could strangle a dragon, but they had helped bolster the army.

  “I won’t entertain another coin-counting sermon. And now… leave me. I must rehearse before I face the others.”

  He rose slowly from the chair, taking position in front of the mirror like a general preparing for war. Every angle mattered. He would enter with grace, poise, dominance.

  The manager bowed and made for the exit. At the threshold, he paused, looking back over his shoulder.

  “You’re the fire that keeps Nethos alive, my lord. No matter what they say—your people believe in you.”

  Predicus didn’t answer.

  He was too distracted—thinking about Deimos.

  Why does the altar favor him? he thought bitterly. I was always the chosen one. For centuries. And now... even I am being outshined.

  He tapped his spearhead lightly, the sharp metal gleaming under the mirror lights. His mind churned, searching for a way to turn the other Sins against Deimos—without making it obvious.

  But there would be no time to rehearse.

  A knock echoed through the chamber.

  Predicus inhaled sharply, reigning in the storm that wanted to explode. No stabbing today. Maybe.

  The door creaked open.

  It was the same diplomat he’d questioned earlier. She entered, holding the glowing crystal timer in her hands.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t need to.

  Predicus rubbed his temples, waved her off with a flick of his fingers.

  One last mirror pose.

  A final polish of the spear.

  A gentle adjustment of the robe.

  Then he nodded to himself.

  He was ready.

  Predicus marched from his green room, robes sweeping behind him with every step of practiced grandeur. He approached the massive doors carved with the likenesses of each Sin—his own image naturally perched at the top, larger and more radiant than the others. A symbol of his superiority. Or at least, what was supposed to be his superiority.

  Two guards flanked the entrance, opening the doors without a word.

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  Inside awaited the war chamber: a long table engraved with the world map, each seat custom-crafted to suit its Sin. Predicus’ chair was more throne than seat—massive, gilded, and carved in impossible intricacy. It glowed faintly, subtly enchanting the room to draw all gazes toward it.

  The chamber was brightly lit, polished to perfection. Towering windows overlooked Hell’s capital, painting the room in a crimson glow. Around the chamber were seven gates, each styled after its Sin’s dominion. One blazed with flowing magma, held aloft by molten pillars. Another shimmered with gold dragons wrapped around jeweled columns. One was dilapidated, oozing disrepair and neglect. Each was a portal—allowing the Sins to arrive from their far-flung regions.

  Predicus moved to the window. He stood still, hands clasped behind his back, posture tall and imperial. Below him stretched the realm—his realm—filled with people who worshiped him. People he failed to protect. Today, that changes, he promised himself. Today, Deimos becomes the villain, and I— I become their savior again.

  A cold breeze sliced through the room.

  One by one, the portals ignited—shimmering rifts blooming with power—and the Sins arrived.

  First: Lyssa, Sin of Wrath, blazing in her magmatic armor, heat radiating off her in furious waves.

  Next: Bylon, Sin of Greed, wrapped in velvet and glinting gold, his crimson eyes sparkling with ambition and debt collection.

  Then: Aíne, Sin of Lust, silver hair trailing behind her like moonlight, her gaze lingering a bit too long on everything.

  After her came Gulliver, Sin of Gluttony—towering, jowled, yellow-toothed, sloppily devouring a greasy steak in one hand while wiping his nose with the other.

  Sawyer, Sin of Sloth, barely floated in—his hollow eyes sunken, his undead flesh resting on a levitating silk cushion. He looked like he'd rather be un-alive.

  Finally, Etain, Sin of Envy, gliding through her gate in a glistening emerald gown, her face half-hidden behind her enchanted Mirror of Lies, already applying makeup mid-walk.

  Each Sin took their assigned chair—except Sawyer, who collapsed face-down onto his seat like a rotting throw pillow.

  Predicus winced internally. That idiot does nothing but rot and nap.

  He gestured gracefully for silence, then lowered himself onto his throne.

  Tension buzzed like static in the air.

  Predicus studied them, one by one.

  Bylon, grinning like a scheming fox.

  Lyssa, tapping her clawed fingers with rising impatience.

  Aíne, glaring daggers at him across the table, bored and venomous.

  Gulliver, spilling steak juice all over the polished marble map.

  Sawyer—still asleep, somehow.

  Etain, enamored with her own reflection, not even pretending to care.

  Predicus snapped his fingers sharply.

  Silence. Mostly.

  He stood, hands planted on the table.

  “Sins,” he began, voice strong, “I have a grave and pressing matter—concerning—”

  “I propose,” Bylon interrupted, loudly and without shame, “we change the tax schedule from biweekly to weekly—in every region except Dragon’s Vale, of course.”

  He smiled. Predicus twitched.

  The room fell into stunned silence.

  Even Sawyer opened one eye.

  Predicus exhaled slowly, counting to ten inside his skull.

  Lyssa scoffed and shoved a cluster of strategy pieces across the war map. “Enough with your coin hoarding. The last campaign was a disaster. We need a new military plan—more troops, more discipline.”

  Gulliver wheezed a laugh between bites. “Maybe less fire-whipping during training, and more food.”

  Lyssa’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh really, Gulliver?”

  Chaos erupted—again.

  Etain loudly sighed. “Can we just vote already? Or are we here to yell like lowborns?”

  Sawyer groaned, face still on the table. “This is the worst dream I’ve had all week...”

  Predicus sat unmoving, watching the pandemonium unravel like a slow train crash.

  No coordination.

  No unity.

  Just noise.

  His eye twitched. Again.

  Then—slam.

  His fist hit the table like thunder, silencing the room instantly.

  Every Sin turned toward him, stunned.

  Enough was enough.

  He breathed in deeply, resting his arms on the table and letting the silence stretch, tightening like a noose. Then, calmly, he clapped his hands together—once—drawing every eye to him.

  He scanned the room, expression flat, voice dry with exasperation. “Listen... this is a real meeting. So. SHUT UP while I’m speaking.”

  No one interrupted this time.

  “Good,” he continued, arms folding across his chest. “Now—has anyone felt... strange recently? A tingling sensation yesterday, maybe? Something that reminded you of the day we were summoned?”

  Aíne tilted her head, swirling wine lazily in her glass. “Now that you mention it... I did feel something off yesterday. Could’ve just been... something else.”

  The others exchanged nods—some subtle, some more hesitant. Confirmation, at last.

  Predicus smiled.

  Right on schedule.

  “Perfect,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Now—what if I told you the altar has summoned another... demon.”

  Every head turned.

  Gulliver gagged mid-chew, nearly choking on a chunk of meat.

  Bylon—usually the fastest to open his greedy mouth—went still.

  Predicus didn’t let the silence fester. He raised a shimmering crystal and activated it with a flick. A projection shimmered into view above the table: Deimos, arms crossed, face stern, gaze sharp.

  The image hovered, casting flickering shadows over the war table.

  “He’s a demon,” Predicus said coldly. “Born of rage, brimming with power, created by the altar itself. But instead of channeling that fury into dominance, he’s chosen... peace.”

  He spat the word like it was spoiled wine.

  “Only the weak choose compassion. And now, his influence spreads—polluting my army, swaying my servants. If it continues, Nethos will fall. Heaven will crush us while we hold hands and talk about our feelings.”

  Etain didn’t even glance up from her mirror.

  “You’re afraid of him,” she said flatly, applying lip gloss. “Afraid he’s better than you.”

  Bylon gave a low whistle, immediately leaning away from her like he was dodging incoming collateral damage.

  Predicus didn’t move—at first.

  Then he pointed at her. His grip tightened around his spear, lifting it slightly. His eyes glowed like molten stars. He wanted to strike. Right here. Right now.

  But he didn’t.

  Remember: you’re the leading demon in Nethos. The greatest. Don’t let words shatter your crown, his mind warned.

  He sat back and popped a magma grape into his mouth. The heat calmed him—slightly.

  “I don’t fear him,” he said, voice lower now. “I fear what he’ll do to our realm. Our people. The families and soldiers fighting for Nethos. There’s a reason compassion failed the first time.”

  That line struck deep.

  The room fell quiet.

  Even Etain lowered her mirror.

  Everyone remembered.

  The screams. The battlefield soaked in blood. The failure. The curse. The roles they were forced to embody.

  Predicus hesitated too. For a second, the memory flickered—blurry, fragmented, but sharp enough to wound. Then... something else surfaced.

  A voice.

  A warning, spoken long ago.

  “The prophecy,” he said abruptly, sitting forward. “After the Devil’s fall—remember that warrior? The one who served him? He told us something. Something about another demon... rising.”

  Lyssa tensed. “You’re referring to that prophecy. The one that claimed the next demon born of the altar would be... the Devil’s reincarnation?”

  Her voice was steady—but there was something else in it.

  Dread.

  Predicus met her eyes. “Exactly.”

  Etain’s eyes narrowed, but it was Sawyer—of all creatures—who stirred next.

  The Sin of Sloth cracked one eye open, his voice groggy but coherent. “Hate to say it, but... I agree with Lyssa. That prophecy was about chaos incarnate. Destruction. And you’re saying this new demon—Deimos—chooses compassion? Doesn’t line up.”

  The others nodded, a rare moment of consensus.

  Even Predicus leaned back in silence, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table.

  If this was the Devil reborn... why wasn’t he acting like it?

  Predicus looked at them all in disbelief. He pushed back from his throne-like chair and strode toward the massive window, its glass stretching high above the throne room. Outside lay the world he had shaped—his creation. He had rebuilt Nethos from ash after the Devil’s fall. He had offered order, power, fear, and glory. Hope, even—if that’s what people wanted to call it.

  And now, some newborn anomaly threatened it all?

  No.

  As the leader of Nethos, as the Sin of Pride, only one could stand at the top. If keeping that title meant manipulating the council, deceiving the people, and breaking Deimos piece by piece—so be it.

  He turned back to the room, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

  “Would you let the Devil’s reincarnation strip you of your greatest pleasures?” he asked. “Would you watch your treasures turn against you? Want to lose your armies, your warriors, your honor—your food—to someone better than you?”

  His eyes sharpened.

  “This is his scheme. His game. And we must stop it before we’re powerless to act. Remember why we were summoned. To vanquish the Devil. If he returns... we end him. Again.”

  The others looked uneasy now. They whispered amongst themselves, heads bowed, voices low. But Predicus could see it—he was planting doubt. Stirring fear. And that was all he needed.

  Finally, Bylon spoke, flipping a coin between his fingers.

  “We’ve reached a conclusion, Predicus. You have our support. Truth is—we don’t want to lose our thrones, our abundance, or our people to one demon. We rule Nethos, and we’ll keep ruling it. But—” his smile thinned, “—we request that Deimos be kept in the army. Not destroyed. His strength may still serve us.”

  It was music to Predicus' ears. Sweet, treacherous music. He didn't like the condition, not at all. But even he couldn’t deny it—Deimos was useful. Especially if properly... reshaped.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, smile sharp.

  “I will... acknowledge that request. But as your higher-ranking lord, I’ve prepared an infallible plan.”

  With a flick, he changed the projection on his crystal. The image shifted to a glowing slide filled with bullet points.

  Collective groans echoed around the room.

  Predicus chuckled, savoring their misery.

  “This is simple,” he began. “We start by spreading fear. The people still trust us. They don’t know him yet. So we tell them what to believe: that Deimos is a threat. A curse. A mistake.”

  He paced as he spoke, hands animated, voice rising.

  “Make him feel worthless. Strip his empathy. Isolate him—lock him in the most secure dungeon in the citadel. Cut him off from the world. And if he still believes in peace over dominance... we break him.”

  He turned back to face them, eyes blazing.

  “Once his mind is gone, we unleash him. And he’ll do exactly what he was born to do—slaughter every angel in his path.”

  The sins were quiet. Thoughtful. Disturbed.

  Predicus lifted his hand. “Now—stand if you support this plan.”

  Silence.

  Then, slowly, one by one, the sins rose.

  All except Sawyer.

  Of course.

  Aíne rolled her eyes dramatically. “Lazy as ever, Sawyer. Honestly, the council would thrive without you.”

  Sawyer didn’t look up. His head stayed pressed to the table, one hand idly stirring a cold cup of tea.

  Then, in a low murmur, barely loud enough to hear:

  “Knock down the wrong warrior… and they come back as something worse.”

  Predicus facepalmed, barely hiding his exasperation at Sawyer’s cryptic nonsense. It didn’t matter. The vote was cast. He was winning.

  Then, the council doors burst open.

  Barbados entered, not his usual looming calm—but urgent, quick-footed. He crossed the room in long strides and leaned in close, whispering low into Predicus' ear.

  “My lord… Deimos has been spotted at the Tavern of Dignity. With Slaughterer.”

  Predicus grinned, slow and poisonous.

  He turned back toward the window, his gaze descending upon the tavern below—a place where warriors laughed after battle, unaware of the storm brewing above them.

  Even great fires die out, he mused.

  You burn bright now, Deimos... but even the brightest flames turn to ash.

  Raising the Spear of Dominance, he pointed it at the council, voice cutting through the air like a decree from the abyss.

  “You six—spread fear. Drown Nethos in whispers. Fill every city with propaganda. Send it to Heaven, too. Let them all fear him.”

  The sins rose, each vanishing through their portals. Gulliver reluctantly shoved Sawyer’s floating stool out of the room with a grunt. In moments, Predicus and Barbados were alone again.

  Predicus turned, watching Barbados. Even now, doubt smoldered in the man’s eyes.

  He walked to his henchman and placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the window.

  Below, Nethos sprawled—burning, breathing, trembling with anticipation.

  “It’s a decision,” Predicus said flatly.

  Barbados hesitated, voice low. “He treats others well, my lord. Why harm someone… innocent?”

  But the words passed through Predicus like smoke. Innocent? That was the last thing Deimos was. Or rather—it didn’t matter. What mattered was the story. His story.

  He would not share the spotlight with some resurrected anomaly.

  He squeezed Barbados’ shoulder—hard enough to crack the armor.

  “You work for me, not for threats,” he said quietly. “Unless you’ve gone obsolete and would prefer your end at Slaughterer’s hand.”

  Barbados looked away. Then to the tavern. Then back again.

  He gave a tiny, reluctant nod.

  Predicus smiled.

  “Good,” he said. “Still some usefulness in you.”

  He handed Barbados a stun spear—a cruel-looking weapon pulsing with paralytic energy. At the snap of Predicus’ fingers, a dozen elite guards marched into the room, armor gleaming like bone and obsidian. They bowed as one.

  Barbados gave one last look to Predicus before leading the guards out.

  But just before he vanished through the archway, Predicus called after him:

  “Oh—and Barbados?” His voice oozed satisfaction. “Tell Deimos I said... goodnight.”

  Barbados said nothing.

  He disappeared with the soldiers, the doors closing behind them.

  Silence fell.

  Predicus walked back to the mural of the Devil—the one relic he had left untouched all these years.

  He stared into the carved eyes.

  Then, with a howl of anger, he lunged forward and drove his spear straight through the Devil’s stone face.

  It shattered.

  Dust scattered like memories.

  Predicus stood there, chest rising and falling, gaze sharp as ever.

  “Goodbye, Devil,” he hissed.

  Then quieter, to no one.

  “I’ll make sure your shadow… never defines me again.”