“Murder, Watson. A charming constant—no matter the realm, time, or species.”

  The Demon King's castle was not what Watson expected.

  There were no flames, no screaming souls, no lava rivers or chained beasts. Instead, it looked alarmingly like an overfunded medieval estate, with polished obsidian floors, velvet-lined corridors, and a conspicuously large number of tea sets.

  “This,” Sherlock said as they were led in by a silent steward with antlers, “is disturbingly domestic.”

  Watson adjusted his coat. “Are we sure this is the evil castle?”

  “We’re here to investigate a murder, not rate interior decor.”

  They were escorted into a vast dining hall where an eclectic group of demons—some horns, some wings, one shaped like a pile of scrolls—were murmuring nervously around a long table. At its head sat the Demon King himself, lounging like a bored theatre critic. He had glowing red eyes, a crown of bone, and a suspiciously well-tailored suit.

  “My advisor,” the Demon King said with a smirk, “has been reduced to a stain on my favorite rug. Solve it, and I may reward you with your lives. Or cheese. Depends on my mood.”

  Sherlock didn’t blink. “How kind.”

  ---

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  The Case: A Locked Room, A Vanished Weapon, and a Talking Rug

  The victim—Grand Vizier Morghul—had been found in the war chamber, a heavy stone room with only one entrance guarded by two silent minotaurs. No one had entered or exited.

  Cause of death: head trauma and massive magical collapse.

  Weapon: missing.

  Witnesses: only the steward and the Demon King’s cat (who reportedly spoke, though only in poetry).

  Watson scribbled notes. “So... murder in a sealed room. Classic.”

  Sherlock crouched near the chalk outline. “Notice the sigil burned into the floor?”

  Watson leaned in. “Looks like... a teleportation glyph?”

  “Exactly. But incomplete. It failed mid-cast.”

  Sherlock turned to the steward. “You said Morghul was fond of summoning spells, yes?”

  “Yes,” the steward said, “especially ones that fetched snacks from other planes.”

  Watson frowned. “He died trying to summon cheese?”

  “No,” Sherlock said, scanning the walls. “He summoned the weapon that killed him. Accidentally.”

  He paused. “Or not.”

  ---

  Deductions, Accusations, and a Demon Who Knits

  Sherlock paced before the gathered demons, coat swirling. “Morghul didn’t summon a weapon. He summoned a being—something he thought was under his control.”

  He turned to a demon with six eyes and a nervous twitch. “Vizier Zelak. You were missing from breakfast this morning.”

  “I overslept.”

  “Liar. You’re a dream demon. You don’t sleep.”

  Zelak paled to an unpleasant shade of green.

  “You whispered the spell into his mind last night,” Sherlock continued, “so that when he tried to summon a treat, he brought forth... something else. Something fatal. You used him to open the way.”

  The room tensed.

  Watson looked concerned. “So he was possessed? Killed by what he summoned?”

  “No.” Sherlock pointed at the blood-smeared glyph. “He resisted. Tried to banish it. That’s why the glyph failed. He died fighting.”

  The Demon King stood, slow and deliberate. “Zelak?”

  The demon ran.

  He didn’t get far.

  The minotaurs were surprisingly fast when motivated.

  ---

  Later, at the Castle Library

  Watson poured tea from a floating pot. “You’re not going to explain the talking rug, are you?”

  “It was never the rug,” Sherlock said, flipping a page. “It was the cat. He just used the rug. Cats do that.”

  The Demon King, now oddly fond of the duo, had offered a private suite and exactly one cheese wheel (“A reward for brains and banter,” he said). Sherlock, of course, used it as a coaster.

  Watson stretched. “You think we’re making a name here?”

  “We’re making something,” Sherlock murmured, eyes dri

  fting over a map of magical anomalies.

  “Trouble?” Watson asked.

  Sherlock smiled. “Always.”