By the time Jahima had finished recounting the events at the market, Luka was utterly stunned. His lips hung slightly parted, eyes wide and glassy, shimmering with a confusion so innocent it almost looked like tears. Jahima silently hoped it wasn’t, because having an insanely beautiful boy cry in her grimy shack would do no good to her debt repayment.
“So… the Prince wants a date to this thing called the Winter Ball?" Luka’s voice wavered, a mix of disbelief and innocent confusion colouring his words. "And you... you actually want me to go?"
“Yes, Luka. Must you really doubt me, even after all this time?“ Jahima’s eyes flickered with a cunning light as she watched Luka’s bewildered expression. Inwardly, she weighed her reasons carefully. If Luka was seen with the Prince, his social status would rise overnight, and he would no longer be her burden to bear. More importantly, if the Prince Djoser truly chose Luka and fell for him, perhaps Luka would remember Jahima’s kindness and slip her some coin to escape this wretched shack in the slums. And then there was the matter of her slimy nephew, the King’s advisor, whose treachery had long festered in her mind. If Luka caught the Prince’s favour, Jahima could finally exact her revenge, watching her nephew’s influence crumble from the shadows.
But none of this was for Luka to know. For now, she would keep her thoughts to herself, letting the innocent confusion in his eyes soften the sharp edges of her plan. Of course, getting the prince to actually fall for Luka would be troublesome in itself. God knows (or maybe he doesn’t—Jahima could barely read the thoughts of Satan, let alone God) that Prince Djoser had to choose an acceptable date. He couldn’t take any old demon with curves to the Ball. Then the rumours would get worse, worser than what it was when Djoser didn’t bring a date at all. Hell was merely one giant entity, split into multiple kingdoms, each with their own royalty. Royalty. Luka was not royalty. Jahima didn’t know what Luka was, but he was certainly not human and certainly not from Hell.
Jahima rose slowly, her movements betraying the weariness that clung to her bones, a stark contrast to the sharpness in her mind. She tottered unsteadily toward the battered chest that sat in the corner of the shack, its wood scarred and worn from years of neglect. With a deliberate push, the lid creaked open, revealing a dazzling hoard of gold florin that spilled like liquid sunlight into the dim room. The coins gleamed with a promise of power and possibility, thousands of them stacked in neat piles, each one a silent testament to Jahima’s cunning and patience.
She allowed herself a small, triumphant smirk as Luka’s eyes widened in innocent awe, his breath catching in a soft gasp that echoed the wonder she had long since buried beneath layers of survival and scheming. Three thousand, eight hundred and sixty-three florin glittered before them—not enough to claim a home in the city’s grand districts, but more than sufficient to weave a web of transformation. Tailored outfits that sparkled with nobility, delicate jewellery that caught the light with every subtle movement, and the finest makeup to mask any trace of the slums’ grime.
But the true prize lay beyond mere appearances. Jahima’s mind raced with possibilities darker and more intricate: the bribe of an important noble, a whispered promise exchanged in shadowed halls, enough to secure a fabricated lineage for Luka. A noble’s son, born of privilege and power, a guise that would open doors otherwise bolted tight against them. Finding a greasy nobleman would be as easy as finding dead grass in Hell. Satan’s person guard and his wife had always wanted a son, as rumour had it—now they had one.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The streets of Jahsen (which was the name of the kingdom, or so Luka believed) bustled with a vibrancy that defied every tale he had ever heard. Heaven had painted Hell as a realm of unending firestorms, ash-choked skies, and snow that fell like shattered bones. It was a place where demons and damned souls were indistinguishable, ravenous entities devouring anything weaker in their path. Luka had accepted these stories without question, his faith in Heaven’s word unwavering. After all, the rule book—etched in celestial law—could not deceive. Heaven was the embodiment of truth, of purity, of being good. Yet, standing amidst the lively streets, Luka’s mind wrestled with a quiet dissonance. How could this place, so alive and intricate, be the same Hell he had been warned about? The colours, the laughter, the subtle insults woven between strangers—all seemed to contradict the grim warnings he had always trusted. Doubt flickered briefly, but was swiftly quelled by the certainty that Heaven’s honesty was absolute. There must be reasons beyond his understanding.
As the two moved slowly down the cobblestones, Luka pulled the hood of his cloak farther over his head, a futile shield against the hungry gazes that seemed to pierce through even the thickest fabric. He could feel the weight of those eyes—no cloak could truly conceal the warmth of his honey-brown skin, the graceful length of his fingers, or his tall, lean frame that made lesser demons crane their necks to look at him. Luka never admitted to being very tall; in fact, compared to the other angels in Heaven, he was tiny, shorter than the old angels who still worked in Livestock Allocation. Jahima had been insistent that he remove all jewellery before stepping outside, a precaution he followed without question, yet even the stray tendrils of chocolate-brown curls that had slipped free from his messy bun caught the fading light, shimmering like strands of bronze threaded with gold.
“Stick close. Don’t look up. And for Satan’s sake, walk like you’re injured; it attracts less attention.“
Luka followed Jahima’s hissed commands, adding the slightest limp to his steps. He kept his eyes glued to the cobblestones and dead leaves beneath his feet, listening for Jahima’s tottering footsteps beside him. Eyes followed him like moths trailing after a candlelight. Am I some sort of circus act? Why does everyone keep staring at-
A scream shattered through the murmuring crowd like a pane of glass violently splintering, slicing through Luka’s scattered thoughts with sudden, sharp clarity. His head jerked upward, wide eyes clouded with a flicker of fear as he desperately sought the source of the piercing sound. Yet, strangely, no demon around him seemed to spare the scream a glance. Their heads remained bowed, voices rising in a deliberate crescendo, as if drowning out the unsettling noise was a shield against acknowledging it. Luka’s gaze darted back, heart pounding, until it landed on a young demon girl caught in the grip of two towering guards. She was draped in delicate silk that shimmered faintly under the fading light, her skin a soft, ethereal shade reminiscent of a stormy sky. A single, slender horn curved gracefully from her forehead, a stark contrast to the limp strands of mousy brown hair that clung to her face, heavy with despair. The guards, faces obscured by masks that hid their lower features, hauled her away with unyielding force, her frantic kicks and screams swallowed by the indifferent crowd.
Jahima grasped Luka’s arm, tugging him down so that he had to stoop to match her height.
“It’s nothing—this kind of thing happens every day.“ Jahima whispered, her voice never wavering. “Keep your head down. We’re almost there.“
