Devereaux strolled down the foreboding path connecting the Land of Shadows to the accursed realms of Hell. His journey back was long, but a walk and some sulphur-scented air could help calm his nerves. He had vented most of his anger on Shinatzai Zen, and after wrenching his wicked soul the Dark Lord felt significantly better. Still, he could use the lone walk back home.

The dense forest of gnarled trees twisted and contorted around the stone-paved walkway, resembling the condemned souls within the underworld. Eerie wisps of smoke danced through the air, their ghostly forms illuminated by the faint crackling of distant fires. A little ahead lay the shattered remnants of the old Ephemeral Gateway—a crumbling testament to a time when the portal monitored entities traversing between realms.

The once-majestic arch, crafted from ancient stones adorned with intricate carvings and embedded gems, now lay in disrepair. The stones, once meticulously arranged, had succumbed to the ravages of time, their surfaces weathered and worn. The carvings that had depicted celestial beings and ethereal landscapes were now mere fragments of their former glory, leaving only vague impressions of the tales they once conveyed.

Adjacent to the arch, a small cabin stood. It had been a station for those who once operated the Eternal Gateway, the cabin had seen better days. Its walls bore traces of intricate symbols, remnants of protective wards and enchantments that had long since waned. Vines had claimed parts of the cabin, weaving through cracks in the walls and around were used to be windows. The air around the ruins carried a haunting stillness, as if the very stones retained whispers of the countless entities that had passed through the gateway in ages past.

On the remnants of the old Eternal Gateway were ravens—the literal, feathery kind whose glossy black feathers caught the dim light of the underworld, creating an almost ethereal sheen. They perched majestically, their keen, watchful eyes scanned the surroundings with an intelligence that seemed almost unnatural.

Devereaux approached the gate and the tranquillity around the ruin severed. The ravens started to greet him with a chorus of loud chirps—not quite the ordinary manner avian sounds, but rather a melodic symphony resonating with recognition and allegiance. Their glossy black feathers shimmered in the muted light as they fluttered their wings in a rhythmic dance.

Since the day he assumed control over Hell and the Land of Shadows a millennium and a half ago, this portal had remained unmonitored. Before his tenure as Death, monitoring the portal had been part of his responsibilities. However, upon gaining authority over it, he decided to shut down the monitoring system.

Instead, Devereaux had chosen these intelligent birds to oversee whoever passed through the gateway. Rogue had accused him of paranoia, but Devereaux was not willing to allow anyone to occupy that cabin as a guardian—he refused to let history repeat itself, as it had with Gan Gagagore, who was discarded when the Ladies grew bored or if he violated a serious law.

Ever since he ascended to the throne of Hell, no one dared to play tricks or test his patience. He instilled fear in every soul, and the ravens, with their keen eyes and sharp intellect, ensured that travel between realms occurred without incident or defiance. The fear of facing the Dark Lord's wrath was enough to maintain order and obedience.

Among the avian guardians on the ruins, one raven stood out. Its demeanor exuded a sense of deference and familiarity. Unlike the others, it ceased its chirping and executed a deep bow—a respectful gesture that conveyed more than mere avian greetings. The Dark Lord's keen eyes fixed on this distinctive creature, recognizing it as Sam, the Reaper. He pondered its life cycle, from human to denizen to raven guard. It was not every day he granted second chances to souls he encountered in his long run. It was about time he put this kid out for something more fitting to his agility than just sitting around on a ruined arch.

Devereaux raised his right hand slowly, his fingers outstretched and palm facing himself. Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of his fingers, he gestured the creature to fly down. The raven responded immediately, diving off the archway. As it descended, Devereaux's index and middle fingers curved slightly, tracing its trajectory through the air. With one final, precise flick the raven's form started to waver, distorting as shadows gathered around it. A cascade of dark feathers scattered and coalesced, giving way to limbs, fabric, and human shape. By the time the figure reached the ground, the transformation was complete.

What landed before Devereaux was no longer a raven but a man, impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo. His polished boots made barely a sound as they touched the gravel, and his curly dark hair bounced lightly with the impact. Standing tall for just a moment, he immediately bent into a deep bow.

"Dark Lord," Sam murmured with solemn reverence, his voice smooth and low. "How can I serve you tonight?"

Devereaux's gaze remained sharp and assessing. His eyes studied the figure before him, as if weighing the countless roles the former soul had served. "I need a troop. Can you arrange one for me?"

"I assume this isn't about denizens."

"No. I'm quite short on staff in Hell itself," Devereaux replied with a frustrated sigh. "People with strong enough sins and the willingness to become denizens are gradually decreasing. Someone out there had taught them they could simply wash away their sins, and when they are reached down here and met with reality they are hesitant to redeem. They just insist on obliviation rather than redemption." He exhaled sharply, a rare expression of irritation crossing his usually impassive features. "And Lady Moira isn't going to be happy if I employ the deceased in my personal tasks."

Sam contemplated for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "If my Lord doesn't mind me asking, why do we need a troop all of a sudden?"

"To fight Pazuzu? And retrieve a talisman?" Devereaux's tone was casual, almost flippant. "I mean, I could handle it myself, but I have other things I need to be doing. Like, I'm currently babysitting a human. Well, maybe one and a half of them. Her half-human, half-selkie friend is here now too."

Sam blinked, trying to process the flood of information poured into his nonexistent brain. He had never seen the Dark Lord so talkative. He had never even thought Devereaux could speak that long, let alone conjure up lengthy sentences.

"I don't even know why I'm saying this to you," Devereaux muttered, almost as if reading Sam's thoughts. He sighed again, the weight of responsibility heavy in his voice. "Whatever. Just get me a troop that can fight a Pazuzu. And have it ready by tonight."

Sam straightened, bowing once more. "As you command, my Lord. I shall see to it immediately."

With a flick of his hand, shadows gathered around Sam's form again. He dissolved into a swirl of dark feathers, and within moments, he was gone—leaving the Dark Lord alone once more, the echoes of his sigh lingering in the heavy, sulphur-laden air.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Devereaux lingered just inside the entrance of his humble abode, eyes wandering across the familiar hallways. A dozen thoughts tugged at him—chief among them, Ada. Was she alright? Should he check in? He half-turned, glancing back at his maids and butlers flitting through the hallways. Any one of them could give him an update. Yet, as one maid passed, bowing dutifully, he dismissed the idea of asking.

No, he'd see for himself.

With quiet steps, he inched toward his bedchamber, where he knew she'd be resting. He paused outside the door, which hung slightly ajar. From the small opening, soft voices drifted out, laced with a mixture of sadness and fragile hope. He peeked through the crack. Soft voices drifted into his ears and he halted, straining to hear.

Ada sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders slightly hunched. The selkie sat beside her, a gentle expression on his face.

"...You've endured far worse," he murmured softly. "But even warriors need to weep sometimes. It doesn't make you weaker, Ada."

She shook her head, lips trembling. "But I'm supposed to be strong. I—"

"You are strong. Being strong doesn't mean you never cry. It means you let yourself feel, even when it hurts." His words were firm but kind. "It means you keep going, even when you're afraid."

A choked laugh escaped Ada, mingled with fresh tears. "You sound so much like him," she whispered.

The selkie chuckled softly. "Well, maybe that makes him a wise one, then." He shrugged lightly, then reached over and brushed her tears away as if she were a small child. Ada sniffled but didn't pull away.

"He cares for you, Ada. And he's worried."

Ada looked unconvinced but Kaya took no offence in it. She had her reason. Very valid, solid reasons.

"How much do you know about him?" She asked, her voice still fragile.

The selkie's gaze grew distant, contemplating. "Well... He is the Lord of Death, obviously—the Dark Lord of the Land of Shadows, and he reigns over Hell. But apart from that, I know so little. We haven't met before."

Ada managed a small, wavering smile. "It was quite bold of you to power through the gates of Hell."

"To be honest, I was terrified." He laughed quietly, shaking his head at the memory. "I kinda owe my life to your Dark Lord."

"My Dark Lord?"

"Yes." He turned, his eyes meeting hers earnestly. "He's not a bad person, Ada. Let him help."

"You're so confident in a person you barely know," Ada replied, her face twisting into something bitter and wounded.

The selkie sighed, holding her gaze steadily. "And yet, I never recommended your alliance with Gan Gagagore, did I?."

The room fell silent, the mention of the name hanging heavily between them. Ada looked away, tears glistening on her lashes.

"That's different," she murmured.

"Is it?" the selkie asked gently, voice free of judgement. "Just think about it. You trusted Gan once, even when others warned you not to... and now look at where that trust has left you."

Ada flinched, guilt flickering in her eyes, but the selkie's hand remained steady on her shoulder.

"Trust isn't about knowing every part of someone, Ada. It's about knowing what they'll do for you when it matters." He offered her a sad, gentle smile. "He may not be perfect, sure he's another from the Dark Side but something tells me he's different. He's here. He's trying his best. And I think, for now... that's enough."

"He promised my grandma he would. That's why," Ada countered, her tone bitter.

"And he keeps promises," the selkie replied matter-of-factly. "Unlike some people I know."

Ada stared at him, defeated. She had nothing to counter that. Gan Gagagore had betrayed her.

"Let's give him a chance. Let's see how it goes. I'll be there with you this time. Unlike before. I promise," Kaya reassured, his voice soft. He took her hand gently, drawing soothing circles over her skin.

The harsh lines of bitterness softened on Ada's face as his words sank in. Slowly, she nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks once more—this time, silently, without resistance.

Outside, Devereaux let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips. He stepped back, gently pulling the door shut, leaving Ada and her companion alone.

Maybe the selkie should stay for a while longer. At least until Ada decided she didn't need him anymore.

With something unformed and warm settling in his chest, Devereaux turned and walked down the hall, making his way to Hell's Kitchen, his mind already churning with ideas.

"Perhaps a proper guest room," he murmured thoughtfully. "And maybe some fresh linens. If he's lucky, I'll decide he should stick around even after things are settled."

He turned away, walking with a lightness he hadn't felt in days, something unformed yet warm brewing in his mind. Humming a soft, unfamiliar tune—one even he couldn't recall where he'd picked up—Devereaux headed straight down to Hell's Kitchen, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Devereaux stepped into the Hell's Kitchen, his boots tapping softly against the cold, stone floor. The place was dead silent, vacant, and enveloped in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs crisscrossed every corner, and the once-polished copper pots and pans hung from hooks above, tarnished and unmoving. The long wooden table stretched across the room, coated in a blanket of grey powder, bare and forlorn.

In the far corner, near the darkened hearth, a lumpy shape slouched in a rickety chair. Two thin, twig-like feet, clad in oversized shoes, were propped up on the table. The lump itself was cloaked in a faded apron, and a loud, rhythmic snoring sound reverberated through the empty kitchen. It was a peculiar noise, like the deep rumble of a distant thunderstorm paired with the grating whine of a rusted saw. Each snore sent vibrations through the room, causing pots and pans to rattle slightly, as if quaking in their dusty rest.

Devereaux shook his head with a wry smile. Pistachu was fast asleep. It was no surprise, really—after all, it wasn't the Grand Feast Day yet. The fires of Hell only reached the kitchen's hearth once a year, igniting on the darkest night of winter, when denizens from every corner of the realm gathered for three days of uninterrupted revelry. The feast was more spectacle than sustenance. For beings who fed on emotions, energies, and the flicker of thoughts, food held little practical use. It was akin to how humans indulged in pleasures of the flesh, music, or strong spirits—entertainment rather than necessity.

But for Ada... Devereaux sighed softly. He needed to make her something real, something grounding—a simple hangover soup. In Hell's current state, it was going to be an even greater challenge than he'd anticipated.

Turning back to Pistachu, he stepped closer. Up close, he could make out the details of the chef's round, bearded face, nestled comfortably against his enormous belly. The head chef of Hell's Kitchen looked like a caricature of a slumbering giant—completely oblivious to the world.

Devereaux reached out and placed his hand firmly on one meaty arm, giving it a solid shake. Pistachu groaned, shifted slightly, and then... silence. No response.

"Pistachu," Devereaux tried again, voice low and calm. The chef groaned louder this time, his entire belly shaking with the effort, but he remained as immovable as a boulder. Devereaux sighed, patience thinning. With one last attempt, he shook him harder. A massive hand lazily swatted in his general direction, as if brushing off an annoying fly.

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes, stepping back. His gaze swept around the gloomy kitchen, taking in its neglected state.

Tall shelves lined one wall, filled with jars of mysterious powders, dried herbs, and strange, twisted roots preserved in brine. Copper utensils and iron skewers, crusted with old grease, hung in disarray. The knife rack stood forlorn, blades coated in a fine layer of grime. The ceiling arched high above, and a massive wrought-iron chandelier hung in the center, its once-brilliant candles now nothing but hardened stubs. A thick, stone oven sat to the left, cold and blackened, its chimney coated in soot. And the long prep table in the middle, once the heartbeat of the kitchen, now looked more like a grave marker—a dusty relic of its former glory.

Taking a deep breath, Devereaux strode to the center of the kitchen and clapped his hands twice, sharp and clear. Instantly, every window burst open, the heavy drapes snapping back with a crack, and a powerful gust of wind surged in. The cold air whipped through the room, twisting and twirling like a living thing, sweeping across every surface.

The windstorm spun through the kitchen, tugging away cobwebs, dust, and dirt, rattling the pots and pans until they gleamed anew. It brushed over countertops, clearing away years of neglect in mere moments. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the wind whistled back out through the windows, leaving the kitchen transformed. The countertops shone, every jar and utensil looked pristine, and not a single speck of dirt remained.

A satisfied smile crept onto Devereaux's face as he surveyed the change of scenery, hands on his hips. "Much better," he murmured.

He turned toward the hearth, taking a deep breath. Focusing his energy, he exhaled slowly, a faint glow building in his chest. His eyes flared to a brilliant amber, and a low, rumbling breath flowed out, carrying with it a flicker of raw power.

In an instant, the hearth roared to life, fire blazing up from the cold ashes, crackling and hungry. The flames licked at the blackened stones, casting a warm glow that filled the room.

Devereaux stepped back, admiring the newly awakened kitchen. "Now then," he mused softly, his mind already spinning through possibilities. "Let's see what Hell has to offer for a hangover soup."

A/N: We've got a Death God who can cook. Pft—