Writer's POV
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lyra sat alone on the big bed, her legs pulled close to her chest. The black robe she wore still felt strange on her skin, like it didn't belong to her. Nothing in the room did. It was too soft. Too rich. Too quiet.
Her stomach growled again.
She hadn't eaten since… she didn't even know when. Everything was a blur. One moment, she was in the village. The next, she was here. In this chamber. In the Demon God's bed.
The door opened softly.
A maid came in without speaking. She wore gray like the others. Her eyes stayed low. In her hands was a silver tray with warm food. Steam rose from it—meat, bread, fruit, and something that smelled sweet.
The maid placed the tray on the table and walked out without a word.
The door shut quietly behind her.
Lyra stared at the food for a second.
Then, as if her body couldn't wait any longer, she rushed to the table and dropped to her knees. Her fingers grabbed the bread first, and she bit into it fast. She chewed quickly, crumbs falling down her chin. Then she grabbed a piece of roasted meat. Juice dripped onto her robe, but she didn't care.
She didn't think.
She didn't ask questions.
She ate like she hadn't eaten in days. Like the food might disappear any second.
The sweet fruit came last—soft, juicy, rich with flavor. She ate it all. Every piece. When she was done, she licked her fingers slowly. Her belly was full, but her heart still felt heavy. She sat back on her heels, breathing softly now.
No voices.
No answers.
But her body was warm, and for now, that was enough.
Elsewhere, far across the palace in a glittering chamber called the Velvet Hall, the women waited.
They were dressed in silver and dark red. Long gowns, painted lips, perfect hair. These were the women chosen to please the Demon God. Some had been here for months. Others for years.
None of them had been called to his bed in days.
And they all knew why.
"She's just a little village girl," one of them said, folding her arms. "She doesn't even have curves."
"Her eyes looked scared the whole time," another said, sipping her drink. "Maybe that's what he likes now. Fear."
"Don't be stupid," a third woman said with a laugh. "He gets fear from all of us. That's not new."
They were all gathered in a circle of soft chairs and candlelight, their voices low but sharp.
"She got the Obsidian Chamber," one hissed. "No one gets that. Only someone he truly favors."
"She's not even trained," someone muttered. "She probably doesn't know how to touch a man properly."
"He'll get bored of her in a day. Two at most."
"I give her three nights."
They laughed.
But the laughter stopped when the air in the room shifted.
The women turned quickly, spines straightening.
Seravine had entered.
She was the Demon God's oldest and most favored woman—tall, pale, and beautiful in a cruel, cold way. Her white hair fell like silk behind her shoulders. Her red lips were pressed together in a firm line.
She walked slowly into the circle.
No one dared speak first.
Her voice was soft, but her tone was sharp. "I can hear your words from the hallway."
Silence.
Seravine looked at each of them, her dark eyes full of warning. "You forget yourselves."
"We were just—"
"Gossiping?" she asked, cutting the woman off.
No one answered.
Seravine stepped forward. "Do you want me to tell him that you've been speaking against his choices? Against his will?"
The room went still.
The women looked down.
They knew what would happen if the Demon God was told. He didn't forgive disrespect. He didn't care if you were pretty, trained, or had served him for years. He had burned people for less.
Seravine's voice stayed calm. "Then be quiet."
The women nodded.
Some mumbled soft apologies.
"Good," Seravine said.
She turned and walked to the mirror, her heels clicking softly on the floor. She stared at her reflection—perfect lips, sharp cheekbones, cold beauty.
The other women slowly drifted away. One by one, they left the hall without looking back.
When Seravine was alone, her expression changed.
Not much.
Just a flicker.
A twitch at the corner of her mouth. A tightness in her jaw.
Jealousy.
She would never say it. Not out loud. Not even to herself.
But she had felt it the moment she heard a new girl had been placed in the Obsidian Chamber.
Her chamber.
He hadn't called for her since.
Not even once.
She had been loyal. She had been perfect. She had learned his touch, his moods, his pleasure. She had bled for him. Screamed for him. Worshipped him.
And now… now he wanted someone else?
A girl who didn't know how to speak in his presence?
A girl who trembled instead of begged?
Seravine's hands curled into fists.
She wouldn't show her anger. Not here. Not now.
But if the village girl was still in that room tomorrow—
Seravine would do more than gossip.
She would find out why.