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Chapter Text

The lowest halls of the Demon Castle never slept.

A quiet, heavy hum of magic filled the air, pulsing faintly through the black stone like a heartbeat. Lanterns burned with green-blue flame, flickering against walls carved with runes that glowed every few seconds. The air smelled faintly of sulfur, iron, and something sweetly metallic—magic residue, the kind that lingered long after a spell.

Bootsteps echoed down the long corridor, steady and precise.

Grand Inquisitor Lando Norris made his way through the dungeon with the air of a man heading toward an exquisite dinner rather than an interrogation. His outfit, as always, was immaculate—a tailored black dress shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves, charcoal vest buttoned sharp, and fitted trousers tucked into polished boots. His demon insignia gleamed subtly on his chest, shaped like twin horns.

Trailing behind him, weightless yet menacing, floated his trusted companion: an elegant black Iron Maiden, its edges trimmed in silver. A faint hum of dark energy shimmered around it, almost affectionate.

Yesterday, the Demon Army had done the impossible—they captured the Imperial Princess, commander of the Third Legion, the Empire's pride and terror on the battlefield. Word had spread through the demon realm faster than wildfire: she was as fierce as she was beautiful, as ruthless as she was radiant. The kind of opponent that even the Demon Lord might raise an eyebrow for — if he weren't currently glued to his sim racing seat.

And now, she was his.

Lando smirked to himself. He'd been given the honor—no, the delightful burden—of extracting Imperial secrets from this illustrious captive. And as the Grand Inquisitor, he had a perfect record. Not a single prisoner had resisted his methods.

His secret?

Simple. He didn't torture bodies—he tortured souls.

Lando's mind buzzed with quiet curiosity. This capture was supposed to change the tide of war. And it fell upon him to extract the Imperial secrets.

He adjusted his gloves as he reached the end of the hall. There was only one cell occupied, the last one — its door sealed by pulsing crimson wards. The rest stood empty and silent, like they too were waiting to see the famed prisoner.

The seal shimmered faintly as Lando approached. He traced a sigil in the air with a flick of his hand, murmuring, "Grand Inquisitor Lando Norris, authorized entry."

The magic obeyed, melting soundlessly away.

The door opened with a low, heavy creak.

He stepped inside.

The cell beyond was bare — nothing but dark stone walls and faintly glowing glyphs to keep the human's strength sealed. The only light came from torches along the walls, their flames flickering an eerie blue.

And there, sitting on the cold floor with remarkable composure, was the so-called Princess.

Even in captivity, the sight was enough to make Lando pause.

The prisoner's head was bowed, light brown silky hair tumbling forward like a curtain. The simple prisoner's dress hung loosely over pale skin, the fabric slipping just enough at the collar to expose the curve of a graceful neck and the faint gleam of a collarbone. A black choker rested around the throat, a ring at its center meant to attach to the wall's chains—though Lando had opted against such crude presentation.

Instead, a single ankle was bound to an iron sphere by a fine chain, a compromise that allowed movement but promised futility in escape.

Yes. That was more artistic.

Lando stepped closer, each echo of his boot deliberate, savoring the silence that filled the space between them. The princess lifted her head slowly—and for a moment, Lando almost forgot to breathe.

Large, dark eyes stared back at him—eyes that held both sharp command and a startling brightness. There was defiance there, yes, but also exhaustion, restraint, intelligence. The kind of light that once guided armies.

"What a beautiful princess," Lando thought aloud before he could stop himself.

Beside the prisoner, propped neatly within arm's reach, was the Sacred Blade, its silver edge faintly aglow. Hovering above it was a translucent figure — the sword's spirit, whose ethereal glow painted faint ripples of light across the wall. The spirit was looking straight at Lando with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed.

So this was them. The Princess and her mythical weapon.

Lando's mouth curled faintly upward. Fascinating.

He took a few more steps forward, boots tapping softly against the stone.

The prisoner didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head slightly, as if observing a mildly interesting bug.

"Good morning, Princess," Lando began smoothly, voice low and melodic. "I'm Lando Norris, Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army. From today onward, I'll be in charge of you."

There was a long pause.

The prisoner blinked once. "...Right."

Lando smiled politely. "I realize the circumstances are unpleasant, but your cooperation will ensure everything proceeds painlessly. Or rather—pleasantly."

A quiet, deadpan voice replied, "I doubt that."

Before Lando could respond, the sword's spirit floated a little higher, placing himself between the two. "Listen, demon," he said, his tone crisp and distinctly American. "You stay right there. Try anything suspicious, and I'll—"

"—what?" Lando asked mildly. "Chop me in half from over there? You're transparent."

The spirit scowled. "I can still stab you emotionally."

Lando let out a soft chuckle. "Noted."

He turned his attention back to the human, who was now watching the exchange with the flat disinterest of someone who'd long since stopped being surprised by absurdity.

"I understand it must be difficult," Lando continued, clasping his hands behind his back. "For a noble princess to find herself—"

"I'm not a princess," came the interruption, calm but firm.

Lando blinked. "Pardon?"

The prisoner exhaled through her nose. "I'm a prince. Not a princess."

A small silence followed. Somewhere behind Lando, the Iron Maiden gave a faint metallic click, as if even it needed a moment to process that.

"Oh," Lando said at last, thoughtful. "That's... unexpected."

The spirit, still floating protectively beside the prince, arched a brow. "You mean your army has been spreading propaganda without verifying basic biology?"

Lando ignored him, eyes returning to the human. "So you're saying—"

"I'm saying your soldiers are idiots," the princess — no, the prince, he was a he not a she — said simply. "They keep calling me 'Her Highness.' They gave me a dress. The bath last night smelled like lilacs. And don't even get me started on the ribbons in the curtains and the floral bedsheets in the private chambers."

He paused. "Actually, why do I have an assigned chamber?"

Lando blinked, dead serious. "You'll need privacy when you sleep."

The prince stared at him. "This is a prison."

"Yes," Lando agreed pleasantly.

"With luxury baths and private chambers."

"Of course. We're demons, not savages."

The prince turned to his sword's spirit. "Loges, please tell me I'm hallucinating."

The sword's spirit sighed. "I'm afraid not, Your Highness. You've been kidnapped by demons with exquisite accommodations."

Lando cleared his throat politely. "Let's not get distracted by the small details, Princess."

The prince's eye twitched. "You're still calling me that."

"It suits you," Lando said with the faintest, most infuriating smile.

The sword's spirit groaned audibly. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely," Lando replied, honest and utterly calm.

For a moment, the prince just sat there, silent. Then he sighed, resigned, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he'd already lost a very long argument. "Fine. Just—get on with it. What are you going to do to me, anyway?"

Lando's grin spread slowly, his eyes gleaming with delight.

He reached into the inner pocket of his fitted black vest — sleek, tailored, and far too refined for a dungeon — and drew out a clipboard that by all logic should not have fit there. It shimmered faintly with spatial enchantment, its edges humming with quiet magic. He gave it a quick shake and a parchment appeared on its surface, already lined and expectant.

"First things first," he said lightly, clicking his pen open with a crisp snap. "May I have your full name, Princess?"

The prince gave him a look that could have cut glass. "You're really not going to stop calling me that, are you?"

Lando smiled sweetly. "Nope."

Before the prince could reply, the spirit above the sacred sword flared slightly, its outline brightening in the dim torchlight. "Are you telling us you don't even know His Highness's name?" it demanded, voice sharp with indignation. "You demons captured a commander of the Empire and didn't bother to learn who he is?"

Lando arched an eyebrow, keeping his tone pleasant. He could understand the outrage — prideful creatures, blades and princes both — but there was no reason to show he cared. "Consider it a matter of formality," he said mildly.

The spirit scoffed, and the prince only sighed through his nose, his expression unreadable.

Internally, Lando couldn't help thinking that the outrage wasn't entirely misplaced. The Demon Army had already made one rather impressive blunder — mistaking a prince for a princess. He wasn't about to risk looking like a fool by trusting their files blindly again. If anyone in the underworld had the right to double-check, it was him.

"Please, Princess?" he added, soft and coaxing, his pen poised.

There was a brief pause before the prince answered, voice level and stripped of all emotion. "Oscar Jack Piastri."

Lando's pen moved quickly. He checked the name against the enchanted parchment's flickering text — and blinked when it matched exactly. Huh. So the Demon Army's intelligence network wasn't completely useless after all.

"And the sword's spirit hovering there?" he asked, gesturing with his pen, tone laced with deliberate, mocking civility. "I'm sure you have a name as well."

The spirit crossed its arms, glaring down at him. "Logan Sargeant," it snapped. "Sacred Blade. Guardian of His Highness. Protector."

Lando hummed in approval and glanced at his clipboard again. Correct, too. Remarkable. He smiled, tucking the pen behind his ear as he slid the clipboard back into his dimensional pocket. "Excellent. Thank you both for your cooperation."

Logan made a low noise of displeasure, but Oscar remained silent — unimpressed, unreadable. He sat on the cold stone floor like he belonged there, chin lifted slightly, every inch of him disciplined, dignified. Even stripped of his armor and dressed in a prisoner's loose uniform, there was a gravity to him — a quiet strength that made Lando's curiosity stir.

"Now," Lando began, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve, "allow me to explain what's to happen next."

The spirit hovered protectively closer, arms still crossed, glare unbroken. "Then speak, demon. Spare us your dramatics."

Lando offered a smirk. "You wound me. I'm nothing if not thorough."

He clasped his hands behind his back, posture pristine, voice slipping into that smooth, practiced cadence he used when briefing his subjects. "You, Princess, are now the lawful prisoner of the Demon Army. Until the Lord decides otherwise, you are under my jurisdiction. My task—" he tapped the air lazily "—is to extract information of strategic importance. Imperial secrets, troop routes, and the like."

Oscar lifted his chin slightly, eyes narrowing — pride flickering there, like embers refusing to go out. "And if I don't?" he asked, calm but defiant.

Lando paused, watching the subtle shift in posture — the straight back, the raised chin, the unspoken authority of a commander who had led thousands. It was oddly thrilling, to see that kind of pride caged but unbroken.

He smiled slowly, tilting his head.

"Then," he said, voice slipping into a silken lilt, "it's time for torture, my Princess."

Lando's grin spread slowly — deliberate, practiced — the kind that promised far too much and revealed nothing at all.

For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hum of demon wards flickering faintly across the prison walls. Then, simultaneously, both the prince and his sword's spirit blinked.

The prince's face was a quiet masterpiece of composure, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. There was something almost absurd in his expression — a mix of disbelief and amusement, as if the situation had tipped over the edge of seriousness into farce. His lips curved, barely, into a ghost of a smirk. His dark eyes, sharp and steady, gleamed with something between challenge and humor.

The sword's spirit, however, reacted very differently.

He threw his head back and laughed. Loudly.

"Torture," the spirit echoed incredulously, clutching at his translucent stomach as if it physically hurt. "Torture?" He laughed harder, floating backward as though the mere word were the punchline of a grand joke.

It made Oscar chuckle too, soft and low, as if he couldn't quite help it.

Lando merely watched them, smiling faintly, hands neatly folded behind his back. He'd grown accustomed to this particular brand of reaction — amusement, disbelief, misplaced confidence. It was always the same at the start. The humans always thought themselves clever, resilient, untouchable. It was endearing, really.

He let them have their moment. Let the laughter fill the cell. Let the sense of victory settle comfortably on their shoulders.

Then, when the spirit finally straightened — still grinning, smug as anything — he began his speech.

"You demons truly don't know what you've gotten yourselves into," the spirit said with theatrical relish. "His Highness— the Commander of the Imperial Third Legion— has endured every hardship the mortal realm can throw at him! He's faced monsters, starvation, betrayal, political strife—"

The prince's hand came up, halfheartedly as if to stop him, but the spirit barrelled on.

"He trained in a frost field for months without rest! He led an army across burning plains! He defeated ten battalions of your kind singlehandedly—"

"I didn't—" the prince murmured under his breath, his tone dry, but the spirit ignored him completely.

"His resilience is legendary! His willpower, unbreakable! To think you demons could break him with mere torture is insulting!"

The speech went on — a proud, furious tirade of devotion that grew in volume and dramatic flair with every word.

The prince's stoic mask cracked the longer it continued. First, a tight smile, small but genuine, touched his lips. Then, as the spirit sang his praises with increasingly poetic embellishment such as: "the light of the Empire," "the unbending sword," "the radiant hope of humankind," a faint flush crept into his cheeks. By the time the spirit had moved on to recounting an incident involving ten assassins and a heroic leap off a fortress wall, the prince's composure was gone.

Color bloomsed fully across his face, deepening from faint pink to bright red, and his eyes darted away, mortified. His posture shrank just slightly, his hands fidgeting with the long sleeves of his prisoner's uniform — all small, human tells that Lando noticed instantly.

Adorable, Lando thought with quiet delight. There was something fascinating about the contrast — the stoic commander undone not by chains or fear, but by praise.

When the spirit finally finished his lengthy monologue, looking inordinately pleased with himself, the prince was a portrait of bashful exasperation — glowing cheeks, lowered gaze, and all. Lando took a moment to commit the image to memory.

Then, he smiled, wide and approving. "I must say, that is impressive," he admitted sincerely. "The Empire must sleep very well knowing you stand in its defense, Princess."

The prince didn't even correct him this time. He just exhaled, resigned.

"But," Lando went on, his tone bright and light as a knife's edge, "I'm afraid I still have a job to do."

That drew both their attention immediately. The spirit's brows furrowed, the prince's narrowed slightly — poised, wary.

Lando's grin deepened. "We never know until we try, right?"

He turned smoothly to his side, gesturing. The Iron Maiden that had hovered dutifully near him glided forward, its dark surface glinting faintly in the torchlight. The heavy tension that rippled through the cell was palpable — even the spirit's form flickered uneasily.

The prince straightened, his expression flattening into wary calm, eyes locked on the device. The spirit whispered hurried encouragements — "Stay strong, Your Highness, remember your training—" — but his tone betrayed nerves.

Lando only smiled faintly, lifting his hand. The Iron Maiden's doors creaked open, slow and dramatic, light spilling out from within.

Golden light.

The demons outside the cell might have expected screams to follow. Instead, what emerged was… a plate. A perfectly ordinary, beautifully arranged plate.

On it lay a single, thick slice of toast. But not just any toast — golden, buttery, crisp at the edges and glistening faintly beneath the flicker of the torches.

The air in the cell went utterly still.

Lando turned back toward the prince, holding the plate up with pride.

The prince blinked once. Twice. His expression was a masterclass in confusion.

Even the spirit was momentarily speechless before blurting out, "You're joking. That's your torture? Toast?"

Lando's smile didn't falter. "Not just any toast."

He lifted the plate with both hands, reverent, before taking the slice delicately between his fingers. He set the plate back into the Iron Maiden, which promptly closed with a dignified click.

Then, still holding the toast, he pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."

And, with deliberate care, he pulled it apart.

The sound — that soft, crisp tear of perfectly toasted bread breaking — filled the room. The rich scent of butter drifted outward immediately, warm and intoxicating. The interior was fluffy, almost cloudlike, the steam curling up temptingly as the golden crust cracked apart.

Lando's gaze slid sideways just in time to catch the prince's reaction. Wide eyes. A small, involuntary swallow.

Got him.

But the performance had only just begun.

Lando brought one half of the toast to his lips and blew on it, gently, sending a fresh wave of buttery aroma wafting toward his captive. The air practically shimmered with it — the scent of warmth, of comfort, of home.

The prince's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

Lando bit back a laugh and instead took a bite — slow, deliberate, exaggerated. The crunch echoed faintly in the stone cell.

"Mmm," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he chewed. The toast was crisp, golden perfection, with a faint edge of caramelization. The butter soaked just deep enough to melt on his tongue, smooth and rich. "Truly divine."

When he opened his eyes, the prince was watching him — utterly transfixed, gaze fixed on the half-eaten slice.

"Your Highness—!" the spirit hissed beside him. "Don't look at it! Resist!"

The prince blinked, breaking out of his daze, and shot Lando a glare sharp enough to kill. "You bastard."

Lando simply smiled and took another slow bite.

"Really delicious," he said conversationally. "There's only one half left, you know." He tilted his head, voice soft and teasing. "You know what you have to do to have this, Princess."

The prince's glare wavered. His gaze darted to the toast, then to Lando, then back to the toast. His jaw clenched.

Lando lifted the remaining piece, bringing it close to his mouth.

"Stop," the prince said suddenly.

Lando paused, eyebrows raised in mock innocence.

The spirit floated closer, whispering frantically, "Your Highness, you must endure! Remember your duty—!"

But when Lando brought the toast nearer again — slow, deliberate — the prince's eyes followed helplessly.

"I'll talk," he said at last, resignedly, his voice flat but defeated.

"Your Highness?!" the spirit squawked, scandalized.

Lando smiled, victorious, and crossed the cell with unhurried grace. He held out the remaining half of toast like an offering. The prince hesitated only briefly before taking it, and when he did, his expression transformed.

The stern commander vanished. In his place was a young man with wide, eager eyes and cheeks still faintly flushed. He bit into the toast — just once — and the resulting expression of bliss was so pure, so radiant, that Lando couldn't help but smile too.

"On Wednesdays," the prince said between bites, "the palace patrol is… lax."

Lando noted it down mentally, already planning to report it to the Demon Lord's advisor later.

The spirit was muttering to himself, half in disbelief, half in despair. "We're done for. They've broken him. A piece of toast. A piece of toast!"

"Done for?" Lando echoed lightly, glancing toward the Iron Maiden. "Oh no, you're mistaken."

He snapped his fingers. The Iron Maiden swung open once more — and this time, inside was an entire spread. Plates upon plates of toast, jars of jams, honey, and butter, gleaming like treasure.

"It's time for a toast party."

The prince's eyes went wide — gleaming with unguarded delight — and his soft, startled laugh filled the cell as Lando began setting the plates out with exaggerated care.

By the end of the hour, the so-called torture chamber smelled like a bakery. The prisoner sat content and smiling, the spirit sulking quietly beside him. And as Lando walked back up the long, echoing hall, clipboard tucked neatly away once more, he realized — not for the first time — that he was smiling, too.

The first torture had gone perfectly.

Lando walked the pair through the winding corridors with the ease of a man escorting guests to an exclusive suite—because, in a way, that's exactly what he was doing. The private chamber they reached felt absurdly warm after the chill of the dungeon: thick curtains, a low divan piled with cushions, a basin for footbaths, and a small alcove where a tub steamed faintly under enchanted moonlight. Not a single ribbon in sight—well, none he'd risk commenting on.

He set down a small tray of nighttime comforts: a cloth to warm, a little vial of lavender for the basin, a soft blanket folded with care. Oscar regarded the ministrations with the same deadpan he'd shown all day, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that made Lando's chest tighten pleasantly. Logan hovered a little closer to the blade, still on duty, but his stance had softened; the spirit's eyes tracked Lando with a suspicious tenderness that read like, You better not ruin him.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Lando said, smoothing the blanket's edge as if arranging a small piece of theater. Oscar accepted the blanket with a slow, faint nod and eased himself onto the cushions. He chewed on his lip, small and human in the way he shifted, and Lando watched him tuck the blanket around his legs with an odd, ineffable satisfaction. The prince's smile—quiet, satisfied—stayed with Lando, like a small prize.

Logan floated closer to the tub, inspecting the water with a sassy tilt of his translucent head. "They actually drew hot water," he remarked, voice laced with disbelief. "What is this, a spa for captives?"

"It's called hospitality," Lando said lightly, pleased. "Even the conquered deserve some dignity." He caught the spirit's eye and offered a conciliatory tilt of the head. "And we like him well-rested. It makes for better conversation tomorrow."

Logan huffed but didn't argue. He settled to hover beside his blade as if the two were keeping watch in their own way. Oscar settled down, curling one knee up to his chest and closing his eyes, the brief contentment of the toast still visible on his face. Lando lingered at the doorway long enough to make sure they had everything they needed—extra towels, a spare blanket, a small basin of salted water to soothe any sore feet. He adjusted a cushion beneath Oscar's elbow with almost tender attention.

"Sleep well, Princess," Lando murmured on a whim, because the habit of the title had taken him—and because the prince's mouth twitched at the nickname in a way Lando found impossible to resist.

Oscar's reply was muffled, but it was there: "Mmm." It was not a word of surrender so much as an affirmation that, for now, the world could be paused.

Lando turned away and retreated down the corridor to his own chamber, the light in the private suite dimming softly behind him. Once inside his study—a compact room lined with ledgers and neat stacks of parchment—he closed the door and let out a long, satisfied breath. Tonight's duties were not yet complete. A Grand Inquisitor's work never truly ended at dusk; it simply changed its pen.

He sat at his small desk and took his phone from his pocket, tapping it to life. The nightly report had to be precise—Carlos would want every morsel of intelligence delivered in neat sentences. He reached for the pocket mirror, checked his tie, and then dialed.

The connection hummed for a moment before Carlos's voice greeted him, warm and amused. "Cabrón?"

"Yes," Lando answered, folding his hands on the desk. "I'm here."

He wasted no time. He recapped the day succinctly but with an indulgent lilt: the capture, the interrogation, the ritual naming (a formality, always), and the small, highly effective extraction—On Wednesdays, the palace patrol is lax. He left out nothing, phrasing it as a tidy piece of actionable knowledge.

There was a pause on the other end as Carlos passed the detail along to Max. Lando could practically hear the shuffle of mood in the advisor's voice—businesslike, then weary.

Carlos clicked his tongue. "I told Max what you said—'Wednesdays, palace patrol lax.'" He hesitated a beat, then let out a long sigh into the line.

"And?" Lando echoed, curious now.

"Max has a full sim racing schedule on Wednesdays." Carlos's tone carried something like polite resignation, the kind of information that made the best-laid strategies dissolve into harmless plans. "He says: he's busy for the foreseeable future."

For a beat, Lando only listened, blinked once, then said: "Oh." The word was small and almost lost in the room's shadow.

Carlos laughed softly—sympathetic and sharp. "Well then. That's that, cabrón. Best you continue torturing the Princess."

Lando's response was an unladylike chuckle. "Of course. Good work, Carlos."

They said their usual goodbyes—short, warm, threaded with the kind of intimacy that years of consulting and shared secrets built. When the line clicked dead, Lando sat still for a moment, tapping a pen against the wood of his desk as if the rhythm could steady his thoughts.

He should have been annoyed—after all, a lax patrol was a perfectly exploitable weakness. If Max was preoccupied with his sim rig, the chance to strike might be lost. The practical, strategic part of his brain catalogued the missed opportunities with blunt efficiency.

But another part of him, a softer region that he did not often admit to even himself, unspooled a different thought: Tomorrow, then. I'll torture my princess again tomorrow. The idea flicked through his chest like a small, warm coin.

He found himself smiling at the thought, ridiculous and delighted. He imagined the prince—quiet, proud, stubborn—sitting in the chamber, toasted crumbs at the corner of his lips, the sacred blade hovering dutifully by, and something wholly private and tender unfurled within Lando. The prospect of another day of carefully curated "torture," of coaxing out secrets with pastries and gentleness and ridiculous setups, filled him with a pleasant anticipation.

He set the phone down, filed tonight's report as he always did, and made a small note in the margin—Ensure extra toast supplies tomorrow. Possibly new jam flavors. The pen's scratching felt like a promise more than duty.

Then, with a final glance around his neat room—the pens, the ledgers, the Iron Maiden's scheduled maintenance log—he extinguished the lamp and slipped into the hush of the castle night. Outside, somewhere in his private chamber, a prince slept, the steady rise and fall of his breath a quiet, domestic sound in a place built for war. Lando imagined the way the dawn would find them: the prince still in the cushions, perhaps, Logan ever vigilant, the Iron Maiden dutifully humming in its alcove.

He closed his eyes with the image lingering. Tomorrow, he thought with a contented, small smile, tomorrow he would return—and the torture would continue.

Chapter Text

Morning in the Demon Castle arrived like a slow exhalation—no bright bell or trumpeted proclamation, but a gradual shift in temperature and the steady sigh of warding runes settling into daytime rhythm.

Lando liked mornings. They felt like fresh pages; even the castle's soot-streaked stone seemed promising in that quiet hour. His day as Grand Inquisitor always began early, not because the lesser demons couldn't handle menial tasks—there were plenty of them tidying corridors and stoking braziers—but because Lando liked to be hands-on when he had a project. Projects deserved attention. And this particular project, presently reclining under an obscene amount of cushions, had been tremendously entertaining.

The memory of yesterday warmed him like a discreet ember. The toast, the confessions, the way the prince's expression had softened from unbreakable commander to a boy with jam on his chin—Lando had not expected the satisfaction to linger so pleasantly. His record of one hundred percent success had always fed his pride; this one fed something quieter, excessively indulgent. He told himself it was the novelty—torturing a member of the Imperial family was a career highlight, after all. Perhaps that was all it was.

He moved down the plush-carpeted corridor toward the private chamber assigned to the captive with the easy cadence of a man who belonged in fine places. The chamber door was carved with motifs of waves and stars—undeniably grand, undeniably designed with the idea of welcoming royalty. Lando smiled; the demons clearly had ideas about "princess" aesthetics, even if they'd mangled the pronouns.

He knocked, soft and gentlemanly—old habit. "Princess," he called in a voice the stone seemed to like, and when the silence held, he eased the door open.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and the sweet heat of a bed that had been recently vacated. Heavy drapes gathered light in their folds and the tiled alcove bath still steamed faintly, a curl of vapor drifting up like a lazy ghost. The furniture—low divans and a broad chaise—was arranged in reassuring symmetry, cushions piled with precision. An ornate basin sat on a small stand, and beside it, a tray of morning comforts: a folded towel warmed on a stone heater, a vial of lavender soothes, and a small pot of steaming chocolate. Not lavish, but unmistakably thoughtful.

Lando's boots made almost no sound as he crossed to the chaise where the prisoner slept. The prince's face, in repose, was softer than it had been under the torchlight of the cell: youth tucked into measured features, lashes resting against cheeks still faintly flushed from sleep. The strict, war-hardened commander from yesterday had melted into someone smaller, more human—innocent, almost—so that Lando had to steady himself against an unexpectedly tender amusement. The sight was disarming, and he found himself smiling despite the absurdity of being disarmed by a captive.

Beside the long couch where a gleaming blade leaned, its hilt still glinting faintly from yesterday's light, there was no translucent figure floating in attendance—Logan preferred to recede into the metal when his master slept. Lando assumed the spirit would rise again to take his place whenever the prince stirred. His absence let the room breathe a little; it gave Lando the chance to perform the small, domestic ministrations no one expected a Grand Inquisitor to enjoy.

"Princess," he said again, quieter now, and when there was still no movement, he stepped nearer. He could have woken the prince with a raised voice or a command, but Lando preferred subtlety. He reached out and brushed one gloved finger across the prince's cheek—gentle, unobtrusive—feeling the faint warmth of skin. The prince didn't startle. He shifted, a small sound escaping his lips, as if someone had nudged a sleeping child.

Lando hovered there for a beat, debating—mentally cataloguing possibilities. Was the prince truly comfortable enough to sleep so deeply? Or did he simply have the stubborn, legendary trait of being terrible at mornings? The latter seemed likely; the man had the look of someone who could command armies at dawn and curse fate by noon. A small part of Lando appreciated that stubbornness.

A slow creak announced someone else waking: the sound of metal sliding, like a sword settling into a sheath. The translucent figure emerged then, yawning with an exaggerated, almost theatrical bleary-eyed motion. Logan rose above the physical blade with his trademark sassy posture, lower half still anchored to the sword, slightly rumpled in ghostly form.

He blinked, spectral lids heavy, and addressed Lando in a voice that sounded as if he had a morning throat to clear. "What are you doing here, demon? This is not yet an acceptable hour for… for whatever this is." The complaint was performed with a sleepy edge; there was irritation, but it was the kind that folded quickly into affectionate exasperation.

Lando grinned, withholding not one scrap of mischief. "We're fetching him for work, Logan. The day begins. Prison time resumes." He gestured, gentle but insistent. "He needs to be in the cell for the morning session."

Logan's spectral eyebrows climbed. "He is atrocious at waking. Someone should write a treaty against his nap habits." He drifted closer, tongue in cheek, and hovered over the prince's face. "Your Highness. Rise and be radiant. The realm expects you to be at least mildly functioning in the hour."

The prince's eyes fluttered, half-open, blank with sleep—or pretending to be. He mumbled something indiscernible. Logan tutted. "I told you. He's the sort of man who would be most obliging if threatened with the recital of national taxes." He leaned in, whispering theatrically, "Oscar. Wake up. The day calls."

Lando watched the comic pair with delighted approval. The ritual of it—Logan's overblown, melodramatic encouragement and the prince's slow, inevitable surrender—had the kind of cadence that pleased him. He liked procedure. Even in small personal moments, the world behaved better when everyone did their parts.

The awakening itself was a little theatrical. Logan edged closer and, in a voice far more urgent than his sleepy posture suggested, launched into an impossibly energetic pep talk, a rapid-fire litany of shame and kingdom duty and a reminder that the prince had once led a thousand men across an open plain. Lando half-expected the spirit to begin reciting battle formations. The prince, miffed awake, sat up with exaggerated reluctance as if the bed had clasped to him with the sticky tenacity of morning. He blinked blearily, then cast a deadpan look around the room that was half complaint and half mockery.

"Logan," he said flatly, voice hoarse, "you are unbearably theatrical before coffee."

Logan preened at the criticism like a bard taking a bow and then, supposing he had failed in his mission, resorted to the final gambit: a soft, very pointed complaint about the indignity of being called to the cell. "Still. Rise, Your Highness. We must put on our brave faces."

Lando gave a low, warm chuckle. He moved to the basin and set about preparing the small ritual of ablution and breakfast with an almost ceremonious care. The prince shuffled to the adjoining ensuite on sleeper feet; the steam curled into the doorway. Lando kept his back to them, arranging cups and the small breakfast tray with a meticulousness he took seriously. A pot of hot chocolate breathed steam into the room, its scent rich with cocoa and just a touch of bitterness. A stack of pancakes, fluffy and pillowy, sat beside it, a delicate smear of butter beginning to melt into grooves. A small dish of honey and a saucer of compote completed the offering—nothing ostentatious, exactly, but exquisite in its quiet quality.

Oscar emerged, hair damp and mussed, dignity slightly compromised but not lost. He blinked at the tray with the same deadpan that softened into a very small expression of approval—an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes that meant he appreciated competence. Logan drifted up beside him, still half-asleep but vigilant. Neither argued. Both moved with the sluggish coordination of those not entirely present.

"Drink this," Lando said, proffering the steaming cup with an orchestrator's flourish. "Hot chocolate. It's more fortifying than tea this hour." He passed the pancakes, arranged them on a plate the way a chef might arrange a miniature garden. The prince accepted the cup with a hand that, up close, was smaller than Lando had expected, smooth and delicate looking—dainty, as he would describe it.

The prince's face remained composed—deadpan in the manner of a man who preferred understatement—but Lando noticed how the corners of his eyes softened when the chocolate hit his tongue. Logan, for his part, hovered protectively, offering occasional sassy commentary about the butter's moral standing and whether one should ever trust jam that glitters too much.

When the breakfast plates were cleared and the steam had unclung from the room like a departing mist, Lando motioned them to prepare for the short walk back to the dungeon cell. The walk itself felt shorter today, maybe because yesterday's awkward tensions had been replaced by a companionable ease. The prince dragged his feet at first—sleep still heavy—and Logan spoke in a brisk, officious tone, urging him to pull himself together. "You can be dignified and still eat with relish," he told him. "Remember that torture of the soul requires fortitude."

Lando stifled a laugh at the phrase. The pair's understated routines were amusing to him: the way Logan fussed, the way the prince accepted fussing with that efficient resignation of someone who'd long given up battles over small comforts.

Back in the dim corridor, the ritual of returning to imprisonment proceeded with the same deliberate pageantry as departure had: the chain clicked as Lando fastened it to the prince's ankle, the iron sphere settled into its small metallic periphery like an obedient pet. The prisoner wore the loose uniform again—still too feminine in cut, still soft against his skin—but he moved with the grace of someone who had worn heavier garments in war. He didn't complain; he merely adjusted the fabric with an unenthused finger and let the chain rest.

As Lando buckled the small clasp and felt the cool metal against the prince's skin, he paused and smiled, truly gentle. "It's not too tight, is it, Princess?" he asked, voice soft at the edges.

The prince gave the simplest nod, his eyes still edged with sleep. Lando reached up to lift his chin with the lightest of touches, bringing their gazes level. Up close, the prince's eyes were dark and lucid, still edged with the serious intelligence of a man used to command.

"Hey," Lando murmured, a hint of teasing in the tone, "come on now, no nodding off." He allowed a tiny, private warmth to curl in his chest at the sight of that sleepy, stubborn face. He had discovered, much to his own vexation, how compellingly adorable stoic annoyance could be.

He straightened, the formal mask of the Grand Inquisitor sliding back into place like a sleeve pulled neat. "It's time for torture, Princess."

And with those words, the air inside the cell seemed to tighten.

The sleepy haze that had wrapped the morning like a fog dissipated, replaced by something sharp and electric.

The young man before him—the prince, the commander—shifted subtly, but the change was absolute. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and the soft curve of his expression hardened into something honed and sure. Gone was the drowsy innocence from moments before. In its place stood the imperial third legion's commander, cold-eyed and proud, his very presence stiff with defiance.

Even the sacred blade's spirit stirred at once, the faint glow that outlined him flaring brighter, his sleepy form tightening into the posture of a guardian once again. The two of them moved in unison—alert, tense, prepared.

Lando watched this small transformation with fascination.

He always enjoyed this moment—the transition from docility to dread. The tightening of jaws. The silence between heartbeats when they realized what was coming. That delicious hum of tension that filled the room just before the first scream.

It was a familiar pleasure, one he knew well. But there was something else, too—something smaller and stranger—when it was this prisoner.

He wasn't sure what it was. He only knew that it made his fingers itch with anticipation.

He let his smile form slowly, deliberately, until it was the sharp, knowing kind that could cut through quiet. "Today," he said evenly, "we'll be trying something a little different."

The spirit's eyes narrowed. "Different how?"

"I've enlisted a few Torment Lieutenants," Lando replied, his tone light, almost conversational. "Good friends of mine. They're rather… excited about meeting our prisoner."

He'd planned this last night, lying in bed with his notes and reports still strewn about the sheets. It hadn't taken much to convince his colleagues to participate. Everyone in the demon ranks had wanted a chance to lay their hands—or fangs or flames—on the captured Imperial Princess.

Of course, he hadn't bothered clarifying that the princess was a prince.

Let them find out on their own.

He slipped his phone from his coat pocket. The glow of the screen painted his skin in pale blue light. A single notification blinked near the top.

Almost there!

He hummed softly, satisfied, then looked up and let his smile widen, letting it show just enough of his teeth. The prince stiffened at the sight; the spirit's expression flickered in wary recognition. The scent of fear seemed to thicken the air.

"Don't worry," Lando said pleasantly. "You'll see in a second."

A minute passed. Then the iron door groaned open with a sound like a sigh from the stone itself. Two tall figures stepped through the heavy threshold.

George Russell and Alexander Albon.

Both dressed neatly, their postures upright and confident—handsome men with the kind of presence that could be mistaken for menace in the dim light of a cell. The two stopped just inside the room, glancing briefly at Lando before turning to the chained prisoner. They both smiled—wolfish grins that softened, unexpectedly, into something far friendlier.

"Good morning, Princess!" Alex greeted brightly, tone dripping with cheer.

The prince blinked, taken aback. His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion replacing confusion.

"I'm not—" he started, his voice still rough from sleep, "I'm not a princess."

George and Alex exchanged a look, then turned to Lando as if for clarification. Lando only shrugged, expression unreadable.

"Well," Alex said after a moment, "what should we call you, then?"

The prince hesitated. He was still wary, apprehensive. Then he squared his shoulders again and said, "Oscar."

"Cool," Alex said, and then, with that same easy grin, held out his hand for a dap.

The reaction was immediate. Oscar instinctively took a step back, confusion flashing across his face. The spirit moved almost in between them, standing to protect, his form half flickering with light as if he expected an attack.

Alex, however, just stood there with his hand hanging loosely in the air, patient and unbothered.

After a moment of awkward silence, the prince gingerly mimicked the gesture, still unsure, and touched Alex's hand. Alex grinned. "Nice to meet you, Oscar. I'm Alex."

George stepped forward with a polite nod, hand outstretched too. "Pleasure to meet you, mate. I'm George."

Oscar blinked at them, dazed by the sudden friendliness, while the spirit frowned deeply as though suspecting trickery.

Lando, standing a few paces behind, quietly took note of everything. The hesitation. The stiffness. The awkward, fumbling movement of the prince's fingers when Alex reached out. He didn't know what a dap was. He didn't seem to know how to respond to ordinary friendliness at all. Another fact to file away. Another vulnerability that had nothing to do with flesh or bone.

"Well," Alex said cheerfully, stepping back, "shall we start the torture?"

Both Lieutenants went to work, rummaging through their own dimensional space to begin their own version of torture. They brought out a flat screen TV, a console, and controllers. George had arranged a variety of biscuits and crackers that went along with a fine tea set while Alex was finishing the set up. It was, quite honestly, such a contrast, and yet, that in itself added to the charm of the torture method the two Lieutenants had come up with.

Lando stayed where he was, arms crossed loosely.

The spirit finally broke the silence, voice low and suspicious. "What the hell is this?"

Lando smiled faintly. "A video game."

It was almost comical—the look of sheer disbelief that crossed both prisoners' faces as Mario Kart music suddenly filled the room. Bright, upbeat tunes echoed against cold stone, clashing horribly with the dim light and the faint smell of iron.

The two Lieutenants were already sitting cross-legged on the floor, controllers in hand, yelling at each other with good-natured competitiveness. Alex was laughing at the move George had brazenly attempted, affecting his own race as he stumbled a bit, which in turn made George laugh just as joyously.

The spirit scoffed, folding his arms, watching as two demons laughed like children in the dungeon meant for screams. "You think this childish toy can break him? He's endured training and pain you can't imagine. Such foolish temptation won't work."

Lando's lips curved faintly. "We'll see."

Because when he turned his head, he caught the subtle flicker in Oscar's eyes.

That sparkle. The same one that had appeared during their first interrogation, when the prince had smiled—so small, so unexpectedly sincere—after surviving what should have broken him.

Now, that light was back.

He was watching the game closely, brows furrowed not in suspicion but in focus. His lips parted slightly. When Alex's kart took a tight turn, Oscar leaned forward unconsciously, eyes tracking the movement on screen like a tactician observing a battle map. Lando knew he couldn't help it.

"You should take the inside corner there," Oscar murmured quietly, almost to himself. "It'll block the red shell."

Alex obeyed instinctively, and when it worked, he cheered loudly.

The spirit turned sharply to his prince. "Your Highness?!"

Oscar flinched as though caught off guard, then straightened again, clearing his throat. "I was only analyzing their tactics. It doesn't mean I'm tempted."

The spirit gave him a flat look. "Not very convincing, if I may say."

Lando bit the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.

Oscar's gaze kept flicking toward the two Lieutenants occupied with their ongoing battle. His hands fidgeted slightly, betraying the restlessness under his composed exterior. He looked… awkward. Like someone who didn't quite know what to do with himself in the company of others.

After a while, Oscar spoke again, still keeping his eyes on the screen. "Don't worry, Loges. In the first place," he said proudly, expression gleaming with innocence, "I don't really know how to interact with others."

The spirit turned to him, expression blank. "That's not something you should be proud of."

Lando almost laughed aloud, biting back the sound with a quiet cough.

But the prince continued to watch, undeterred, gaze soft and faintly wistful.

Alex won the next match, cheering triumphantly. "Ha! That one's for you, Oscar—your advice totally worked!"

Oscar blinked, startled by the praise, then smiled a little, unsure what to say.

Alex held out one of the controllers, grin wide and open. "Wanna play?"

The spirit moved instantly, voice rising. "Don't you dare, Your Highness! This is a real torture that these bastard demons had planned! Resist! You must resist!"

But it was too late. The prince's eyes were glowing—not with fear, but with something gentler. Hope. Curiosity. Yearning.

Lando could see the war playing out in his expression. The need to maintain dignity clashing with the aching want to belong.

"Remember all the training from your childhood," the spirit continued, encouraging the prince to fight the temptation. "You've been postured to lead a whole legion, a whole army, resisting this is nothing to you! And besides, you don't need such childish entertainment!"

"That's right," Oscar murmured, voice trembling faintly, "I'm the commander of the Imperial Third Legion. I don't need—"

He stopped, head bowing slightly. His voice, when it came again, was barely more than a whisper. "I don't need friends."

The boy's lashes trembled. His eyes shimmered wetly, catching the faint glow of the torches, the light gathering in the corners like morning dew. His lips wobbled slightly as he gazed longingly at the blinking television.

The spirit immediately reached out, fussing quietly as he saw his prince act uncharacteristically like a little boy who desperately wanted to have friends.

Lando watched, unable to look anywhere else. It was unexpected, in a comical way. And yet—

And yet the sight of the prince's — his princess — watery eyes and undeniably sad expression had sunk somewhere deep inside him, somewhere he didn't expect. It wasn't pity that stirred in him—it wasn't even amusement. It was something quieter. Something that twisted, almost painfully, beneath his ribs.

He sighed softly, running a thumb over his lower lip as he thought. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he opened his dimensional pocket and pulled out two additional controllers.

"Hey, Princess," he said gently, holding them up. "This game can be played by multiple people, you know."

Oscar looked up. The light that came over his face then was like dawn breaking through fog—soft, hesitant, but real.

The spirit muttered under his breath about how this was all ridiculous, but Lando could tell even he had given up the fight.

"So," Lando said, tilting his head, voice teasing but kind, "how's it going to be?"

Oscar blinked, wiping the last of the moisture from his eyes, and then smiled—small and radiant and entirely disarming.

"I'll talk!" he said easily, tone bright and eager, like a child agreeing to a game.

Lando smiled too.

It was, technically, another success. But this time, his smile was more warm than it was triumphant.

The dungeon cell was still cold and bare — stone walls, iron chains, and a faint smell of damp magic. The only light came from the glowing runes Lando had set along the walls. It was a place meant for despair and confessions of war crimes, not… whatever was happening right now.

Which was, in short, Mario Kart.

The absurdly cheerful music from the console echoed off the dungeon walls, making the whole place sound like a twisted festival. The four of them sat on the floor in a circle, controllers in hand — Alex, George, Oscar, and Lando — while the sacred blade's spirit hovered beside them, arms crossed but clearly watching with interest.

Oscar, the Imperial Prince and Commander of the Third Legion, was smiling.

Actually smiling.

The prince's usually composed face had softened into something bright and alive, his lips curved upward, eyes glinting with excitement as he leaned forward, focused on the screen. The faint pink flush of energy in his cheeks gave him a warmth that didn't belong in a dungeon.

The match started with a chaotic flurry of movement — Alex shouting encouragements to no one in particular, George yelling something about item boxes, and Oscar completely silent but devastatingly efficient. His kart darted through the track with mechanical precision, every turn perfect, every drift timed like clockwork.

Lando watched, half proud, half impressed.

The prince was terrifyingly good at this.

From time to time, Lando found himself glancing at Oscar. The prince's comfortable expression was so enthralling to him. His dark eyes were glinting half in pride and half in exhilaration. The smile on his lips that bloomed and gradually turned into soft chuckles and eventually became a full blown laughter. The sight of it was strangely contagious; Alex had started grinning openly, and even George seemed to quiet down and focus just to see it again. Lando himself felt the corners of his mouth soften, the invisible weight in his chest easing.

They had already taken several breaks. The delicate porcelain cups from George's collection looked almost ridiculous against their black-armored hands, and the biscuits — little sugar-crusted things made by one of the castle's lesser demons who specialized in mimicry of human cuisine — crumbled easily in the warmth of the tea's steam. The scent of it lingered pleasantly in the chamber, faint vanilla and black leaves.

Oscar, much to everyone's amusement, had picked up one of the cookies, turned it over in his fingers as if assessing a battlefield tactic, and then nibbled it with that same expressionless care.

"So?" George had prompted. "Your verdict, Your Highness?"

Oscar had blinked once, slowly, then said in that utterly flat voice, "It's edible."

Alex had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea, while Lando hummed in quiet approval. "A high compliment, coming from you, Princess."

Oscar had ignored the title, as he always did when it was Lando saying it, only taking another small, deliberate bite.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded like that — laughter, soft chatter, and the scraping of the game pieces as the board filled with new patterns. At first, Logan had hovered irritably near the corner, arms folded and expression carved in disapproval. "You do realize, Your Highness, these demons are only just trying to get to you," he'd muttered, dead-eyed, watching as his prince accepted another biscuit from George.

Oscar had merely sipped his tea and said, "I am aware. It's very effective."

Logan had looked like he was torn between screaming and simply vanishing back into his blade, but Alex had been too busy trying to drag him into conversation. Within an hour, the sacred blade's spirit was sitting awkwardly between the demons, answering Alex's questions in short, clipped sentences while George tried to convince him to play a round himself. By the third game, Logan was giving them advice — very reluctantly — and by the fourth, he was openly pointing out moves and smirking when Oscar beat George again.

The rest of the session unfolded quietly, but with a peaceful sort of rhythm. They talked about the silliest things — Alex and George comparing the castle kitchens to human palaces, Logan reluctantly joining their debate about tea temperatures, and Oscar listening intently as though this conversation mattered deeply.

When the Lieutenants finally stood up, dusk was already spilling red light across the tall windows. They had duties to return to; the spell of leisure had to end eventually.

Oscar looked up when they began to gather their things. Lando saw the change immediately — that faint droop in his shoulders, the way his eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long on the console and the empty cups. He said nothing, of course, but his silence was transparent enough.

George noticed too. The Lieutenant, good-natured and loud as always, placed a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Come on, mate, don't look so sad. We'll be back to torture you again."

The prince looked up at him with an almost shy brightness. "Really?"

Logan reminded the prince that he shouldn't look so obviously excited at the prospect of torture, but he went ignored.

"Of course," George said, grinning. "This isn't a one-time thing."

"Yeah, mate," Alex added, fishing his phone out of his coat. "Here, let's exchange contacts for now. We'll add you to the group chat."

Logan's eyes widened. "You can't be serious—"

But Oscar, with a faint flush of eagerness, had already pulled a slim black smartphone from the pocket of his prisoner's gown. "Cool," he said, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Logan stared at the scene, dead-eyed. "If you've had your phone this entire time," he began, "you could have used it to call for a rescue—"

But Oscar wasn't listening, busy promising to message them later. Lando, leaning casually against the table, only smiled faintly. Of course he knew about the device. He knew every item brought into this room. He simply hadn't cared — and it turned out, correctly so. The prince had never even thought to use it to escape.

When the Lieutenants finally left, their laughter still echoing down the corridor, the chamber felt a little quieter. Lando watched as Oscar followed their retreating forms with that small, unguarded expression, his eyes reflecting the light of the dying sun.

For a strange moment, Lando wondered if the prince realized just how much of himself he'd shown today.

The hour was late. The dungeon's distant torches had long since burned low, and in his private chamber, Lando sat on the velvet divan, his posture loose and unhurried.

The room was dimly lit — only a few candles still flickering on the polished desk, their light catching on the gold trims of his nightwear. The faint scent of incense curled lazily in the air, something minty and expensive that did very little to hide the fact that this was still, technically, a fortress built atop a pit of sulfur.

In his hand, Lando held his phone, its screen gone dark now. The faint warmth of the call still lingered on his palm, as though the conversation itself had left residue. He just finished reporting the imperial secret he had extracted from today's torture.

Carlos's voice still echoed in his head, casual and amused:

"Max has a new setup rig. He's been holed up for three days in his chamber. Continue the torture."

Lando had accepted the verdict easily — after all, one grew used to the peculiarities of the Demon Lord's priorities. He'd half-expected as much. There were few things in the underworld that could rival the importance of war, but apparently, sim racing was one of them.

He set the phone aside on the table, its soft clack against the wood sounding far too final for something so trivial. Then, leaning back against the divan, Lando exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

A lesser demon might have been exasperated. A more devout soldier might have questioned the sanity of an army whose supreme commander refused to attend briefings because he was chasing a digital podium finish.

Lando, however, only smiled.

A small, quiet, satisfied curve of his lips.

Because the moment Carlos said Continue the torture, a thrill had gone down his spine — subtle but undeniable. A kind of anticipatory delight that had nothing to do with war or duty.

The prince had proven far more entertaining than expected. His stubborn composure, his complete lack of awareness of social cues, the way he openly laughed during the multiple rounds of the game—all of it was fascinating. And that smile… yes, that smile was dangerous. Infectious, even.

He wanted to see it again.

Perhaps draw out something different next time. Something brighter. Something unguarded.

A faint hum escaped his throat, low and thoughtful.

Yes, continuing the torture sounded like an excellent idea.

Just then, a thought drifted through — half memory, half reminder.

A friend had returned this afternoon from an outside expedition. Another high-ranking demon. Another tormentor with unconventional methods. He would certainly make things interesting.

Lando allowed himself one last quiet laugh.

"Continue the torture," he murmured, echoing Carlos's words under his breath, tasting the phrase like fine wine. "Very well."

He turned toward his bed, the faintest smirk ghosting across his lips.

"Let's make tomorrow a little more entertaining, shall we?"

Chapter Text

"It's time for torture, Princess."

The familiar line slipped from Lando's lips with the same grin he always wore — that razor-edged smile that seemed to have been carved precisely for his title. It was charming, theatrical, and slightly menacing, all in perfect measure — a grin befitting the Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army.

Across the dim, stone-walled cell, the reaction was immediate.

The prince — the imperial army's prodigy, the golden commander of the Third Legion — stiffened, his posture tightening as though he'd just been called to arms. His jaw set. His shoulders squared. And beside him, the translucent figure of the sacred sword spirit mirrored that resolve, crossing his arms with all the indignation his incorporeal form could muster.

It was the same scene as every morning before.

The same wary eyes, the same simmering defiance, and the same touch of royal indignation.

How delightful.

Lando leaned casually against the cold bars, watching the transformation take place — how the soft, unguarded expressions from yesterday faded into the kind of disciplined composure that could only come from years of military training. It was almost impressive, how the human could go from relaxed warmth to imperial frost at the sound of one line.

It was as if yesterday's events — the laughter, the smiles, the absurdly competitive rounds of Mario Kart, the new group chat — had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Now, Oscar looked every bit the imperial commander once more. The faint curve of his mouth was gone, replaced by a thin, hard line; his eyes were sharp again, aflame with renewed conviction.

But that was fine.

That was more than fine.

In fact, Lando thought, as he let his grin widen just a touch, this suited him best.

He was more interesting this way.

The defiance in his gaze, the stubborn set of his chin, the quiet storm of pride behind every word — it was thrilling to watch. Lando had no plans to get bored. Far from it.

It was another day in the Demon Castle, another routine in the endless tug-of-war between the two sides of the war. The dungeon had settled into its usual rhythm — torches flickering faintly against stone, the distant echo of chains and footsteps reverberating like a heartbeat through the corridors.

The prince, of course, was already "on duty".

Lando noted that with mild amusement. The human was astonishingly punctual for someone held captive. He had already woken, freshened up with the amenities Lando had ensured were provided, eaten breakfast (oatmeal and tea — very royal), and now waited in his cell with the kind of posture that belonged more to a war room than a dungeon.

Truly, a model prisoner.

"Hmm," Lando hummed softly, eyeing him through half-lidded eyes. "You look more awake today, Princess."

The prince smirked. Just slightly. The kind of subtle, knowing smirk that promised trouble. He crossed his arms, the motion deliberate, confident.

"I'm not giving in today," he declared, voice steady with authority. "Whatever you have planned — it won't work. The last two times were a fluke. I might have given in twice in a row. I might have revealed valuable secrets you Demons are definitely going to utilize against the Imperial army. I admit that those were not my proudest moments. But it won't happen again. Never again."

Beside him, the sword spirit straightened, nodding with full conviction. "Indeed! His Highness merely stumbled before! He shall not fall to your tricks again, Demon!"

Lando blinked once. Then twice. Then smiled.

Ah. So they had rehearsed.

How earnest.

This was, without question, the most words he'd heard the prince string together since he'd arrived at the castle. There was steel in his tone this time — not arrogance, but conviction. Genuine belief.

Cute, Lando thought, privately amused. The way he stood there, all defiance and declarations, looking every bit like a general rallying his troops — and yet, the only thing he was rallying against was temptations that had recently involved tea, biscuits, and a multiplayer video game.

Still, the spark in his eyes was undeniable.

Lando let a small, approving hum slip past his lips, as though praising a child for remembering their lines in a play. "That's good to hear," he said sweetly. "I'm looking forward to seeing how long you can hold out, Princess."

Logan puffed up at that, the glow around him flaring ever so slightly. "We'll show you the true strength of the Imperial Third Legion! No matter what kind of torture you attempt, it will be futile!"

Lando chuckled — not mockingly, but softly, indulgently.

He'd grown fond of this little routine: the speeches, the bravado, the misplaced confidence. It had a rhythm now, almost comforting in its familiarity.

"Well then," he said lightly, straightening his coat and brushing invisible dust from his lapel, "we'll see about that. Because today—"

He paused, letting the silence stretch. The torches crackled faintly. Oscar tilted his head, brows furrowed just slightly.

"—someone else will be joining us."

For a heartbeat, the room went still.

Both the prince and the sword's spirit froze — just for a moment — and then exchanged glances. No confusion this time, no alarm. Just guarded understanding, the kind that came from experience.

Their expressions tightened, but there was no fear. Only quiet wariness, the calm anticipation of soldiers readying for whatever absurdity might come next.

Oscar's gaze was steady, his chin tilted upward in a silent challenge. He didn't say a word, but Lando could read it easily enough: Do your worst.

And that made him grin again — that slow, deliberate, unbothered grin that had become his trademark.

He tilted his head slightly, studying the human before him. The determination burning behind those dark eyes, the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped his own arms like he was holding the line of an invisible front.

Cute, Lando thought again, a familiar warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. He really is very cute.

Just then, the faint click, click, click of boots against stone echoed down the narrow corridor — sharp and deliberate, a steady rhythm that bounced off the damp dungeon walls and sliced through the silence like the ticking of a clock.

Lando's grin widened. Right on time.

The prince and the spirit both stiffened at the sound, their heads turning toward the barred entrance. The atmosphere changed almost instantly — that wary anticipation returning like the scent of metal before a storm.

He couldn't blame them, really. Knowing nothing about the one who was coming — other than the fact that he was a high-ranking demon — was enough to make anyone uneasy. The footsteps alone carried a certain weight, the kind that made even silence feel menacing.

In spite of all their earlier bravado, both prisoners now looked distinctly less confident.

The sound grew louder — one last click before the heavy iron door groaned open.

And then he entered.

A tall figure stepped through the threshold, his presence calm yet impossible to ignore. His posture was relaxed, unhurried, every movement precise in that natural, effortless way that drew attention without asking for it.

The newcomer's gaze immediately found the prince. His eyes — light, curious, and unblinking — fixed on him as though studying something unfamiliar and fascinating.

He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. His expression carried a quiet, thoughtful wonder, a kind of mild confusion as if trying to decipher what he was looking at.

That was just how he was.

Lando smiled knowingly and raised a hand in greeting. "Allow me to introduce you to Charles Leclerc," he said smoothly. "Harm Marshal of the Demon Army."

The title sounded heavy, but the man wearing it looked anything but imposing.

Charles stepped forward with an elegance that bordered on languid, his boots silent now against the floor as he approached the cell. The torchlight flickered across his face, painting sharp shadows against features that looked almost too perfect for a dungeon — sculpted, serene, and slightly out of place among demons.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with mild curiosity as he regarded the prince up close. "Princess?" he asked softly.

The single word hung in the air.

And there it was again — that familiar flicker of confusion that Lando had grown fond of witnessing.

The prince blinked, taken aback for only a moment before responding automatically, like a reflex burned into his system. "I'm not a princess," he said firmly, almost indignantly. "I'm a prince."

Charles echoed it, tasting the correction carefully. "Prince," he repeated. His gaze softened slightly, still observing. "What is your name?"

The prince hesitated, a faint frown forming on his lips — but he still answered, because he always did when asked directly. Yes. He might be talking to his enemies, but he was always polite like that. "Oscar."

Charles repeated the name as though testing it on his tongue, his pronunciation faintly imperfect, foreign-sounding. "Oscar," he murmured again. Then, without missing a beat, he added with calm finality, "I will be torturing you now."

That, of course, got their attention.

Both Oscar and his sword's spirit straightened immediately, eyes wide and alert. The word torture had that kind of effect, no matter how many times they heard it. But Charles didn't seem in any particular rush to start. He simply… watched.

Lando noted how the Marshal's posture was loose, almost lazy, hands folded neatly behind his back as his gaze continued to drift over the prince. He looked more like an artist studying a subject than a demon preparing an interrogation.

And then, just as quietly, Charles stepped back — and left the cell.

Lando didn't move. He already knew what was about to happen. So he merely folded his arms, leaned casually against the wall, and waited.

When Charles returned, there was a soft pitter-patter accompanying his footsteps — a tiny rhythm that didn't belong to boots or armor.

And trailing behind him, waddling with cheerful determination, was a small, fluffy creature.

Lando's lips twitched upward immediately.

Charles stopped before the cell and bent down slightly, gesturing proudly to the little being at his feet. "This," he said in the same serene tone he'd used earlier, "is Leo. My baby."

Leo — a miniature long-haired dachshund, all silky fur and soulful brown eyes — barked once in greeting, his tail wagging with the soft, rhythmic swish of pure enthusiasm.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Lando's gaze flicked toward the prince, catching the subtle shift in his expression. His eyes widened — not with fear or suspicion, but with something startlingly human. Surprise. Wonder. The faintest glimmer of joy.

He perked up visibly, posture straightening, his earlier tension melting into something unguarded.

Ah, Lando thought, delight curling at the edge of his mind. So that's how it is.

He didn't even need confirmation to know he was right — this was going to be the quickest success they'd ever had. The most effortless session yet.

Charles, oblivious to everything but his task, crouched slightly to pat Leo's head, his tone affectionate. "Leo is very effective," he said, as if discussing a specialized weapon. "Especially with those who like animals."

He didn't even glance at Lando, but the implication was clear enough.

And Lando, of course, was thrilled.

What perfect irony — not an hour ago, the prince had declared he would never give in again, and now, fate had decided to throw a fluffy, weaponized weakness right at him.

Oscar, for his part, was valiantly trying to keep his composure. He hadn't moved an inch. His shoulders were stiff, his hands curled tightly into fists, his lips pressed together — but his eyes, wide and shimmering, betrayed everything.

He was staring at Leo like a man on the edge of breaking.

Lando bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a laugh.

He knew they had him.

And by the way Charles was looking at the prince — calm, patient, almost knowingly — Lando suspected the marshal knew it too.

But there was something else there, in Charles's gaze. Something that caught Lando off guard.

It wasn't the usual curiosity anymore. Not even amusement or professional interest. It was… softer. A strange, almost tender glint.

Affection.

The realization came uninvited, and Lando felt a sudden, inexplicable twitch in his jaw.

Huh. What was that?

He frowned internally. That was… odd. He wasn't sure why the thought annoyed him — but it did. The tiniest, unfamiliar prickle of irritation ran down his spine. He brushed it off quickly, focusing instead on the scene before him.

Logan, meanwhile, had been watching everything with growing disbelief. Finally, his exasperation broke into words.

"A dog?" he exclaimed, voice dripping with smug amusement. "You demons have truly lost your minds."

Lando glanced at him mildly as the spirit went on, arms crossed.

"His Highness is the proud commander of the Imperial Third Legion," Logan declared, gesturing dramatically. "He has trained with beasts on the battlefield — faced griffons, drakes, and direwolves. If you think he will succumb to cuteness, then you are utterly mistaken!"

Charles and Lando said nothing, merely watching as the tiny dachshund trotted closer to the prince, tail wagging like a metronome.

The air in the cell felt almost absurdly tense for a moment — the prince frozen, the spirit defiant, the two demons patient.

Then Leo reached the prince's boots.

Oscar gasped softly — a sharp intake of breath that betrayed him immediately. His eyes widened even further, his entire body going still except for the faint tremor of excitement running through his fingers.

And then, even while Logan continued his proud speech, the prince's voice broke through — quiet, almost sheepish.

"Logan," he said, barely above a whisper.

The spirit turned, confused. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Oscar's gaze stayed on the dog, his expression unreadable — soft, almost wistful. "It's not that the animals in the battlefield weren't cute," he said seriously. "I just didn't let myself get attached to them."

He paused, a small, trembling smile appearing on his lips. "The truth is… I really wanted to get along with them."

For a beat, silence.

Logan blinked. "I-Is that so?" he managed, clearly thrown off.

Oscar's eyes, bright and glassy, lifted to meet Lando's.

Lando felt it again — that strange, low stirring inside his chest.

"I'll talk," the prince said softly, voice trembling just slightly, like he was embarrassed by his own surrender.

Lando blinked once, then let out a slow breath, the corner of his lips curling into an amused, satisfied smile.

That was it. That was all it took.

Barely any effort. Barely any words. Just a fluffy dog and the prince's weak spot exposed in under five minutes.

A perfect success.

Charles, beside him, seemed equally content — gently scooping Leo into his arms with a soft hum, looking at the prince with what could only be described as fondness.

And that same, odd flicker of irritation stirred again in Lando's chest. He pushed it down immediately, brushing it off as nothing.

Still, as he watched the scene — the prince's soft gaze, the Demon Marshal's gentle smile, the dog wagging its tail — a single, entirely unreasonable thought crossed his mind.

Where did that come from?

He blinked once, frowned faintly at himself, then smoothed his expression into a calm, professional smile.

A success is a success, he reminded himself, even as his eye twitched just slightly. No reason to complain.

And yet, for the first time, Lando found himself uncharacteristically quiet as the session drew to a close — lost not in triumph, but in a faint, unnameable feeling he couldn't quite place.

Technically, Lando's work for the day was done.

Today's torture had gone far more smoothly than anticipated. He had extracted another imperial secret, neatly and efficiently, with the help of one harmless-looking dachshund and one dangerously charming high-ranking demon.

By all standards, his duty was complete. He could have made the report and retired early, enjoyed a well-deserved evening with a glass of infernal wine and his paperwork in peace.

But he didn't.

Because, the prince was still his assignment.

And because, truthfully, Lando didn't quite feel like leaving yet.

The dungeon was still, almost peaceful, the silence broken only by the occasional soft chime of Leo's collar as the pup shifted. The enchanted torches burned in lazy rhythm, spilling faint amber light through the bars. Dust motes floated in the glow, swirling like sleepy spirits.

Oscar sat on the cold stone floor, unbothered by the chill that seeped through his clothes. He was crouched over slightly, his posture loose, head tilted toward Leo who was perched happily in his lap. The prince's expression was transformed—his usual composure melted into something bright and unguarded. He looked… soft.

His hands, long-fingered and steady, brushed through the pup's silky fur, scratching behind his ears with gentle familiarity. Sometimes he'd press a tiny kiss atop Leo's head, murmuring something too quiet to catch. Other times, he'd lean forward to nuzzle the puppy's nose and chuckle softly when Leo tried to lick his cheek.

Lando, standing by the bars, didn't move.

He had seen Oscar angry, proud, defiant, even exasperated. But this—this warmth, this disarmingly natural fondness—was new. And perhaps that was why he couldn't quite tear his gaze away.

He told himself it was observation, simple analysis of his subject's behavioral response to emotional stimuli. But the longer he watched, the more that excuse felt thin.

If before, he had been intrigued by the prince—curious, entertained—now he was simply captivated.

Of course, the other reason he stayed was sitting right beside Oscar.

Charles looked every bit his title even while seated on a dungeon floor. The strands of his hair caught the dim light, his white uniform almost glowing against the gloom. His expression, calm and unreadable, was tinged with quiet wonder as he watched the prince.

Charles had that rare kind of gentleness that could disarm even the wariest of creatures, though beneath it lurked a sharp, calculating mind. His attention, however, was entirely devoted to Oscar.

"Here," Charles murmured, offering the prince one of Leo's toys—a squeaky bone-shaped thing that had been tucked in his coat pocket. "He prefers this one. It is the right texture for his teeth. You squeeze here, then toss it. He will return it to you."

Oscar blinked once, then did as told, almost obediently. The toy squeaked, Leo darted after it, and the cell was suddenly filled with the sound of tiny paws scuffing against stone.

The prince's quiet laugh followed soon after, bright and unrestrained. It was soft at first, almost tentative, but it grew when Leo clumsily tripped over his toy and shook himself off indignantly.

Lando felt something flicker in his chest. Something dangerous. Something… fond.

He ignored it.

Charles chuckled too, clearly pleased. "He likes you. You must have good energy."

Oscar didn't respond, still smiling faintly as Leo climbed back into his lap. Charles continued speaking anyway, as if the silence was answer enough.

From his spot near the wall, Logan watched everything with a kind of forced calm, arms crossed, face unreadable. He was tense, though—Lando could tell. The sword's spirit was always vigilant, always poised to interfere should things turn unpleasant for his prince.

Lando's gaze wandered back to Charles. The Marshal was leaning closer, tone light and conversational, eyes soft with affection.

And that was when it happened again—

That peculiar flicker of something sharp and unpleasant twisting low in Lando's chest.

He wasn't sure what triggered it—maybe the sight of Charles's calm, appreciative gaze fixed on Oscar, or maybe the gentle warmth behind it—but it made Lando's jaw tighten.

Annoyance. That's what it was.

Annoyance at… what, exactly?

The realization baffled him. There was no reason to be irritated. Charles was not a bad demon— Ah, no, that wasn't right. Charles was evil enough to be a high-ranking demon. But he had standards, he wouldn't ruin someone without a proper reason. He wasn't a threat, not to the prince, not to the mission. If anything, the Marshal was being helpful—Leo's addition to today's torture had been ingenious.

And yet, there it was. The annoyance lingered stubbornly, confusing him enough that he frowned slightly.

The quiet sound of his own huff broke the stillness. It wasn't loud, but apparently enough for Logan to notice.

The spirit turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly, and for a few seconds he just stared.

Lando met his gaze evenly. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Logan said finally, tone flat but watchful. "Just noticing you're in a mood."

Then he shrugged like it didn't matter and turned back to his prince, leaving Lando mildly taken aback.

A mood? he thought, almost amused. He didn't even know what kind of mood he was supposed to be in.

Down below, Charles leaned a little closer to Oscar, voice brightening. "He loves you, I think," he said, scratching Leo under the chin. "Ah, I have a wonderful idea."

Lando's brow arched. That tone was never a good sign.

Charles's expression lit up with quiet delight. "Since Leo loves you so much, you will be mon fils chérie, yes?"

For a moment, even the torches seemed to pause.

Oscar's attention, however, was completely occupied by Leo, whose paw was pressing against his chest. "Yes, yes," he murmured absently, pressing a kiss on Leo's head.

Lando blinked.

Charles, smiling serenely, nodded as though they'd just signed a treaty. "Excellent. I knew from the start you would agree, mon bébé."

That was when Lando realized—relief washing over him like a quiet wave—that that was Charles's intention all along. Affection, yes, but not the other kind. Not anything improper. Just… familial. He wanted to adopt the prince as his.

Charles was temperamental like that. He was never shy in taking what he desired in whatever means necessary, and in this case, no matter how ridiculous it was.

Ah. So that's what it was.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. Strange, though—he still didn't understand why the idea of it being otherwise had annoyed him in the first place.

Maybe it was just fatigue. That had to be it.

On the floor, Oscar was still cuddling Leo, petting and cooing softly. Leo yawned, a tiny pink tongue flicking out, before curling against the prince's stomach. The sight was almost unfairly endearing.

Charles took out his phone, scrolling with that infuriatingly graceful precision of his. "Now, let us see..."

Oscar hummed distractedly, barely listening.

"On Tuesdays, we will have brunch together, yes?" Charles said.

"Yeah, yeah," Oscar answered absently, pressing another kiss on Leo's head.

"And on the twenty-seventh, we will go shopping, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah."

From the corner, Logan's composure cracked. "Wait—what? Your Highness, I don't think you should just agree with anything they're telling you."

Charles didn't hear him, or pretended not to. He was too busy adding notes to his calendar. "And on every other Sunday, you will join the family dinner, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah," Oscar murmured, fingers still busy scratching Leo's belly.

Logan let out an incredulous sound, looking between them like he was watching a diplomatic disaster unfold. "You—he—you can't just— Wait, stop! Stop!"

Charles only smiled faintly, tucking his phone back into his coat. "Perfect," he said in satisfaction. "It is all settled then."

Lando couldn't help but chuckle quietly under his breath. His fascination with Oscar was just as strong as it ever been. What amused him most, though, was that Charles could have easily taken advantage of the prince's distracted state—could have wrung another secret or two from him, could have turned this into a strategic win for the Demon Army.

And yet, instead of military advantage, Charles chose to monopolize the prince's schedule for personal matters.

Lando smiled faintly, the sound of Oscar's quiet laughter echoing softly through the cell as Leo wriggled in his arms.

Yes, he thought, watching the prince's bright, unguarded expression—

You are truly one captivating human.

When the message arrived, Lando didn’t hesitate.

Carlos: Audience. Chamber of Screams. Bring your report.

He replied with a simple confirmation, then rose from his seat.

Technically, he could have sent the report through the usual channels — his phone — but if Carlos wanted him in person, then it meant one of two things: either the information was too sensitive for transmission, or Carlos just couldn’t be bothered to repeat his report to Max himself.

Knowing Carlos, Lando suspected the latter.

Still, he didn’t chide the advisor for it. If anything, it amused him. 

The chamber he arrived at wasn’t the usual throne room, nor the formal strategy hall. This one was designated for public use — a massive recreational chamber designed for the higher ranks. It looked, at first glance, like a conference room built by someone who had attended one human corporate retreat and decided to one-up it tenfold.

The walls gleamed with polished obsidian inlaid with faintly glowing sigils. At the center of the room stood two long rows of towering massage chairs — luxurious, full-body models that hummed softly with magic and modern engineering alike.

Each chair had been tailored to demonic physiology: armrests that adjusted to clawed hands, headrests shaped to accommodate horns, and control panels that shimmered with runic touchscreens. Some even emitted faint aromatherapy mists — though for demons, the scent leaned more toward brimstone and infernal jasmine.

At the far end of the hall was a faintly glowing screen listing the available settings such as: Relaxation - Abyssal Pulse; Regeneration Therapy - Mana Circulation; Skeletal Realignment - Crunchy Style

Demons, despite their fearsome reputation, had an absurdly thorough appreciation for comfort. And while everything in the Underworld was technically earned through strength or service, even the Demon Army’s recreational luxuries operated on a credit system.

Still, it wasn’t physical coins or cards that they used — credits were tracked through their insignias, those small magical emblems embedded into their skin. Each glow of the insignia reflected their accumulated energy, rank, and contributions. One touch to a scanner, and the runes pulsed — their essence recognized instantly.

It was efficient, a little bit eerie, and somehow still deeply bureaucratic.

As Lando walked further inside, the rhythmic hum of massage chairs filled the chamber — low, steady, almost hypnotic. The air was thick with lazy satisfaction.

And there, at the very back of the room, he found them.

Carlos Sainz Jr., Chief Advisor to the Demon Lord, and Max Verstappen, the Demon Lord himself — both fully reclined in their chairs, eyes closed, faces perfectly serene.

Their respective thrones of torment now replaced by plush, vibrating leather.

The sight alone was worth the trip.

Lando stopped near the entrance, raising an eyebrow, a smirk forming before he could stop it. He crossed his arms loosely, tilting his head as the deep, mechanical hum rose and fell like some mechanical chant.

He made his way forward, the soles of his boots echoing faintly on the obsidian floor. As he approached, the faint vibration underfoot intensified — the whole row of massage chairs humming with synchronized power.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lando greeted smoothly, voice echoing lightly in the chamber. Then, turning to the one in the center — the Demon Lord’s chair — he added with a polite dip of his head, “It’s good to see you today, Your Majesty.”

Carlos cracked one eye open, the corner of his lips curling into an easy grin. He leaned his head away from the chair’s headrest, which emitted a faint mechanical sigh as he moved.

“Ah, Landito, you’re here,” he said, his voice slightly buzzing — the chair’s vibrations running through every syllable.

Max, however, didn’t move.

He remained perfectly still, body molded into the contours of the massage chair, eyes closed. The only sign of life was the subtle quirk of his mouth — and the low, droning hum of the massage setting that made his voice vibrate when he finally spoke.

“I’m just taking a break,” he said, voice vibrating so distinctly that it almost warbled, “bzzzzzz—reak.”

Lando bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Carlos gave an exaggerated sigh and turned to Lando with the air of someone tattling on a child. “His whole body’s cramping,” he said, sounding half-exasperated, half-amused. Then he shot Max a pointed look. “I told you this was going to happen if you holed yourself up in your chamber for three days straight.”

Max waved a dismissive hand without opening his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his voice still rumbling with the massage setting, “heard that already.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “You heard it, but you didn’t listen.”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head at their antics. The atmosphere was far from formal — more like a pair of coworkers lounging in a spa than the most feared rulers of the demon realm.

After a moment, Carlos reclined again, letting the chair resume its rhythmic kneading before glancing lazily toward Lando. “So,” he said, his voice vibrating pleasantly with each syllable, “you got anything good?”

Lando slipped his hands into his pockets, posture easy. “Well,” he began, tone thoughtful, “the prisoner confessed that there’s a mysterious treasure buried in the Imperial Cemetery.”

Carlos’s brow rose. “Oh?” he said, instantly intrigued. The vibration didn’t help his poker face — the constant rumbling made his tone sound absurdly chipper. Still, Lando could see his strategist’s mind turning gears behind his half-lidded gaze.

He paused, clearly mulling over the information. Lando waited patiently, glancing briefly toward Max — who still hadn’t moved an inch, the picture of relaxation.

Finally, Carlos spoke. “That’s actually quite good,” he mused. “If we dig up that treasure, we might use it to weaken the Imperial Army’s defenses.”

Both he and Lando turned toward Max, expectant.

Even with his eyes closed, they knew he could feel their stares.

They waited.

And waited.

Finally, Max exhaled through his nose, still unmoving. “No good.”

Carlos blinked. “Why not?”

The Demon Lord didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “My hands are still sore,” he said flatly. “We can’t dig.”

Carlos’s expression went blank. “Then… after you’re healed?” he asked, the uncertainty in his tone unmistakable.

That was when Max finally cracked an eye open, turning his head just enough to glare sideways at his advisor. His expression was one of utter disbelief.

“Are you insane?” he said. “I’m going back to sim racing after I’m healed.”

Carlos stare at him. Blinked once. Twice. Then sighed, long and resigned. He leaned back into the chair and gave Lando a helpless look, as if to say, you heard the boss.

Lando’s lips twitched again, the corner of his mouth pulling upward in quiet amusement. Honestly, he’d already expected as much.

Then, unexpectedly, Max opened his eyes fully and glanced at Lando. Their gazes met briefly — a flicker of something sharp and assessing behind that relaxed facade.

“So,” Max said lazily, “how’s the princess?”

Lando blinked at the phrasing, then laughed under his breath. “If he heard you say that,” he said, “I’m pretty sure his first reaction would be to tell you he’s not a princess, he’s a prince.”

“Potato, potahto,” Max muttered, waving his hand. “Answer my question.”

Lando laughed, the sound echoing lightly in the chamber. “How’s he?” he repeated, pausing as if considering it carefully. He thought back over the past three days — the strange rhythm of his tortures, the laughter, the curiosity, the way Oscar smiled when he was completely unguarded.

Then, almost absently, Lando said, “Fascinating. Captivating. And cute.”

His lips curved, the memory pulling at him. “Really cute.”

The chamber went quiet for half a heartbeat. Both Carlos and Max turned their heads toward him, curious and faintly amused.

Realizing what he’d just said aloud, Lando cleared his throat and laughed lightly to cover it. “Well—” he said, stepping toward the chair next to Carlos, “—the prince is a really interesting human. Charles had already adopted him. It might entertain you if you take part in the torture, Your Majesty.”

He tapped his insignia against the rune scanner beside the chair, and the machine came to life with a pleasant chime.

Max raised a brow at him, studying his expression. Then, slowly, he leaned his head back again. “Maybe if my schedule becomes free,” he said, voice vibrating lazily with the rhythm of the chair.

Lando chuckled. That, in demonic translation, meant never. Not when Max still had European circuits to conquer with his brand new rig set up.

He leaned back, letting the massage chair envelop him completely. The hum rose beneath him, deep and oddly soothing, his body sinking into the machine’s rhythmic pulse.

For a moment, all three demons sat there in vibrating silence — their chairs buzzing in unison like oversized, luxurious bees.

Then, without opening his eyes, Max spoke again — his voice rumbling low and even through the vibration:

“Continue the torture.”

Lando grinned, eyes half-lidded as the vibration made his own voice hum when he replied,

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

Lando's morning was different than usual.

Or—more precisely—different from the last three days, which was saying something, considering that "usual" for him lately had come to mean one thing: visiting a certain imperial prince the moment he opened his eyes.

But today, his schedule didn't let him go straight to Oscar's private chamber.

Instead, it was already much later when he made his way down to the dungeon cells.

The corridors were quieter than normal, torches along the stone walls flickering sluggishly in the damp air. His boots made soft, deliberate sounds against the floor—each step echoing faintly in the long hall.

He had an excuse, of course.

He'd been busy.

There was something he needed to prepare for today's torture.

Something he was rather proud of, actually.

So, when he finally approached the familiar cell, an expectant smile curved at his lips, his mood light with anticipation. The idea of seeing his favorite captive again after the extra effort he'd put in this morning filled him with a strange kind of excitement.

He could already imagine the look on Oscar's face—annoyed, composed, pretending to be unimpressed. The same expression that, by now, Lando had come to find inexplicably charming.

But when he reached the cell and peered through the iron bars—he stopped.

The prince wasn't standing, nor was he sitting properly like the dignified royal he usually tried to be.

He was lying flat on the cold stone floor, facing the wall, his head resting on one arm like he'd simply given up on life. The faint glow of his phone screen reflected off the wall, flickering dimly in the cell's shadowy light. From it came the soft, muffled sound of a video—something with voices, maybe faint music, echoing against the stone.

And beside him, hovering like a worried guardian spirit—which, to be fair, he was—stood Logan. The spirit's translucent outline wavered faintly in the torchlight, arms folded, brow creased in quiet concern.

Lando's smile disappeared. His steps slowed.

That… wasn't the scene he was expecting.

For a moment, he just watched—confusion knitting his brow. The air in the cell felt oddly heavy. Not gloomy, exactly, but stagnant.

He stepped forward and pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly.

"Good morning, Princess," he said, tone smooth as ever, but the greeting came out sounding more like a question than intended.

Oscar didn't look up. He made a faint sound—half hum, half sigh—but his gaze stayed on his phone.

Lando blinked. His expression faltered.

Meanwhile, Logan turned his head toward him, his face pinched with restrained irritation.

Lando met the spirit's eyes for a brief moment, silently asking what was happening.

Logan only frowned deeper and crossed his arms, clearly uncooperative.

Alright then, Lando thought. So it's going to be that kind of morning.

He stepped closer, the sound of his boots echoing softly in the small, enclosed space. The scent of faint candle smoke and damp stone filled the air. Still, neither prince nor spirit spoke.

"…Am I being ignored?" Lando asked finally, his voice lilting, amusement and confusion blending together.

Oscar didn't answer. His back was still to him.

Which, honestly, was an answer in itself.

Logan gave a small sigh and crossed his arms, watching the Grand Inquisitor expectantly—as if waiting to see how the demon would handle being ignored for once.

Lando tilted his head, studying the sulking figure on the floor. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Princess?" he tried again, softer this time. "What did I do?"

For a moment, he thought Oscar would stay stubbornly silent forever. The prince's shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. Then—

"…Where were you this morning?"

The voice was quiet. Barely audible. The kind of tone someone uses when they don't want to be heard, but can't quite help speaking anyway.

If Lando hadn't been a demon—with hearing sharp enough to catch the whisper of a candle flicker—he wouldn't have caught it at all.

He blinked. "Oh?"

Of all the things he expected the imperial prince to say, that wasn't on the list.

A sly smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it. "Did you miss me, Princess?"

His tone wasn't smug—he wasn't teasing maliciously—but he watched closely. And sure enough, he saw it.

A faint flinch.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but there. The slight tensing of Oscar's shoulders, the subtle stillness that followed.

Lando's smile froze for half a heartbeat, then softened.

He hadn't expected that. He hadn't even meant anything by the question—it was a throwaway tease, his default language—but the reaction he got…

That reaction made something shift quietly in his chest.

The great demon inquisitor, known for his merciless precision and flawless composure, found himself feeling suddenly—absurdly—thrilled.

He could have sworn the air itself felt lighter.

He was still smiling when Logan suddenly stepped between them, expression sharp and scolding.

"Because you were gone," the spirit began, arms folding tightly across his chest, "the servant this morning served His Highness coffee instead of his usual hot chocolate. And now he's in a sullen mood."

Lando blinked, momentarily thrown. "…Ah."

Logan wasn't done. He jabbed a finger in the air. "His Highness does not like coffee! You should've told the staff if you planned to pass us off to someone else today! At the very least tell them to serve tea!"

The indignation in his tone made it difficult not to laugh.

Lando's brows arched, his smile curling back up. "Ah, I see. So that's my crime, then."

"Don't act amused about it," Logan snapped, though his ears flushed faintly pink—a telltale sign that maybe, just maybe, he was trying to cover for someone. Perhaps he felt the need to protect the prince's dignity.

Lando chuckled under his breath, then turned his gaze back to the prince.

Oscar hadn't moved, but his sulking aura was almost tangible. It was adorable. In a tragic, princely kind of way.

He crouched down beside him, lowering himself until he was near enough for his voice to come out soft. "Hey, Princess," he murmured, tone gentler now. "I'm sorry you were served coffee instead of hot chocolate. And I'm sorry I wasn't there to wake you myself."

His tone carried an odd sincerity that made Logan blink.

"I just had something important to do," he continued. "Will you forgive me if I promise you a treat later?"

Logan's expression twitched slightly, somewhere between confusion and disbelief. A demon offering treats to his captive wasn't exactly protocol.

But Lando meant it. For reasons he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to examine, he really did.

Oscar stayed quiet long enough that Lando leaned a little closer. "Princess?" he coaxed, a bit of pleading in his tone now.

Finally, Oscar sighed. He turned over slightly, his phone dimming as the screen locked. His dark eyes lifted to meet Lando's, still carrying the faint edge of a pout.

His expression was composed, but the corners of his lips were drawn down in a way that made something in Lando's chest tighten—just a little.

"For the record," Oscar said quietly, voice calm but betraying a flicker of anxiety, "I didn't miss you. I don't care where you were this morning. I was just wondering—because the servant put a heart-shaped cookie on my plate."

Lando's smile twitched.

Oscar went on, deadpan, "And there were flower petals in the basin. Obviously, they were meant for a princess."

Lando very nearly laughed aloud. He pressed his lips together, forcing his expression to remain dignified.

"Yes, of course, Princess," he replied smoothly.

Oscar's eyes narrowed a little, as if he could tell. But instead of snapping, he exhaled, then continued primly, "But very well. If you insist on giving me a treat, I shall allow it."

Lando grinned then, wide and unrestrained. "Why, thank you."

He rose gracefully to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his coat, while Oscar sat up, pocketing his phone. The sulk had faded from his face now, replaced by mild curiosity.

Logan hovered close by, arms crossed again, clearly sensing that something chaotic was about to happen.

"You're truly generous," Lando said, his smile curling into that familiar mischievous shape. "The treat will come later."

He let the pause hang.

Then his grin widened, eyes glinting with playfulness and something else—something just shy of affection.

"For now…" he said, his tone slipping into that practiced, theatrical purr, "…it's time for torture, Princess."

The cell had quietened again. This time, Lando had come alone — no Alex and George, no Charles and Leo. Just him and a presence that hung heavy in the air like anticipation before a storm.

And, of course, the Iron Maiden.

The tall iron contraption stood just outside the bars, its curved frame catching the dim orange light. For a moment, it seemed almost alive — breathing, waiting. Then Lando raised a hand, and the thing moved. Slowly. Gracefully. Like a great metal beast obeying its master's call.

It glided into the cell with a scrape that set teeth on edge.

Oscar and Logan immediately straightened.

The prince's chains rattled softly as he tensed, muscles coiling. The sword's spirit flickered with bright, sharp light, hovering close to his master like a guardian ready to strike. They didn't say anything, but their faces — one pale, the other translucent — betrayed the same thought: not again.

Lando's smile curved, lazy and knowing.

His torture methods were known across the demon realm as unorthodox. The kind of creative cruelty that made even demons whisper in uneasy admiration. Yet their efficiency could not be denied. Judging by the way both prince and spirit braced themselves, they remembered too well what he was capable of.

Especially the toast.

Ah yes, the infamous buttered toast incident — a deceptively harmless culinary instrument that had reduced the imperial prince of humanity to near collapse. The fact that mere sight of his tools was enough to instill dread filled Lando with a satisfaction that burned like good wine.

A little ego boost never hurt anyone.

Logan was the first to break the silence, as expected. The spirit's voice trembled between outrage and fear.

"You demon," he hissed, the word spat like venom. "What kind of torture are you going to give His Highness this time?"

It had become routine — this ritualistic accusation before the performance began. Lando didn't even flinch. He tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a patient, mocking smile.

Oscar, perhaps emboldened by habit or desperation, drew in a sharp breath. "Don't worry, Loges," he said solemnly, though his voice carried the same quiver of nerves. "I can endure whatever it is that's inside that thing."

He gestured at the Iron Maiden, as if pointing at it could somehow weaken its hold on him.

"Today," he added with dramatic pause, "I definitely won't give in. Because today…"

Lando raised an eyebrow, inviting him to finish.

Oscar lifted his chin. "Because today, I was promised a treat!"

The announcement came bright and earnest, almost triumphant — a prince proclaiming victory before the battle had begun.

"Oh, that's right!" Logan gasped, as though remembering a crucial political treaty. "His Highness just has to endure this torture, and later there will be a reward! Yes! You can do this, Your Highness! I believe in you!"

The spirit's fervent cheering made Oscar's chest puff with pride.

Lando's expression didn't change. Calm. Patient. Almost indulgent.

Then Logan turned to him with a smirk that was pure mischief. "Ha! Take that, demon! It seems you've made a mistake! You've motivated His Highness instead! He won't break today!"

The spirit's laughter echoed smugly through the cell.

Lando just kept smiling. He wasn't concerned in the least. He knew exactly what he was doing. He might have been a scant impulsive as he promised a treat to the prince for later, but he was still confident of his torture for today.

"We'll see," he murmured, his tone as smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. "Good luck enduring today's torture, Princess."

He lifted his hand, and reality itself shifted.

A small, simple wooden table appeared inside the cell, followed by a matching chair. Then came a neatly arranged condiment set — soy sauce, chili oil, pepper flakes, and a porcelain spoon rest. A pair of chopsticks shimmered into existence, followed by a spoon, and finally a neatly folded oshibori towel placed on the side like the finishing touch in a restaurant setting.

The domesticity of it was absurd.

A prison cell, carved of stone and shadow, now held a serene dining corner that looked plucked straight from a Japanese eatery.

Logan blinked. "What… what are you doing?"

Oscar tilted his head, confusion and curiosity warring on his face.

Lando didn't answer. He walked toward the Iron Maiden and laid a gloved hand upon its cold surface. The lock gave a faint click.

He opened it.

A wave of steam rolled out.

Oscar flinched. Logan braced himself, sword-light flickering brighter.

Inside the Iron Maiden was not a weapon.

It was a bowl.

A steaming, perfect bowl of Ramen.

The scent burst through the air like a spell — garlic oil, broth rich with marrow, the faintest hint of soy and sesame, a savory warmth that wrapped around the senses like a lover's embrace.

Oscar gasped audibly, the reaction immediate and visceral. "Wh-what a devastating power…" he whispered, eyes wide with reverence.

Lando smiled faintly.

"This is bad," Logan said under his breath. "This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. His Highness likes Japanese food. This is going to be hard to resist."

Then, with a deadpan expression, "He'd always given in so far, though."

"No, not this time!" Oscar shot back, though his eyes were glued to the bowl. "Don't worry, Loges, I'll resist this. Sometimes when I have outside classes, Mark would secretly take me to Japanese restaurants — and even though I want to try every flavor, he only lets me order one. So that's why… I've been trained to resist the temptation of ramen."

Logan blinked. "That's… not real training, Your Highness."

But Lando, ever the observer, filed away the information. Mark Webber — the prince's knight, as per the Demon Army's questionable intelligence network. A strict man by reputation, loyal to a fault. He had trained Oscar in education, swordsmanship, and etiquette since he was a child — not in culinary restraint, apparently. The restaurant excursions must have been their little secret indulgence, a rebellion against imperial routine.

"Well, you've got this, Your Highness!" Logan cheered again, trying to sound encouraging despite everything. "Don't give in! Definitely stop giving in!"

Lando lifted the ramen from the Iron Maiden and set it on the wooden table. The contrast was almost divine — the humble warmth of the meal glowing in the dark, cold cell.

He sat down gracefully, like a performer before an audience.

The scent thickened, intoxicating now. The broth shimmered faintly in the torchlight.

Oscar's stomach betrayed him with a low, echoing growl.

Logan gasped. Oscar froze, his expression one of utter horror.

"You fiend!" he cried, clutching his abdomen like a wounded man. "Are you really going to eat it in front of me?!"

Lando didn't even look at him. He lifted the spoon, carefully, reverently, and dipped it into the golden broth.

The liquid rippled. A few drops slid back into the bowl. The steam rose and brushed his face.

He took a slow sip.

The sound was quiet, but devastating — a low hum of appreciation that carried through the cell.

"Mmm…"

It was the sound of bliss incarnate.

Oscar's face crumpled. Logan screamed, "Endure, Your Highness! Endure!"

But Lando wasn't finished.

He picked up the chopsticks and twirled the noodles with practiced precision, golden strands gleaming in the dim light.

"Actually," he said casually, voice soft but pointed, "this is the reason I was late today."

Oscar's eyes darted up, his lips parting in dread.

"I had to knead it to perfection," Lando went on, tone almost absent, as if sharing a secret of no importance. "And cut it evenly."

He slurped the noodles then, graceful yet noisy, the sound echoing wetly in the silence.

Oscar gasped. "H-handmade noodles?!"

He looked at Lando as if the man had just admitted to murder. "You bastard! You really went out of your way to make my life suffer! You're the worst of the worst!"

Lando smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Such words to him were huge compliments. The demonic part of him couldn't help but rejoice.

He looked up from the bowl and met Oscar's gaze. "I'm sure you know, princess," he said gently, "that every ingredient contributes to perfection. It's only right the noodles receive the utmost care as well."

In truth, he had indeed made them himself — partly. When he'd gone to Yuki, the head chef of the demon castle, that morning, the man had sighed dramatically before even hearing the request.

"You're asking me to make what now? Ramen?!" Yuki had groaned, throwing his towel onto the counter. "Do you know how overworked I am? If you're asking for a favor, you better be ready to help, Lando."

Lando had agreed easily. Yuki was known for his temperament — irritable, sarcastic, and chronically overburdened, yet respected by all. No one dared complain; his food was legendary, his precision unmatched.

And so, Lando had rolled up his sleeves and kneaded the dough himself. Patiently. Thoroughly. Until the texture was smooth, elastic, perfect. After that, Yuki had taken over — preparing the broth, the toppings, the marinated egg, and the slice of chashu that now glistened temptingly atop the noodles.

Bureaucratic as the kitchen system was, the demons in the culinary division had long learned to navigate Yuki's moods with practiced ease.

And now, all that work culminated in this single, glorious bowl — steaming like a sacred offering.

Lando took another slurp. The noodles slid perfectly between his lips.

Oscar whimpered audibly. Logan covered his nonexistent eyes.

Then the prince suddenly sniffled. It was so soft that both Lando and Logan almost missed it.

"Unfair," Oscar murmured, voice cracking. "This is so unfair… Mark only took me to B-grade restaurants… All their noodles were machine-made…"

Then, as if the despair itself was physical, his shoulders drooped and he sank to the floor.

"It's fine," he muttered weakly. "This was my life. I'm only good for second grades. I'll never amount to anything first grade ever in my life… That's just how it is…"

"Your Highness!" Logan cried. "That's not true! It's just noodles! They're not an accurate way to measure the joys of life!"

Oscar didn't respond. He slumped further, whispering, "I'll never truly experience the great joys of life…"

Lando watched him with mild fascination. The melodrama was a work of art in itself.

After a moment, he stood, brushed off his coat, and approached the fallen prince.

He crouched down slowly until he was eye-level with him.

"Princess," he said softly, voice low, coaxing, dangerous. "If you reveal a secret, I will let you have your first A-grade experience in life."

The words were weighted, deliberate.

Oscar looked up, eyes glassy and wet, pupils dilated like he was seeing salvation.

Logan's light flared in panic. "Don't listen to him, Your Highness! This is the torture! This is exactly what he wants!"

But Lando only smiled patiently. "Come now," he murmured, hand extended, palm open. "Just one secret, and you'll have the joy you've been denied all your life."

Oscar hesitated — trembling, torn, a man standing at the crossroads between pride and temptation.

Then, slowly, he placed his hand in Lando's.

"I'll talk," he whispered.

The moment Lando opened the Iron Maiden again, steam poured out like a summoned spirit—hot, fragrant, curling with the unmistakable scent of miso and grilled pork. He heard the soft intake of breath from across him and glanced up to see Oscar staring, wide-eyed, at the bowl of ramen sitting inside the torture device like some absurd treasure.

Lando had gone through the trouble of setting things up properly this time. He'd procured another chair—dragged it in himself, the screech of wood against stone loud enough to make Logan flinch—and positioned it neatly across from his own. He even brought another set of utensils. The whole setup looked ridiculous in the dungeon: two chairs, a rickety table, steam rising between them in the glow of torchlight. But to Lando, it felt almost… right.

"Sit," he said, voice slipping easily into the familiar teasing lilt of authority.

Oscar happily obeyed, the clinking of his chains faint beneath the quiet rush of the steam. His gaze never left the bowl as Lando carefully placed it before him, the broth shimmering gold under the flicker of the torches.

Lando found himself watching the prince's expression more than the food. There was a certain softness there, a trace of wonder that shouldn't belong to a captured imperial commander. His lips parted slightly; his shoulders eased. For someone who had been so defiant earlier, he looked utterly, disarmingly human now.

On Oscar's side, Logan hovered with all the subtlety of a crow.

"I knew this would happen," he muttered under his breath. "Every time. But maybe Mark's the one to blame—if he'd just taken His Highness to a decent A-grade restaurant—"

Neither of them paid him the slightest attention.

Oscar's focus was entirely on the ramen, and Lando's focus was entirely on Oscar.

He watched as the prince picked up the chopsticks—held them a little too awkwardly, but made it work—and took the first bite. Lando's chest felt tight with something he couldn't name as he watched Oscar's eyes flutter shut, as if the taste alone was enough to dissolve the war, the walls, the world.

He smiled without meaning to.

He poured a glass of water for him, sliding it over quietly. "Drink before it cools," he said, his voice soft enough to sound almost like a suggestion. "Try the chili flakes next—they're mild, I promise."

Oscar nodded, obediently sprinkling some over the noodles.

Lando leaned his chin against his palm, amused by how earnest he looked. The air between them had changed—somehow softer, lighter. It shouldn't have been possible in a dungeon cell, but the glow from the torches seemed warmer now, the shadows less cruel. Even the iron bars looked harmless.

And maybe that was the strangest part of all.

He realized, somewhere between Oscar's second and third bite, that he was content just watching him. The way Oscar's eyes gleamed when he talked, how they caught the faintest hints of amber under the dim light. The way he licked his lips before speaking. The faint moles dotting his skin—tiny constellations he'd never noticed before. The way his dainty hands held the chopsticks almost clumsily but managed somehow, as though even awkwardness looked graceful on him.

Lando wasn't sure when the cell had stopped feeling like a workplace and started feeling like… something else. Something quietly sweet, warm enough to sink into.

"Do you have a favorite topping?" Lando asked at last, partly to distract himself from the way his own thoughts were starting to sound.

Oscar glanced up, mid-chew, eyes bright. "Spinach," he said after swallowing. "And radish sprouts. Oh, and soft-boiled eggs—the runny kind."

Lando grinned. "A classic. You'd get along with Yuki."

"Yuki?"

"The castle's head chef," he replied. "Perpetually angry. Claims he's overworked. I asked him for a favor—he told me to help or get out."

Oscar blinked, then chuckled. "That's where you were this morning?"

Lando nodded. "Yes. Real food takes time to prepare."

Oscar hummed and agreed, the sound echoing softly off the stone walls. "A man of great taste. Impressive for a demon, I must say."

Lando smirked then, a sweet sensation filling his chest. "The imperial prince complimented me, I'm quite honored."

They lapsed into easy conversation after that, one that flowed too naturally for captor and captive. Oscar spoke about his tutor, Mark—the knight who'd trained him since childhood—and the way he sometimes sneaked him into B-grade restaurants between lessons.

"They never had oshibori," Oscar said, smiling at the memory. "And the chopsticks were always the disposable ones. But the food… it tasted honest. Like no one was trying too hard."

Lando hummed thoughtfully. "That suits you."

Oscar raised a brow, amused. "Honest?"

"Simple," Lando replied. "And warm."

He hadn't meant it to sound like that. But the words slipped out too easily, and Oscar's faint blush didn't help.

Logan, meanwhile, had not stopped muttering from the side.

"Honestly, you two—this is a dungeon, not a restaurant—"

They both ignored him completely.

By the time Oscar finished, the bowl was spotless. He leaned back in his chair, sighing contentedly, a picture of satisfaction. Lando couldn't help smiling again. He'd seen soldiers grin after victories, generals laugh after conquest—but none of it compared to this.

"Don't forget about the treat," he reminded, standing as he gathered the dishes. His voice carried that same teasing warmth that always made Oscar blink in delayed realization.

Oscar merely hummed, too content to care.

Lando packed up quietly, his movements slow, almost reluctant. As he turned to leave, he glanced back one last time. The cell looked strangely peaceful now—like the chaos of war had been temporarily shut out by the scent of ramen and laughter.

"See you later, Princess."

Oscar's only response was a small wave that made Lando chuckle in mirth.

As he made his way outside the cell and past the dungeon halls to make his report of another successful session, the recently revealed imperial secret still echoing in his mind, Lando realized there was a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with ramen soup or hot seasonings.

He didn't quite know what it was—but he was starting to suspect he didn't want it to stop.

By the time Lando returned to the dungeon that evening, he'd finished his report—though "finished" was a generous word for a document that nobody was actually going to read. As expected, it led nowhere. Carlos had waved him off with a sigh, muttering something about Max having another "full sim day" because a teammate was challenging his lap times.

That had been that.

Lando had simply accepted it. Not out of obedience—though technically that counted—but because he realized, after just a few days of session with the prince, he had come to look forward to continuing the days of torturing him.

He had been fascinated by the variety of reactions and mannerisms Oscar had given him the opportunity to see, but after this morning's session, Lando found he wanted to elicit more from the human. And to do that, he needed to give him more.

The thought was absurd, of course. He wasn't fond of the imperial prince. He was merely doing his job. That was all. It wasn't about the way Oscar smiled or the sound of his laughter echoing against cold stone walls or the odd light that made his hair gleam gold even in the gloom—

Lando stopped that train of thought right there.

No. He was doing his job.

But that was for tomorrow. For now, he walked back to the prisoner's cell to deliver the promised treat. The treat that he couldn't help but promise earlier just so Oscar would forgive him. Just so Oscar wouldn't sulk anymore.

What he prepared was nothing extravagant. Just a bit of simple delight to match the ramen's earlier devastation. Something human, sweet, and, if he were honest, something he thought Oscar might genuinely appreciate.

When he arrived at the cell, both Oscar and Logan looked up at him expectantly, as though this was becoming part of their daily routine now—Lando showing up with strange contraptions and them guessing what fresh form of torture awaited them.

He flicked his wrist, and a small wooden stall materialized right in front of them. It was compact and neat, complete with a counter, a flat iron surface, and beside it, a glass jar filled with a thick, golden syrup that gleamed under the torchlight.

Atop the stall hung a modest little sign written in looping script:

Stroopwafel.

There was a pause.

Then Logan, squinting, leaned closer to read it.

"Stroopwafel?" he repeated aloud, voice a mixture of confusion and offense. "This is the treat you're giving His Highness? I must say I—"

He didn't finish because Oscar suddenly gasped like he'd just remembered something crucial.
"Wait, that's the Dutch thing, right? The round caramel cookie!"

Lando couldn't help the faint smile tugging at his lips. "The very one."

Oscar looked delighted, eyes bright and animated. "I've only ever had the packaged ones. They were a gift from the trade ambassador once, but I had to share them with the whole palace, so I only got half a piece."

"Half a stroopwafel," Lando echoed, feigning solemn disbelief. "That's practically a war crime."

Oscar laughed, light and genuine, and for a second, even Logan seemed charmed—until he remembered his duty and scowled instead.

"Don't let him trick you, Your Highness! This is probably another psychological ploy! That's how they got you with the ramen!"

"It's not a torture session," Lando reminded the spirit. "This is the treat I promised earlier, remember?"

"Oh," Logan blinked. "Right. Carry on then."

And just like that, he slumped into a corner, already shedding his overprotective character, while Lando resumed on making the stroopwafels.

He was already setting up the small stove, its soft magical flame flickering blue beneath the iron plate. He poured a bit of batter onto it, the scent of butter and sugar wafting through the cell as it sizzled. The sound was soft but hypnotic, the kind that filled the air with anticipation.

The sweet aroma began to spread, cutting through the cold dampness of the dungeon, making it smell—impossibly—like a cozy street market instead.

Oscar leaned forward slightly, watching with open fascination as the thin waffle took shape, crisping around the edges. His excitement was so transparent that it made Lando's chest tighten again, that same warmth he'd been trying not to name.

"Do you make these often?" Oscar asked.

"Sometimes," Lando said, flipping the wafer with practiced grace. "The castle kitchen sells them to the lower ranks on weekends. They say it improves morale."

Logan snorted. "So the demons have bake sales now?"

Lando gave him a pointed look. "We call them strategic morale enhancement programs."

Oscar laughed again, and Lando pretended that the sound didn't make something in his chest loosen.

When the first wafer was done, he spread the golden syrup filling between two thin layers, pressing them gently together until the edges sealed and the center oozed just slightly. He placed it on a small plate and handed it to Oscar with a little bow that was only half-mocking.

"Your treat, Princess."

Oscar took it reverently, like it was a treasure rather than a sweet. He blew on it once before taking a bite. The syrup stretched, sticky and molten, glistening in the dim light. When he chewed, his eyes fluttered shut, and an almost blissful sigh escaped him.

"Oh no," Logan muttered. "Here we go again."

But Oscar wasn't listening. "It's warm," he murmured, mouth half full, "and chewy—and it melts just enough that it doesn't stick too much. Oh, this is perfect."

Lando leaned back against the stall, arms crossed, watching him eat with quiet satisfaction. He shouldn't enjoy this as much as he did, but something about seeing the human so utterly content—so unguarded—was disarming.

He made another, mostly for show, but Oscar had already finished the first one and looked up with shining eyes that made it difficult not to hand him the second immediately. So he did.

But as Oscar kept eating, a thin streak of caramel clung to his lip. Lando's gaze caught on it—he told himself it was just habit, an interrogator's observation—but the longer he looked, the harder it was to pretend.

He wondered, briefly, what that sweetness might taste like.

He immediately scolded himself. This was not something he should be putting his focus on. Not the prince's glistening lips. Nor the way his tongue glided almost sensually at the side of his mouth.

Oscar, oblivious to Lando's silent internal meltdown, licked the caramel away and sighed in contentment. "That was wonderful," he said, smiling brightly. "You're truly forgiven now."

Lando blinked, caught off guard, before a small laugh escaped him. The battle in his head dissolved instantly.

"I'm glad my Princess is so forgiving," he said with a smirk.

Oscar's face turned pink, but his smile didn't fade.

And as Lando packed up the stall, pretending not to notice the way Oscar's gaze followed him, he realized that maybe—just maybe—the sweetest thing in that dungeon wasn't the caramel at all.

Chapter Text

Lando had made sure to follow his morning routine down to the smallest detail.

He wasn't going to risk another repeat of yesterday—no way. The last thing he wanted was to walk into Oscar's cell only to be met with that quiet, sulky silence again. It wasn't that he hated the idea of having to cheer the prince up; Hells, if he was honest with himself, he actually wanted to keep doing it. But the thought of being ignored by Oscar again—it didn't sit right with him. It had been… unpleasant. Unacceptable, even.

So, like a man on a mission, he'd arrived early at the prince's private chamber, went through the usual morning sequence—the wake-up calls, the gentle coaxing, the even softer commands—and eventually got the sleepy prince to rise. It was their little dance by now. Routine, but comfortable.

By the time they were walking toward the dungeon together, there was a lightness in the air, an easy rhythm to their steps. They didn't speak much, but the silence was companionable, the kind that didn't need to be filled.

When they entered the familiar stone cell, everything fell into place like a scene they'd rehearsed too many times. The chill of the dungeon was there, as always, faintly tinged with iron and damp earth, but it somehow felt warmer today. The sound of chains, the flicker of torchlight, the faint echo of footsteps—it was all so routine now that it almost felt like the three of them were just following a script.

Oscar sat down gracefully on the cold floor, his prisoner's garment swaying lightly as the ankle chains were secured with a soft clink. Logan, of course, was in his usual spot, watching over everything with a sort of long-suffering sigh.

Then, out of nowhere—

"Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army."

The title was spoken clearly, purposefully, and for a second, Lando thought he'd misheard it. He blinked and turned to look at Oscar, who was staring right back at him with an intensity that wasn't there before.

This was the first time the prince had addressed him directly by title. Normally, Oscar avoided using it altogether, either out of pride or simple spite. But now, there was something different in his eyes—determination, yes, but also a flicker of hope.

Lando raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and smiled. "Yes, Princess?"

"I have something to ask," Oscar said, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

"Oh, so that's why you suddenly called out to me?" Lando tilted his head slightly, pretending to sound put out. "Honestly, I would've preferred if you'd addressed me by my name. But fine, I'll take what I can get. What is it, Princess?"

Oscar hesitated. His hand twitched slightly against the fabric of his prison garment, and his gaze flickered between Lando and the floor.

Logan, who'd been a staunch supporter of the prince's "bravery" thus far, suddenly looked like he was reconsidering his life choices. "Your Highness…" he began in a warning tone, "perhaps you should not—"

But Oscar ignored him. After a few seconds of visible deliberation, he clenched his fists—his knuckles faintly white against the coarse fabric—and finally spoke.

"George and Alex invited me to watch a race," he said, pausing as if bracing for impact.

Lando blinked once. Ah, there it was. He already knew where this was going. Still, he waited patiently, feigning innocence.

"And?" he prompted, voice light.

Oscar looked up at him then, his expression hesitant yet hopeful, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. "Can I go?"

For a moment, Lando's mind went blank.

Not because of the request itself—it wasn't exactly a surprise—but because of how Oscar looked asking it. The wide eyes, the shy flush, the soft way he bit his lower lip as though embarrassed for even daring to ask. He looked so earnest, so endearingly out of place in this dungeon that Lando almost forgot to breathe.

It struck him then, not for the first time, that the prince's cuteness could very well be weaponized. If Lando were a lesser demon, he might have fallen to his knees right there and said yes just to see that smile again. Fortunately, he was a high-ranking one. It took more than a pretty face and pleading eyes to make him falter—though he'd be lying if he said it didn't take a moment to recover.

When he finally did, he put on his best innocent smile and said, gently but firmly, "You cannot go."

Oscar gasped, scandalized. Logan exhaled heavily beside him, muttering, "I told you so, Your Highness."

Oscar's brows furrowed, his whole posture stiffening. "Are you saying that, as a prisoner subject to torture, I have no freedom to go and watch a race?"

Logan's voice came instantly. "I'm actually shocked that you thought you did."

"This is inhumane! You are a demon!" Oscar burst out, glaring at Lando, eyes blazing with righteous indignation. "A hell spawn! An evil incarnate!"

"Your Highness," Logan deadpanned, "that is literally what he is."

Lando, for his part, smiled sweetly at Oscar. There was something undeniably amusing about seeing him all fired up like this—adorable, really, if one ignored the shouting.

Still, as Oscar continued to glare, Lando's expression softened into a thoughtful one. He mulled over the request in silence, eyes narrowing slightly as if truly considering it.

The truth was… he wanted to give in. He wanted to give the prince whatever he asked for, to see that smile again, to offer another small treat just because he could. Somewhere along the way, his instinct to provide had awakened. To indulge. To make Oscar happy in ways that had nothing to do with duty.

Or in human speak, Lando's desire to spoil Oscar had been aroused.

But there were rules. He had obligations. He wasn't just anyone—he was the Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army, and no matter how much he wanted to give Oscar everything, he couldn't do it so freely.

So, with a small sigh and a tilt of his head, he finally said, "That being said…"

Oscar perked up immediately.

"…I might consider it," Lando continued smoothly, "if you reveal an imperial secret."

He ended the sentence with a grin—wide, teasing, deliberately infuriating.

Logan immediately gasped. "You demon! Is this your torture for today?!"

Oscar's eyes widened too. "What—!"

"You must have planned this!" Logan accused, pointing an indignant finger. "You told George and Alex to message His Highness last night, didn't you? It's all a trap! A cunning ploy to make him talk!"

Lando chuckled quietly, folding his arms. He wasn't mocking—just genuinely impressed by Logan's creativity.

"Well," he said easily, "believe me or not, I didn't. I'm quite certain those two invited you with pure intentions. They probably just wanted you to join them and watch a race."

Oscar's head lowered, his bangs casting a shadow over his eyes. Logan, ever vigilant, immediately leaned closer. "Your Highness, don't let him trick you!"

Lando's tone shifted then, the teasing light fading as his professional mask slipped back into place. His voice took on that cool, controlled calm that only the Grand Inquisitor could manage.

"Well then," he said, stepping forward, a hint of amusement still glinting in his eyes.

"On to business…" He smiled, just slightly.

"It's time for torture, Princess."

Lando had been glancing between Oscar and the analog clock on his phone for what felt like the thousandth time. The faint ticking on the screen mocked him, steady and indifferent to the gravity of the situation. Fifty-seven minutes had passed. Almost an hour.

The cell was quiet, save for the distant drip of water from somewhere beyond the stone walls. The torches flickered lazily, their orange glow painting long shadows across the floor, where Oscar sat still, unmoving, his head lowered.

It had been almost an hour since they started.

Lando sighed quietly, breaking the silence at last. "It's been almost an hour now, Princess," he said, voice light but tinged with something softer beneath. "The start of the race has a fixed time, you know. If you keep on being silent, you'll miss it."

Oscar didn't move, not even a twitch. His shoulders were drawn in slightly, and the way his head was lowered made it impossible for Lando to read his expression.

The demon adjusted his stance, one hand still holding the phone as if it were a delicate relic. "All you need to do is talk," he continued, his voice deliberately gentle, coaxing. "And I can teleport you straight to the track where your friends are waiting."

He made it sound teasing, casual even—but the concern beneath the words was unmistakable. It slipped out without his permission, laced through every syllable.

Still, Lando had to admit—he was impressed. This was the longest Oscar had ever lasted. Usually, the prince would crack under the tiniest provocation or distraction, but today… today he was statuesque, silent, stubborn.

There was even a solemnity about him that made Lando pause. The faint downward angle of his head, the set of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened against the fabric of his garment—it all carried a weight, a seriousness that was almost out of place.

Even Logan had gone quiet, hovering close to the prince's side, watching him with a furrowed brow. Finally, the spirit broke the silence, his tone hushed but firm.

"Your Highness, George and Alex are just following his orders," Logan said grimly. "The invitation is probably just a lie."

Oscar's voice came then—steady, but low, as if rising from a deep place inside him. "Don't worry, Loges."

Lando's eyes flicked up, watching the prince carefully.

"I am the commander of the Imperial Third Legion," Oscar said, his words slow and deliberate. "I've been in more battles than I can count. There were times when even the people I considered friends ended up betraying me."

The torches crackled faintly. The dungeon seemed to hold its breath.

Lando felt it—the shift. The levity in the air dimmed, and a subtle ache filled the silence. He could hear the faint tremor beneath Oscar's calm voice, that thread of something raw and weary.

"I had to slay them in the end…" Oscar murmured. His head lifted just slightly, eyes distant, gaze unfocused. "But this—" His lips curved into a small, fragile smile. "This is something I'm used to. So I won't give in this time. No matter what."

For a moment, Lando's entire body went still.

Then, to his own surprise, something ugly and hot sparked inside him—an irrational flare of anger that he didn't even know where to direct. It wasn't the story itself; it was the idea. The image of someone betraying Oscar. Hurting him. Making him sad.

His chest tightened. His fingers twitched against his coat sleeve before he caught himself.

Calm down.

It was absurd. Irrational. He reminded himself where he was—what he was. Oscar was a prince of an Empire. He had been subjected to unimaginable feats because of the great power that he held. Being betrayed by his own comrades was only one of them. This was natural, inevitable.

And yet, knowing that didn't help much.

If anything, the thought that those who'd betrayed Oscar—his princess—had been struck down by Oscar's own hand sent an inexplicable wave of satisfaction through him. The image came unbidden: Oscar, regal even in grief, sword glinting under firelight as he struck the traitors down. It was an inexplicable thought, and yet Lando felt almost proud.

He masked the feeling with a mild smile, forcing his voice back to its usual steady calm.

When he looked at Oscar again, the prince had raised his head fully now. His eyes, dark and bright, glimmered faintly with an emotion Lando couldn't quite name—something between sadness and quiet strength. The corners of his mouth lifted, small and bittersweet, as he turned to reassure his sword's spirit.

"It's all right, Loges," Oscar said softly.

Logan, to his credit, looked like he wanted to weep and lecture him at the same time. There was a sadness there, but also unmistakable pride.

Lando checked the clock again. One hour, three minutes. The race must have already started by now.

He found himself smiling faintly, pride blooming unbidden in his chest. "It seems you've bested me today, Princess," he said, voice gentle. "This one's a win for you."

Oscar blinked up at him, looking genuinely surprised. His lips parted slightly, but the victory didn't seem to bring him any joy. His shoulders slumped instead, and he sighed softly.

Logan, ever the supportive companion, quickly added, "Don't feel down, Your Highness. You did very well today."

Even so, the atmosphere felt heavy. The faint warmth that usually hung between them had dulled.

"Don't worry about me, Loges," Oscar said after a pause, his tone subdued but steady. "I told you, this is nothing new to me…"

He hesitated, then added, almost wistfully, "Though I must say… it would've been great to see a race with everyone."

Lando's lips turned downward before he even realized it. The movement was small, but the feeling that came with it was heavy, spreading through his chest like something molten.

He didn't bother recomposing himself this time.

Then—

A faint buzz broke the quiet.

The sound was soft, but sharp to Lando's ears. He glanced toward the source—Oscar's pocket. The prince's head jerked slightly, startled.

Lando watched as Oscar pulled his phone out, fingers trembling just a little. His face was unreadable, pale in the torchlight, and his eyes moved quickly as he scanned the screen.

Then, suddenly, his lips parted. He bit them—once, twice—and Lando saw the faint tremor in his jaw.

A second later, Oscar looked up, eyes wide and gleaming, voice breaking through the stillness.

"The invitation is real!" he blurted out, almost laughing. "They're asking me where I am now—they said they're waiting by the paddock!"

And when he turned his gaze to Lando, the look in his eyes—bright, tearful, disbelieving—hit Lando harder than he expected.

"I'll talk!" Oscar said breathlessly, the corners of his mouth lifting in pure joy.

Lando stared at him, caught between surprised and something exasperatingly similar to tenderness, as warmth flickered unbidden in his chest.

When they arrived at the track, it took Lando a second to realize that something was off. The air wasn't vibrating with the familiar growl of engines. There was no thunder of tires against asphalt, no chaotic chorus of cheers and static through the speakers. The world was strangely still—until he noticed the empty circuit stretching under the blazing afternoon sun and the faint smell of rubber and fuel hanging in the air. A grin found its way to his lips.

A delay.

How convenient.

Meaning Oscar hadn't missed anything yet.

The prince, standing beside him, looked around with eyes that—if Lando hadn't been watching him this closely these past days—he would've thought calm. But Lando had learned the art of reading him. The slight twitch at the corner of his lips, the faint widening of his pupils, the way his hand hovered uncertainly before tucking itself behind his back—all spoke of excitement that he was too proud to show.

Logan's sacred blade floated near them, its metallic surface gleaming under the sunlight. The spirit inhabiting it must be wide-eyed with curiosity; Lando could feel it through the faint magical hum that connected them.

"Welcome to Circuit de Inferno," Lando announced grandly, spreading his arms as though he'd just unveiled a royal palace instead of a very loud, overworked racetrack. He conjured two sleek paddock passes with a flick of his wrist—definitely not pre-arranged, but when you were who he was, getting them last-minute was child's play.

He handed them each their pass with a little flourish. Oscar took his politely; Logan floated his blade a little closer and the pass just clipped itself onto the hilt, which made Lando chuckle.

As they headed for the main entrance, a familiar voice called out.

"Ah! Oscar, mon chéri!"

Charles, the Harm Marshal himself, was already striding toward them, arms wide and grin brighter than the pit lights.

"Charles," Oscar said, caught halfway between surprise and resignation, as Charles pulled him into a hug. "I didn't know you're here too."

"Now you do," Charles replied, cheerfully patting Oscar's back before greeting Lando with a quick dap and a knowing look. Then, with the smooth authority of someone who always had somewhere fabulous to be, he added, "Let's go inside. Alex and George are already waiting."

He looped an arm around Oscar's shoulders, practically towing him in. Lando followed, amused, while Logan floated beside him, humming softly—his curiosity practically palpable.

Lando glanced at him. "First time?"

Logan's blade bobbed once. "Yes." His tone was unusually civil, stripped of its usual snark.

Lando blinked. "Does racing interest you?"

"It's fascinating," Logan mused, voice tinged with the wonder of an ancient spirit seeing something new. "We used to race bulls back in my day. Big, angry ones. Now it's… chunks of metal running faster than wind."

Lando laughed under his breath. "You're not wrong."

They reached the VIP lounge just as the two Torment Lieutenants, Alex and George's voices broke through the hum of conversation.

"Oscar! You made it!"

Oscar barely had time to blink before he was pulled into one of those friendly, chaotic greetings involving daps and shoulder bumps. He seemed to know what to do now—Lando watched, half in pride and half in fond amusement.

"Good timing," Alex said, grinning. "The race got delayed. You'll still see the start."

Lando noted the relief that softened Oscar's features. It wasn't the kind of joy that burst out, but the quiet, contented kind that made his chest feel warm.

Then, from the vanity on the side of the lounge, Charles turned around, holding something red and ridiculous.

"Oscar!" he called dramatically. "Wear this. We shall support my team, yes?"

Before Oscar could protest, Charles had plopped a bright red cap on his head.

Oscar blinked, confusion flickering across his face, while Logan's blade tilted inquisitively, mirroring his reaction.

"Hey, no fair!" Alex protested, dashing forward. He snatched the red cap off and replaced it with a blue one. "Oscar's supporting Badwill-iams!"

"No, no, no," Charles countered, taking back the cap with an indignant tsk. "As my son, he will be supporting Fear-rari!"

While the two argued, George quietly walked up behind them, an amused smirk on his face. He gently replaced the cap on Oscar's head with a black one. "Ignore them," he said with conspiratorial calm. "You'll be supporting Mer-ciless."

Oscar blinked again. He looked from one to the other, clearly lost. Then his gaze flickered toward Lando, who was leaning casually by the counter, watching the withby now perpetual amusement reflecting in his gaze.

Their eyes met, and Lando saw something spark there—curiosity, recognition, maybe something warmer.

"What about you?" Oscar asked softly. "What's your team?"

Lando blinked, a little caught off-guard but secretly pleased.

"Myself?" he said, walking to the vanity and picking up the bright orange cap. He slid it on with a grin. "Definitely McEvils."

Oscar stared at him, then at the cap, then back at him. After a heartbeat, he reached for the other orange one on the vanity and put it on.

"Then I'll support it too," he said, smiling—open, genuine.

The lounge seemed brighter for a second. Charles and George both sighed dramatically in defeat; Alex groaned, muttering something about betrayal, but there was laughter in his tone.

Not to be deterred, Alex turned to Logan. "If Oscar won't support my team, my other good friend will. Right, Loges?" He waved the blue cap teasingly.

Logan gave him a deadpan stare. "My body is spectral, demon. I can't wear that."

"Not with that attitude," Alex quipped, and—before anyone could stop him—placed the cap squarely on the hilt of the floating blade.

There was a beat of silence. Then Alex snickered. Oscar chuckled softly. Charles and George joined in.

Lando just watched.

Watched the prince's carefree expression, the way his laughter curved his lips, how the sound seemed to warm even the chill in the air-conditioned lounge. It made something flutter uneasily in Lando's chest.

And when Logan, against all expectations, smirked and said, "You know what, that actually looks cool. I approve. "

Alex whooped in triumph as the room erupted again.

Lando had been to countless races before — Hell's Grand Prix, Earth circuits, interdimensional tournaments where half the crowd was made up of screaming banshees. The chaos had long stopped fazing him; the roar of engines, the smell of burned rubber, the pulse of excitement thrumming through the air — all of it had become part of his background noise.

He still loved it, of course. But the raw, fluttering anticipation that once used to grip him before the lights went out? That had dulled long ago.

Until now.

Because as the first wave of sound rolled over the circuit, Lando caught sight of Oscar's face.

The prince's eyes were wide and bright, reflecting the sunlight and the orange blur of cars speeding past like streaks of lightning. His lips were parted in awe, his posture leaning forward just slightly as if drawn by the motion, the sound, the sheer spectacle of it all. And for once, Oscar didn't hide it — not his amazement, not the sparkle in his eyes, not the genuine wonder lighting up his entire face.

Lando didn't know whether it was because Oscar had grown comfortable with his presence, or because the prince was having too much fun to care. Either way, Lando decided it didn't matter. Both worked just fine for him.

He was glad to see him like this.

Around them, the grandstands buzzed with energy — every demon specie shouting at once, the air alive with chants and cheers. The smell of smoke and oil mixed with the sweetness of caramelized nuts from a nearby stall. Heat shimmered from the tarmac as the engines revved and the halo lights blinked red.

Oscar's gaze never left the track.

His excitement was quiet, almost scholarly — he murmured things under his breath about mechanical structures, airflow resistance, and torque distribution that made even Lando blink in surprise.

For someone who had never watched a single race, the prince understood aerodynamics unnervingly well.

Of course he does, Lando thought, smiling faintly. Imperial prince, genius strategist, war commander — of course he'd also casually know enough physics to start his own race team.

Still, it was endearing.

Every so often, Oscar would mutter something like "Oh, look at that overtake!" or "That cornering technique—wow," in a soft, distracted tone that made Lando bite back a laugh.

He was utterly absorbed.

Around them, the others were their usual chaotic selves — George offering unsolicited strategic commentary, Charles swearing under his breath every time something didn't go his team's way, Alex and Logan taking turns to yell and curse the Badwill-iams pit crew for "ruining another race." Despite their bickering, they all looked like they were having the time of their lives.

Currently, there were ten teams competing for the championship including Charles's Fear-rari, George's Mer-ciless, Alex's Badwill-iams, Lando's McEvils, the Hell Bull — which Lando knew the Demon Lord Max was supporting in secret — the Haas-fire, the Bone Ash-ton Martin, the Alpine of Corpses, the Menacing Bulls, and the Kill Sauber, also being referred as the Stake to the Heart by the fans.

Each team was a league of their own. Some were reckless and dangerous. Some were scrappy yet unpredictable. And some were just truly unapologetically fast — like the team Oscar was spot on to support.

The number of laps dwindled quickly, and tension built in the air like a coiled spring. The two McEvils cars were dueling for P1 — wheel to wheel, corner to corner.

The lounge had fallen into that tense silence that precedes a collective shout. Everyone was half-standing, leaning forward, eyes glued to the track.

Oscar, of course, was one of them.

He leaned forward a little too much. His hands slipped from the railing.

And before Lando even registered what he was doing, his arm shot out, snaking around Oscar's waist and pulling him firmly back against his side.

His world narrowed for a second.

Oscar was safe — still upright, still very much alive — but Lando's demon heart was pounding in his chest like a war drum. Not from adrenaline, not from the chaos of the race, but from pure, unfiltered terror. The thought that Oscar could have fallen, could have been hurt — it chilled him to the bone.

"Hey," he said quietly, voice stripped of its usual teasing lilt. "Careful now, Princess."

Gone was the confident, smug tone of the Grand Inquisitor. In its place was something raw and unguarded — concern.

Oscar blinked, startled, color draining from his face. Then, a few seconds later, he stammered, "Y-yeah. Sorry about that."

Lando exhaled shakily, relief flooding through him. "It's fine," he murmured, resisting the urge to lecture him for being too adorable yet too reckless for his own good.

Still, he didn't let go.

If anything, his grip tightened — a silent vow that the prince would not be falling anywhere as long as he was around.

His hand remained around Oscar's waist, steady and sure. Their bodies were close now, too close, pressed together side by side. The prince's back was warm against him, soft in contrast to the metallic cold of the railing.

For a moment, Lando forgot the crowd, forgot the noise.

All he could think of was the warmth radiating from Oscar's body — human warmth, fragile and fleeting, but somehow grounding. His fingers shifted slightly, adjusting for comfort but never retreating. The movement drew a tiny, breathy gasp from Oscar, barely audible, but it was enough to make Lando's pulse jump.

Oh.

That sound. That reaction.

The faint pink blooming on Oscar's cheeks.

Suddenly, all his fear melted into something else — lighter, thrilling, dangerous in a completely different way.

They stayed that way for the rest of the race — Oscar focused once more on the track, Lando pretending to watch but secretly cataloguing every little shift of the prince's expression, every soft rise and fall of his breath.

When the bright orange McEvils car crossed the chequered flag first, followed closely by its twin mere tenths behind, the room erupted in cheers.

Oscar turned to him, eyes bright, face glowing with exhilaration. "That was so fun!"

Lando smiled, his chest feeling far too light for someone who'd just witnessed a near-death incident. "I'm glad you think so, Princess."

Oscar's grin softened into something smaller, more intimate. "Thank you, Lando."

The sound of his name — his name — spoken in that gentle, earnest tone sent a jolt straight down Lando's spine.

For centuries, humans saying a demon's true name had no longer held power. But now, hearing Oscar say it… it felt like the ancient magic had returned. Like a pull deep in his core, a tether between them thrumming with unseen energy.

He stared at Oscar, momentarily speechless.

"Lando?" the prince asked again, brow furrowing.

There it was again — that spark, that sweet, dangerous electricity crawling up his spine.

Oscar blinked in confusion. "I thought you said you preferred to be called by your name. Should I have not—"

Lando interrupted too quickly, "No!" Then, realizing how loud he sounded, he cleared his throat, eyes darting away. "You can. You should."

A beat passed. Then he smirked, the corner of his mouth curling playfully. "Will you say it again?"

Oscar frowned, still confused, but he obeyed anyway. "Thank you, Lando."

The effect was instant. The jolt turned into warmth — steady, consuming, blissful. Like a breath of fresh air. A steady flow of Mana. An endless supply of grieving souls. Like death, in the way demons understood it — delicious, addicting, enlivening.

Lando's lips curved into a slow, reverent smile.

"You're welcome," he murmured, voice soft but sure. "My Princess."

Chapter Text

Engines roared through their headsets — a chorus of digital fury as the glowing tracks of the simulation blurred across the monitors. The two demon sat miles apart, yet connected through the call, steering wheels in hand and eyes sharp as the simulation reflected on their faces. Neon lights flickered in their irises — one red, one dark — as their cars streaked through the artificial dusk of the race.

"I'm telling you," the demon on the left said through gritted teeth, his tone half-focused, half-exasperated. His wheel jerked in his hands as he swerved to avoid a rival car. "Lando is going to become family."

The other only laughed softly, the sound low and controlled, as if he'd been expecting this line of argument from the very start. "And I'm telling you," he said, voice smooth and faintly amused, "I'm not disagreeing. Why are you trying to fight me?"

"I'm not trying to fight!" the Marshal barked, punctuating his protest by colliding with another car on-screen. "Bloody— move, you useless AI!" he growled, muttering a chain of curses under his breath as his car spun and clipped the barrier. "This game cheats."

Across the line, the other demon — calm, collected — took the inside curve with practiced ease, his virtual car slicing past a line of competitors. His gloved fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel, his expression unreadable but for the faint quirk of his mouth. "Perhaps the problem," he said mildly, "is that you're too busy worrying about things that aren't your race."

"Worrying?" The Marshal's voice came sharp, offended. "You think I'm worried?"

"I know you are."

The Marshal was quiet for a beat, the sound of engines filling the space where his retort should have been. The hum of fans and the soft click of shifting gears carried between them — a strange sort of intimacy, the kind only shared by two demons who'd been through countless wars, real and digital alike.

Finally, the Marshal exhaled, the sound half-growl, half-sigh. "Lando better not hurt my son."

A quiet chuckle slipped through the other end of the line. Then, almost as if punctuating his amusement, the Demon Lord's car overtook another — the sleek, obsidian machine sliding into first place with a sound of triumphant acceleration. He leaned back slightly, relaxed now that he'd secured P1, and said, "I don't think you have to worry about that."

The Marshal froze just long enough for his car to crash spectacularly into a barrier. The impact made his entire setup rattle. "Oh, for hell's sake—!" he muttered, slamming a palm on the desk before exhaling sharply. He glared through the video feed, voice dropping into something quieter, more wary. "Well, I am worried he doesn't know he's infatuated yet."

A pause. Then, as the Demon Lord's car crossed another flawless lap, the faintest laugh — genuine and knowing — escaped him.

"Oh, believe me," he said, eyes softening in amusement. "Lando is not that oblivious."

The Marshal blinked, mid-resetting his position on the grid. "...You sound certain."

"I am," came the calm, confident reply. Another roar of engines; the simulation lights flickered in rhythm with the pulsing heat of the Demon Lord's aura. "There are many things the grand inquisitor can hide. But the look he gives when he finds something precious?"

He smirked, taking another perfect turn. "Even hellfire can't disguise that."

The Marshal fell silent, shoulders loosening slightly as he sighed through his nose. His tone softened — reluctant affection tangled with the sound of engines humming in unison.

"You're insufferable when you're right, you know that?"

"Mm," the Demon Lord replied, overtaking one final car as the checkered flag appeared. His smile turned easy, almost human. "I've been told."

The screen split in half — one side flickering in defeat, the other blazing bright orange with victory.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the low hum of their cooling rigs filled the silence — and somewhere beyond the veil of circuits and smoke, the faint echo of laughter drifted through the infernal wind.

Then the Marshal muttered, "Next race, I'm disabling your boost enchantments."

"And risk losing again?" the Demon Lord replied smoothly, already logging off. "Now who's infatuated?"

The Marshal's scowl froze mid-reply — and before he could retort, the call ended with a soft click, leaving only the sound of the simulated engine idling into silence.

Left alone in the blue light of the loading screen, the Demon Lord rested his hands loosely on the wheel. For a long moment, he said nothing. The faint buzz of cooling fans filled the silence, the artificial hum echoing against the dimness of his chamber.

No — Lando wasn't oblivious. He was far too perceptive for that.

But denial… that was an entirely different matter.

The Demon Lord's lips curved faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. Some truths were better left unspoken — especially to the overprotective Marshal.

The screen dimmed to black.

Lando needed to backtrack for a bit.

Or, more accurately, he needed to stop thinking about Oscar.

…No. Not Oscar. The prince.

Right. The prince.

It wasn't lost on him that the correction now came slower each time. The way the name "Oscar" rolled too easily in his head was starting to feel dangerous — too soft, too personal. He wasn't supposed to think about the prisoner that way. It was undignified for someone of his rank. Unprofessional. Unnecessary.

Still, no amount of reasoning seemed to stop his mind from looping back to yesterday.

When they teleported back to the Demon Castle, the lingering echo of laughter and excitement from the prince and his sword spirit still clung to the air between them like glittering stardust. They had both been animated, alive with wonder — their smiles faintly glowing under the blue torches of the teleportation hall. Lando should've been pleased; the whole point of that little excursion was to keep the prince cooperative. And he was pleased, at first.

Until he realized he could still feel it.

The warmth of the prince's waist under his hand — the exact spot where his palm had pressed when he caught him earlier that day — it still hadn't left him. Like an echo in his nerves, like heat that refused to fade. It was ridiculous, really. He'd only acted out of reflex, saving the prince from falling over the balcony. That was all. Anyone in his position would've done the same.

Except anyone else probably wouldn't still be feeling that warmth twenty-four hours later.

Or remembering the tiny gasp the prince made when Lando's hand didn't move away.

Or the faintest pink that rose to his cheeks afterwards.

Lando groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face as he walked through the dim corridor. The castle was quiet this early — most demons preferred the night's chaos to the calm of morning — but the faint hum of Mana veins beneath the black stone floors kept a low, steady rhythm.

And then there was the other thing.

The name.

When the prince had looked at him after the race, grinning, still flushed with excitement, and said, "Thank you, Lando."

That moment had… fried something in his brain. There was no other way to describe it.

The sound of it — his name, spoken in that soft, sincere tone — had sent a shock down his spine so sharp that he'd almost dropped his composure entirely. Actually, he was quite sure it did for a moment. And then, in true idiotic fashion, he'd asked the prince to say it again.

And he did. Confused yet earnest. Obedient.

"Thank you, Lando."

And last night — ah, that was the worst. 

When he'd reported to Carlos about the imperial secret he'd extracted, he'd expected the usual conversation. An exasperated sigh from Carlos. A reason the revealed secret was deemed unusable — something that had nothing to do with the competence of the Demon Army and everything to do with Max's sim racing schedule.

But instead, Lando had cut across him, interrupting mid-sentence, blurting out — too quickly, too eagerly — "So I'll be continuing the torture, right?"

Carlos had gone silent. The man wasn't easily unsettled, but he'd looked at Lando then, eyes narrowing faintly as though he'd glimpsed something behind the inquisitor's calm facade. He hadn't said anything, only tilted his head in quiet study before giving his assent.

Now, thinking back, Lando wanted to sink into the floor.

That tone — that enthusiasm — what had that been? He was the Grand Inquisitor, the terror of the lower realms, the iron hand of the Demon Army. His voice was supposed to command dread, not betray some ridiculous, impulsive excitement.

He sighed as he turned another corner, the echo of his boots steady against the cold, polished floor. The morning torches had just been lit; their flames shimmered with faint traces of magic, licking blue at the edges. The air was cool and scented faintly of iron and sulfur — a smell that had long been comforting to him.

It grounded him. Reminded him who he was.

This could not continue.

His reaction yesterday — all of it — had been a lapse in discipline. That was all. A momentary distraction. He had merely been… concerned for the prisoner's safety. Yes. That was it. As the Grand Inquisitor, it fell upon him to ensure the prince's wellbeing until the extraction was complete. A damaged prisoner was a useless one, after all, and any threat to the prince's safety meant jeopardizing their mission to uncover the empire's deepest secrets. His concern had been purely professional.

He repeated that thought again. Slowly. Deliberately.

He was simply fulfilling his duty.

He was simply protecting an asset.

He was simply ensuring the success of the Demon Army.

Nothing more.

And that strange electric jolt when his name had been spoken — well, there was an explanation for that, too. There always was.

The ancient magic of humans calling a demon's true name had long been recorded in the grimoires, though its power had waned centuries ago. Still, perhaps, with the prince's imperial bloodline — rumored to be descended from some forgotten divine lineage — such magic could have stirred again, faint but potent.

Yes. That must be it.

It wasn't him. It wasn't emotion or weakness. It was magic. The prince's blood carried power — that was undeniable — and that power had momentarily affected him. It wasn't desire, or attachment, or anything remotely sentimental. Just an echo of old magic. An unfortunate side effect.

Lando almost laughed at the thought, though the sound came out hollow.

He had to be careful now. Distance was necessary. If the prince truly carried such dormant power, it was dangerous to linger too close, to allow further exposure. Today's torture, he decided, would have to be different. Something to regain control of himself and reestablish the proper order between captor and captive.

Yes. That was the plan.

By the time the end of the corridor came into view, Lando had convinced himself — or almost. The heavy door of the prince's chamber loomed ahead, gilded with faint traces of sealing runes. Beyond it, he could sense the slow, steady heartbeat of its occupant, calm even in captivity.

He stopped before it, taking a slow breath. His reflection wavered faintly on the metal surface — composed, unflinching, everything the Grand Inquisitor should be.

Lando raised a gloved hand, paused for a heartbeat, then gave the door a soft, deliberate knock.

He entered the private chamber in silence. He hadn't expected anyone to be awake yet, so he didn't wait for a response when he turned the handle. The door creaked slightly, and the dim morning light filtered through the half-drawn drapes, painting the room in soft, gold-tinged shadows.

The air inside was warm and faintly sweet — that mix of incense and old wood that always lingered here. He was right in his assumption: the occupants were still asleep.

The first thing he saw was the sacred blade, resting on its assigned divan like a relic in reverence, its surface gleaming faintly under the light. From somewhere near the hilt came a small, steady snore — a sound so tiny and persistent that it almost felt intentional. The translucent figure was nowhere in sight, likely still wandering in dreamland or pretending to be.

Then his eyes landed on the bed.

The prince lay there, tangled in sheets and dappled with morning light, one arm thrown carelessly over his chest. His breathing was slow, even, and utterly unguarded. There was a serenity to his face that Lando had never seen when the prince was awake — a softness that felt like something sacred he wasn't meant to look at.

Lando froze for a moment, remembering his earlier musings — the part where he'd promised himself to be careful, to put some distance, to stay professional.

He braced himself. Literally inhaled, squared his shoulders, and gave himself a silent pep talk.

It lasted approximately half a second.

Because when his eyes returned to the prince, and he caught sight of the faint grin tugging at the corner of those lips, something warm and uninvited spread through his chest. The kind of warmth that didn't belong in this place — the kind that spelled trouble.

He caught himself smiling back before he realized he was doing it.

And that was when he froze again.

Oh, brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. It had only been half a second since he'd reminded himself of what not to do, and here he was, already failing spectacularly. He mentally slapped himself. He was supposed to be a high-ranking demon, not some smitten fool reacting to a sleeping human.

He sighed quietly and approached the bed to wake the prince.

The process took far longer than it should have, mostly because of Lando's internal war between do it gently and for the love of hell, stop looking at his face like that. But eventually, after some fumbling and too much restraint, he managed to get the prince awake.

Determined to keep things perfectly professional, Lando decided to adopt the same approach he'd used the first time he woke him — gentle yet respectful, polite yet distant, completely professional. No lingering, no heart palpitations.

The morning routine went smoothly after that — or as smoothly as it could with the prince's sleep-hazed blinking and the sacred blade's occasional muttering from its divan. By the time they made their way to the cell, Lando actually started to think maybe he had this under control.

See? he told himself as they walked. It's that easy. You just have to keep this up until the end, and tomorrow you'll be normal again. Absolutely normal. Perfectly demonic and unbothered.

He even believed it for a few blissful seconds.

Until he opened his mouth.

"Well then, Your Highness—"

The prince immediately looked up, startled, blinking rapidly as though he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "What did you say?"

It made Lando pause mid-sentence.

From the side, Logan — ever the quiet observer — turned his head toward Lando, his expression unreadable but unmistakably curious.

"Uh," Lando said, frowning. "Your Highness?"

The prince blinked a few more times, as if trying to make sure he wasn't imagining things. Then a faint frown formed on his lips — not of anger, but something smaller, sadder. It tugged at something deep inside Lando's chest in a way that felt almost physical.

"You're not calling me Princess," Oscar said softly.

The words hit Lando harder than they should have. There was something disheartened in the way the prince said it — like he'd just been told his favorite constellation had been erased from the sky.

"I thought you didn't want to be called that," Lando managed.

"Oh," the prince said simply. His voice was quiet, uncertain. There was confusion in his dark eyes, as though he was trying to figure out if he'd done something wrong.

And that — that look — did something to Lando's demonic composure.

It wasn't the usual kind of charm or temptation he could armor himself against. It was something purer, so unbearably innocent that it went straight through his defenses and made him forget, momentarily, why he was supposed to have them in the first place.

So, without thinking too much about it, Lando caved.

"Princess," he said — as if to make amends, as if the word itself might restore the small light that had dimmed in the prince's eyes.

When the prince looked back at him, there was a smile in those eyes — subtle, soft, unspoken — even though his lips didn't move. And right then and there, Lando knew he'd lost the battle with himself this time.

But he'd been calling Oscar Princess ever since. He was only reverting back to their usual routine. Yes. He could do that.

Nothing to be concerned about.

He cleared his throat, looking away quickly before anyone could read what was on his face.

"Well," he said, voice just slightly strained, "it's time for torture, Princess."

"The torture this time," Lando began, hands clasped behind his back as he stood before the cell, "will be something different."

Logan barely spared him a glance, his translucent form hovering above the sacred blade. "Do whatever you want," he said flatly. "It doesn't really matter." He paused, crossing his arms in a show of defiance before adding, "His Highness always gives in anyway."

The prince gasped, offended. "Logan!" He turned toward his sacred blade, eyes wide and mouth parted in disbelief. There was a childlike worry on his face, as though his companion had just given up hope in him completely. "No—wait, Logan, watch me! Today I'll definitely resist!"

Logan only hmphed in response, turning slightly aside in a manner that might've been dignified if he weren't a shimmering ghost hovering near a sword.

Lando, meanwhile, was having a crisis of his own.

He stood there, the picture of composure, watching the prince pout and call softly, "Loges… Loges…" and had to physically bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling. Too cute, his traitorous mind whispered. Entirely too— no. No. He was better than this.

With great effort, he composed himself and cleared his throat. "It's not you I'm going to torture today, Princess."

Two heads snapped toward him instantly.

"What?" the prince said, blinking.

From the corridor came the rhythmic sound of footsteps — firm, deliberate, slightly metallic. Lando turned toward the door, gesturing smoothly. "Come in."

A demon stepped into the cell, dressed in a worn jumper coverall and a full face mask that obscured everything but the confident tilt of his posture.

"This is Fernando Alonso," Lando announced, as if presenting a guest of honor. "He was a former Pain Private. Now, he's a full-fledged weaponsmith." Then, to the other demon, "Please begin."

"Yo!" Fernando greeted cheerfully, giving a casual wave before striding straight toward the sacred blade.

Logan shrieked — actually shrieked — when Fernando picked up the sacred blade. "Unhand me! Don't touch me! Keep your filthy demon fingers away from my hilt!"

Fernando ignored him entirely, turning the blade this way and that with a craftsman's scrutiny. "Tsk. Being stuck here left you in bad condition, boy," he muttered.

Oscar's eyes went wide, his jaw falling slightly open as he looked from the weaponsmith to Lando.

Lando smiled like someone announcing the punchline of a very dark joke. "Yes, Princess, you're thinking right." His grin widened. "Today's torture will be focused on your beloved sacred blade — your guardian, your partner, your trusted friend, Logan."

Logan gasped, affronted. For a moment, he was silent — perhaps processing the declaration. Then, with noble conviction, he declared, "Don't underestimate me, you demons! I've been to countless battles before. I've stood beside knights and imperial elites. I will never submit to any means of torture!"

Lando stared.

Oscar stared.

Fernando stared.

Then Fernando shrugged and picked the blade back up. "All right, boy," he said matter-of-factly. "We begin with the surface rust."

He pulled a piece of sandpaper from his pocket and started working on Logan's blade, brisk and efficient.

"Stop! Cease this indignity! Don't touch me there!" Logan cried, his translucent body wriggling like a cat getting its fur brushed.

Fernando kept working, utterly unbothered. The rasp of sandpaper filled the room — a dry, rhythmic sound that was almost soothing.

"Wait—stop!" Logan suddenly yelled.

Fernando froze mid-motion. Both Lando and Oscar turned to look.

Logan hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying solemnly, "Let me go inside so I can judge if your skills are worth it."

"Logan?" Oscar murmured, uncertain.

Logan's translucent body dissolved into the sacred blade, and his voice came from within the weapon itself, a little too defensive to be convincing. "Don't worry, Your Highness. I'm only going to check. I'm not trying to take pleasure in it."

Lando almost laughed aloud. The roles had reversed entirely — Logan now the one making excuses, and Oscar standing there, deadpan, watching his supposedly noble protector succumb to professional polishing.

Fernando resumed his work, muttering praises to his craft while expertly scraping away the last specks of rust. When he was done, he reached into his kit and produced a traditional rotary grindstone. "Okay, boy," he said, positioning it with a practiced spin. "Now I will sharpen you real nice."

From the first contact of stone against metal came a resonant shhhk sound that echoed through the cell — followed by a suspiciously delighted groan from the blade.

"Oh heavens—" Logan began, but his voice broke halfway, turning into an audible hum of approval.

Lando pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to laugh.

By now, the prince had taken a step closer to him. The faint jangle of chains and the drag of the iron sphere against the floor were still distinct beneath the hum of the grindstone.

Lando turned — and found the prince already looking at him.

There was a question in his eyes, but also something else — a quiet determination, the kind that made Lando's heart skip despite himself.

"Yes, Princess?" he asked, his voice coming out smoother than he felt. The smile he gave was professional. Totally professional.

Oscar didn't look away. His eyes searched Lando's for a long moment before he finally spoke. "Why Logan?"

Lando paused. Oh, good. That question.

He couldn't exactly tell the prince that the sacred blade was being tortured today because Lando himself was trying to put distance between them — because saying that would mean explaining why he needed that distance. And he couldn't exactly tell the prince that the reason he was struggling to keep his distance was because—

No. No. There were no reasons. There were no feelings. Absolutely none.

But he also didn't want to lie. Not to the prince. Definitely not because of any special reason — it was just that he was a demon of integrity. He didn't want to lie, in general. Yes.

So instead of answering directly, he said lightly, "If you're worried about your sacred blade, you don't have to be, Princess. Fernando's skills are top-notch. Logan's in good hands."

He grinned. It was supposed to be reassuring. Confident. Nonchalant.

But the prince was still looking at him — steadily, quietly — and for one horrifying second, it felt like he could see through Lando's act.

Lando's grin faltered. He blinked, trying to recover his professional facade. He even opened his mouth, intending to redirect the topic entirely, but then—

Oscar's eyes softened, crinkling slightly at the corners. A genuine smile curved his lips as he said, simply, "Okay. I trust you."

And just like that, Lando felt as though someone had driven a blade straight through his chest — politely, gently, fatally.

It seemed he'd lost again.

Logan let out a particularly loud cry then — loud enough to echo through the stone cell, loud enough that Lando flinched despite himself.

The prince, startled, hurried back toward them, his chains clinking faintly against the floor as the sound subsided. Lando remained rooted to his spot, torn between exasperation and despair at the entire scene — and, more specifically, at himself.

This is getting out of hand, he thought, dragging a hand over his face. He took a long, steadying breath that didn't steady him at all.

When he looked up again, Logan had already recovered enough composure to face the prince, his silver blade slightly shimmering with self-importance. "That," he said solemnly, "was a battle cry. Not something out of… pleasure."

Lando almost snorted. Of course it was.

Oscar blinked at his sacred blade, clearly unconvinced but far too kind to say anything. 

"Don't worry, Your Highness," he said, voice echoing faintly from the sword as his determination restored. "Even though I have confirmed the impressive skills of this weaponsmith—"

Fernando smirked faintly beneath his mask.

"I feel no obligation," Logan went on grandly, "to reveal my secrets. I will endure this torture."

Oscar, bless his heart, nodded encouragingly. "You're doing good, Logan!"

At that, Fernando stood upright, brushing off his hands and removing his mask in one smooth motion. A grin spread across his face. "Oh well," he said, "looks like I'm done here."

Logan immediately went still. "Wait," he said, his voice rising an octave. "You've still only done a coarse pass over my surface, haven't you?"

Fernando tilted his head. "Yes."

"Then—?" Logan prompted, a note of hope creeping into his tone.

"I want to give you a full treatment too," Fernando said easily. Then he paused, glancing down at the blade in his hands. A sly grin curved his lips. "But this is torture, boy. Give me a secret, and I'll give you a full treatment."

Logan gasped. The realization dawned on him like a tragic revelation — this was his torment. To be denied the satisfaction of a perfect, gleaming polish until he confessed something forbidden.

Oscar's face softened with sympathy, as if he could truly understand the gravity of such a suffering. "Loges…" he murmured.

"Don't worry, Your Highness," Logan said with a trembling sort of dignity. "I am the sacred blade — your trusty weapon. I wouldn't dare act out of personal interest."

He paused. Oscar looked at him hopefully. Both demons watched, silent, expectant.

Then Logan continued, more hesitantly, "But… getting polished up with a sharp, nice edge… that would benefit you as well, right? Right?"

The sacred blade gave a tiny up-and-down motion, like a nod — or perhaps like a subtle plea for permission.

Oscar let out the long sigh, already seeing where this was going.

And then, with a gleam of dramatic resolve, Logan declared loudly to Fernando — and, by extension, to Lando —

"I'll talk!"

The session had finally ended.

Logan, true to his word, had indeed talked. The once-proud sacred blade now being held and worked again by Fernando. His entire hilt radiated satisfaction. It was, in Lando's eyes, a ridiculous sight — a legendary weapon looking too content to be in the hands of a demon.

But it wasn't the absurdity that lingered in Lando's head. It was the conversation that had followed.

Fernando had fulfilled his part of the deal as he resumed on giving the blade a full treatment, while Oscar — ever the curious prince — had somehow drawn him into casual conversation. It started innocently enough: a question about the technique of weapon care, then somehow drifted into talk of Fernando's soldiering days.

"You remind me of someone I used to know," Fernando said, squinting at Oscar like he was looking through him. "Not in the face — no. You've got softer features. But your stance, your presence, that bit of fire when you speak. He was like that too."

"Oh?" Oscar tilted his head, visibly intrigued. "And what was his name?"

Fernando smiled faintly. "Mark Webber."

Oscar's eyes went wide. "Mark—?! My tutor? The former commander of the Imperial Seventh Legion? You fought with him?"

"Fought against him," Fernando corrected, a trace of nostalgia slipping through his grin. "That human had a swing on him that could cleave a demon knight clean in half. A swordsman through and through. But he's a good man." Then he chuckled before adding, "Then after battles, we'd meet in taverns and get drunk."

As Fernando spoke, Oscar's eyes shone brighter, his face animated by unfiltered fascination. He leaned in slightly, hanging onto every word. Logan, in the background, let out a long, satisfied groan as Fernando's polishing resumed, but Oscar didn't even flinch — too immersed in the story.

Lando, however, found himself unable to look away.

That expression — open, unguarded, alive — it suited Oscar. It made him look… whole. As if the heavy crown of his lineage had been momentarily lifted, and he could simply be. It was an expression Lando wanted to commit to memory, even though he knew he shouldn't.

But it wasn't just this expression. It was all of them — every one he had seen before. The shy one, the defiant one, the serene one. All of them — each version of the prince — fit him perfectly.

Or maybe, Lando thought grimly, it wasn't that they suited Oscar.

Maybe it was that Oscar suited Lando's every weakness.

The realization hit him like a curse.

He was spiraling again, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of thoughts he had no right to explore. He needed to stop. He had to stop.

Pushing back his chair, Lando decided he needed to get out. The cell felt smaller by the second, and every glance Oscar threw him felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.

He turned toward Fernando. "I'll leave the prisoners to you."

Fernando gave a brief nod, too busy with his polishing to question it.

Lando could feel it — the weight of a gaze on his back.

Oscar was watching him.

He didn't want to look. Didn't dare to. But guilt gnawed at him anyway. Leaving without a word would be rude — disrespectful. And the last thing Lando wanted was for Oscar to think he was being avoided. Even if… that was exactly what he was doing.

He exhaled slowly and turned around.

Oscar's eyes met his instantly.

"Goodbye, Princess," Lando said, voice steady, though his heart thudded unevenly.

Oscar didn't respond right away. His gaze lingered — steady, searching, almost too perceptive. Too intelligent. Those eyes had a way of prying open the things Lando desperately wanted to keep hidden.

Then, just when it felt unbearable, Oscar exhaled a quiet sigh. His features softened, as if in surrender. He stopped trying to read whatever storm brewed inside Lando, and with a small nod, he said, "See you tomorrow, Lando."

That again.

His name. Spoken so casually. So gently.

It hit him harder than any incantation or spell ever could.

Lando froze, unable to respond, and before he could gather himself, Oscar had already turned back toward Fernando and Logan — the prince's laughter softly mingling with Logan's dramatic groans.

The door creaked shut behind Lando as he stepped out, the echo of his name still thrumming in his ears.

He stood in the corridor, breathing in the cool air of the demon castle, trying to shake the strange heaviness inside his chest.

Oscar Jack Piastri — the Commander of the Imperial Third Legion — was, without question, dangerous.

Not for his swordsmanship. Not for his authority.

But for something far worse.

"Such a dangerous human," Lando muttered under his breath. "Too dangerous to my demon heart."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in a small, French-looking café, a demon and a human were having brunch.

They sat by the window, where the morning sunlight spilled in a golden haze through lace curtains, dust motes drifting lazily between the soft rays. The air smelled faintly of butter and roasted coffee beans, and the hum of quiet chatter mixed with the clinking of silverware. Their table was a four-seater, but one of the chairs was occupied by a sheathed sword — placed with care, upright and silent. The sword's spirit was awake but had chosen not to manifest, preferring the serenity of remaining inside his blade this early in the morning, especially when there was no official duty to attend to.

It was Tuesday. And as promised, the demon had taken his adopted human out for brunch.

The human had agreed to come — exasperatedly, half-asleep, and not particularly in the mood to move — but the demon, persistent and perhaps a little too bossy for a morning companion, had gotten him out of bed regardless. Now, they were sitting across from each other: the human sluggishly eating his croissant, eyes still heavy with sleep, while the demon sipped leisurely from a small porcelain cup of espresso, watching the streets outside with faint amusement.

The scent of warm bread and melting butter hung between them. A curl of steam rose from the human's hot chocolate, and when he lifted the cup to drink, a thin smudge of foam stayed on his lip.

The demon spoke idly at first — about the new patisserie that opened down the street, about next week's café in Vienna, and about the "culinary education of my son", as he called it, as though he were a professor assigning lessons instead of a demon indulging his own affection. The human only hummed absently in response, his mind wandering somewhere far away.

Then, without warning, the demon asked,

"So, has Lando made progress?"

The human paused mid-sip. He looked over the rim of his cup, his expression caught between surprise and reluctant acknowledgment. The demon had his brow slightly raised — that patient, immovable look that said he wouldn't let the topic go until he got an answer.

The human sighed, setting his cup down with a soft clink.

"I think I'm being avoided," he said.

There was a faint sadness beneath his voice — not bitterness, just quiet confusion, the kind that sinks deeper when unspoken. The demon's lips pressed into a line. He clicked his tongue, muttered a low curse under his breath, and the table fell into a comfortable silence broken only by the clatter of a nearby spoon.

The human's gaze dropped to his plate, where flakes of croissant scattered like soft, golden crumbs. His eyes had taken on a distant, sullen shine. Seeing this, the demon exhaled through his nose — softly, almost like a sigh — before saying,

"Oh, mon fils."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone somewhere between exasperation and tenderness. "Do not worry. If he will not get his head out of the gutter soon, I will claw it out myself."

The human blinked, and then, despite himself, laughed quietly.

"Isn't it forbidden for you high ranks to fight each other?" he asked, voice still warm from amusement.

The demon smirked, a glint flashing in his crimson eyes.

"The only forbidden thing here," he said, "is hurting you."

The human's breath caught. He blinked once, then smiled faintly — a small, almost shy curve of his lips. "That's… sweet," he murmured.

The demon's grin softened into something gentler. "Finish your food," he said, his tone returning to its usual, teasing firmness. "I will take you for ice cream before we teleport back to the castle. Let the Grand Inquisitor wait a while."

"Cool," the human said, perking up a little. "I want chocolate."

The demon chuckled, low and fond.

"Of course you do."

The dungeon was quiet again.

Only the faint dripping of water echoed from somewhere in the deeper corridors, each drop landing against stone like a metronome of unease. A small torch burned low by the cell entrance, its light flickering orange against the walls, throwing shadows that swayed with every soft movement of air.

Lando was alone at the prince's cell.

Yes, inside the cell.

He wasn't entirely sure when he decided that was the best place to wait, but here he was — elbows resting on his knees, chin propped in one hand, staring vacantly at the iron bars as if they might start offering him company. It wasn't exactly dignified behavior for a demon of his rank, but the longer the silence stretched, the heavier it weighed on him.

He checked the clock again — or, well, what passed for a clock in this particular section of the demon castle. The torch had burned lower than it should've by now. They should have been back.

But they weren't.

And that was enough for his mind to start spinning.

First came the reasonable thoughts — perhaps the demon and his adopted human got delayed at the teleportation gate, or maybe the café had taken longer to serve brunch. That was normal. Entirely normal.

Then came the less reasonable ones.

What if Oscar had gotten distracted by something and failed to properly follow where Charles was going? He could be lost and stranded in some strange town where he couldn't speak the local language and Charles was unable to find him.

Lando frowned, dragging his hand down his face. Ridiculous.

And yet the images wouldn't stop coming — What if Oscar was served some unfamiliar food and he was too excited to try it or too polite to refuse and it gave him food poisoning because his stomach was delicate like that? He could be too sick right now and couldn't risk to be touched by the teleportation magic and so they couldn't come back yet.

He pressed his palm to his forehead. "I'm losing it," he muttered under his breath, but the sound of his own voice only made the room feel emptier.

Because beneath all those absurd scenarios, there was one undeniable truth that he could no longer keep pretending wasn't there — the reason he was even thinking like this.

It was those feelings that should not be named.

And now that he had reluctantly acknowledged them — that yes, maybe, possibly, just a little, he might feel something for the human prince — it only made his head hurt worse.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall, tapping his fingers absently against the stone floor. The torch crackled. Somewhere above, the castle gears creaked faintly, echoing through the long halls.

That was when he heard it — footsteps, approaching from the corridor. 

He perked up immediately, instinct cutting through the fog of his thoughts. In his haste, he only then realized exactly where he was — sitting on the floor in the middle of the prince's cell, posture slouched, looking very much like the one imprisoned.

The footsteps grew closer, and before he could even compose himself, there was a soft clink of keys and then—

The sound of the cell door opening.

He looked up.

There, standing just beyond the bars, was the prince.

Their eyes met — Lando's wide with mild panic, the prince's full of polite confusion, his expression silently asking: What are you doing sitting there?

"Princess!" Lando blurted out, scrambling to his feet a little too quickly. "You're back!"

The words came out far too excited, far too relieved, but he didn't even care. The rush of emotion that hit him upon seeing the prince in one piece — safe, unharmed, very much alive — was enough to make his chest tighten.

Oscar stood there, holding the sacred blade in one hand, already dressed in his usual prison garment. The faint shimmer of teleportation magic still clung to his form, soft and silvery in the dim light.

And Lando smiled.

Not the carefully measured smile of a Grand Inquisitor — no, it was far too open, too genuine. The kind of smile that came uninvited, like a sigh of relief.

He took a step forward without thinking. "You're all right," he said, his tone almost tender before he caught himself. "Good. I was—"

He stopped.

Worried. He'd almost said worried.

He cleared his throat quickly. "You took longer than expected, that's all."

Oscar blinked at him, a little startled by his tone. "Oh, yeah—sorry about that," he said, voice casual but slightly unsure. "We just had a side trip."

He walked into the cell, placing the sacred blade gently on its usual stand before settling down on the floor himself. The chain clinked faintly as he took it upon himself to attach it to his own ankle, the motion familiar and practiced.

"Everything went well, then?" Lando asked, trying for a normal tone.

"Yeah, everything went well." Oscar's voice was soft, polite, but when he looked up — smiling faintly — there was a distance in it. Not hostility, not even coldness. Just distance.

And for some reason, that stung.

It felt like an invisible wall had been raised between them, one Lando couldn't quite see through. The prince was there, mere meters away, but suddenly it felt like they were standing on opposite sides of a chasm.

The realization hit harder than he expected.

He really noticed. Of course he did.

The prince had noticed his avoidance, his hesitation, his sudden shift in tone these past few days. He'd noticed — and it had affected him.

Lando's chest tightened painfully.

For a moment, he wondered why it felt so heavy, why it suddenly seemed difficult to breathe when the prince turned his gaze elsewhere. He'd spent the last few days telling himself that distance was good, that caution was necessary. But now that it was here — that quiet space between them — it didn't feel like safety at all. It felt like loss.

How ridiculous, he thought bitterly. He's right there.

And yet, somehow, he missed him.

"That's… good to hear, then," he said at last, his voice softer than he intended.

Oscar nodded, finishing with the chain, and then looked up again. 

"So?" the prince asked, eyes expectant, posture waiting. "I'm ready for today's torture."

Lando blinked, caught off guard for a moment. Then, realizing what was expected of him, he cleared his throat and forced a smile — though this time, the smile was so different from his usual one, if it could even be passed as a smile.

"Well then…" he said, straightening his posture, trying to summon the confident, professional tone he usually had.

"It's time for torture, Princess."

Oscar blinked at him, then returned the smile — polite, practiced, and just a little too distant. It hurt in a way Lando hadn't been prepared for. The kind of hurt that made him want to say something — anything — to bridge the gap he'd created. But words had never been his strong point, not when it truly mattered to him.

He inhaled, steadying himself. "You'll be pleased to know that today's torture will be slightly different."

At that, a faint shimmer pulsed near the sacred blade. Logan's translucent form emerged from the air, arms crossed and expression predictably unimpressed.

"Whatever you're planning," the spirit said, "it's not going to work."

It was almost comical, how easily those words pulled them back into familiar roles. The interrogator, the captive, and the snarky ghost-guardian mediator — the script they all knew by heart.

Lando smirked, because that was what was expected of him. "I admire the consistency. Truly."

Oscar tilted his head, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Logan's right. It's not going to work. Not this time."

That look — the confidence, the little spark — it was too much like old times, and for a heartbeat, it eased the ache in Lando's chest.

"Well," he said, "the torture is going to be somewhere else this time."

Oscar blinked, wary. "Somewhere else? Where?"

"You'll see," Lando replied, his grin too easy, too reflexive. He told himself it was just teasing, not anything softer. Definitely not because the prince looked adorably suspicious when confused.

He crouched down in front of the prince, reaching for the chain clasped around Oscar's ankle. This was why he hadn't bothered fastening it earlier — but apparently, the prince was too eager to play prisoner again. Typical.

The chain was tight, a bit unevenly locked, and as Lando worked at it, his gloved fingers brushed against bare skin. There was a faint red mark there — not severe, but enough to make him frown.

"You could've been gentler with this," he murmured, frowning.

Oscar tilted his head, confused. "It's fine. Doesn't hurt."

Lando didn't answer. He just traced the mark with his thumb, brushing lightly over the skin as though trying to erase it. To soothe the irritated skin. His fingers lingered, moving in slow, deliberate circles — gentle, almost reverent — and his chest tightened with every pass.

He had stopped pretending he didn't care. He did. That much he'd already admitted to himself, reluctantly, shamefully, helplessly. But admitting it didn't make it easier. If anything, it made moments like this unbearable. Because now that he knew what it was — that uninvited warmth in his chest, that restless longing — he also knew how dangerous it could be.

For a heartbeat, everything was silent. Oscar's breath had stilled.

Lando didn't look up, didn't dare meet the prince's gaze. He could feel it — that quiet, questioning stare burning into him, the kind that could undo even the strongest defenses if he looked too long.

And then—

Ahem.

Logan's deliberate throat-clearing cut through the air like a whip.

Lando stilled, then straightened smoothly as though nothing had happened. "Shall we go?" he asked briskly, offering a hand.

Oscar hesitated, then took it, his grip light but steady.

Lando didn't let go. He told himself he didn't need to — that it would be inconvenient to keep grabbing the prince every time they turned a corner, that this was simply efficient. But deep down, he knew that wasn't the reason.

They walked along the corridor, side by side. The sacred blade floated behind them, Logan trailing silently. The dungeon was quiet save for their footsteps, echoing off damp stone.

The air felt heavier now, and though Lando tried to school his expression into something neutral, every now and then, a small frown slipped through — when he thought Oscar wouldn't notice.

The prince's hand was still in his. Through the glove, Lando could feel the warmth of his skin, steady and real. He tightened his grip — not enough to draw attention, just enough to feel.

He didn't deserve this warmth. He was the one who'd made things awkward, who'd built the wall, who'd forced this distance because he was terrified of what would happen if he didn't. And yet here he was, reaching out again, just because he couldn't help himself.

By the time they reached the teleportation circle, his throat was dry. He placed his free hand on the carved runes, feeling the hum of power gather beneath his palm.

"Hold on to me, please."

It came out quiet, low — almost tender.

Oscar looked at him, startled by the tone rather than the words.

Lando smiled faintly, but it wasn't the smug kind this time. It was tired, a little sad. "Just to be safe," he said softly, voice steady.

It was an easy excuse, but the truth was heavier — threaded beneath those same words.

Hold on to me, not just for the teleportation, but for the distance between them. For the feeling that had taken root and now refused to die. For everything he couldn't say outright.

Oscar didn't ask. He didn't need to.

He simply obeyed, tightening his grip around Lando's hand — and for the briefest second, it felt like the world had narrowed to that single point of contact, to the warmth of the prince's fingers against his own.

The teleportation circle flared, light swirling up from the floor, wrapping around them. And just before the glow swallowed them whole, Lando thought, selfishly, just for now… stay close to me.

Then the world dissolved.

The teleportation light faded slowly, leaving warmth in its wake.

When Lando opened his eyes, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter. Instead of the damp chill of the dungeon, they were surrounded by the soft amber glow of lamps and the quiet hum of a home — a home, not a lair, not a fortress.

The room they stood in was small, but inviting. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with books and trinkets that didn't seem to match at all but somehow worked together. A sofa sat in the middle of the living room, its cushions plump and spilling over with throw pillows. A blanket — fluffy and obviously well-loved — was draped carelessly over the armrest. There was even a television facing it, screen dark, surrounded by stacks of DVDs that looked like they'd been there forever.

The air was thick with the scent of baked goods — bread, maybe cookies, and something richer Lando couldn't place. It was the sort of smell that sank right into your bones, that reminded you of warmth and familiarity.

It was, in short, the least place imaginable in the demon realm.

Oscar blinked. "What—where are we?"

Before Lando could answer, footsteps echoed faintly from the direction of the kitchen. A voice followed soon after, smooth and friendly.

"Hey, welcome."

A demon appeared, casual in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, an apron tied loosely around his waist. He had the kind of easy presence that filled a room without effort.

Lando's lips curved reflexively. "This is Lewis Hamilton," he said to Oscar and Logan, as though introducing a shopkeeper and not one of the most powerful beings in existence. "He's the former Demon Lord."

Both Oscar and Logan froze.

Logan's translucent form was practically vibrating with tension while Oscar's eyes went wide, his whole body stiffening as if he were suddenly standing in the presence of death itself.

Lewis gave them both a small, friendly smile. "Nice to meet you, man," he said easily, stepping closer. "What should I call you?"

His voice was impossibly gentle for someone who used to command hellfire and armies.

Oscar blinked, caught completely off guard. "U-um… Oscar?" he managed, though the uncertainty in his voice clearly had more to do with everything happening right now than his own name.

Lewis grinned, reaching out for a casual dap. "Oscar? Cool. I'm Lewis."

He turned toward Logan, giving him a small wave. Logan just stared at him like he was watching someone feed a lion by hand. It was obvious they were both waiting for the catch — for the sinister laughter, the burst of demonic energy, the transformation into some monstrous form. None came. Instead, Lewis just went back to stirring something that smelled suspiciously like cinnamon.

"Lewis," Lando continued, as if this were all perfectly normal, "still works as a Pain Private from time to time. He trains soldiers, gives guidance to the demon army."

Lewis shrugged modestly. "Old habits die hard."

He waved a hand toward the living room. "Come, make yourselves comfortable. I'll be done cooking in no time."

Oscar blinked again, clearly still buffering. Logan finally found his voice.

"What's going on?" he demanded, looking sharply at the demons. "What reason did you bring us here? What kind of torture is this?"

Lewis chuckled.. "Oh, no reason, man. Just thought being in a cozy home feels better for a talk than a cold dungeon."

"Hah." Logan crossed his arms, chin tilting up proudly. "So that's the plan. You mean to use kindness to break His Highness' will." He straightened further, puffing his chest. "Too bad. His Highness is a prince and commander of the Imperial Third Legion. Since birth, he was raised in an environment free of indulgence! He's got a heart of steel — no amount of kindness can—"

He didn't get to finish.

Because Oscar had already walked right past him.

The three of them — Lando, Lewis, and Logan — watched as the prince plopped down onto the sofa like a cat finding the warmest sunbeam in the room.

Oscar let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. "This feels so comfortable," he murmured, stretching slightly and sinking deeper into the cushions.

Logan's jaw dropped. "Your Highness?!"

Oscar opened one eye lazily, head tilted back against the sofa's backrest, a serene look of bliss on his face. "Don't worry, Loges. I admit this feels good — it's the best, actually — but it's nothing more than that."

Logan blinked, his shock morphing into fierce admiration. "Your Highness!" he exclaimed. "As expected of you!"

Lando couldn't help it — he laughed, softly, under his breath. The sound came out warmer than he expected. Despite everything that had been weighing on him earlier, watching the prince melt into a pile of blankets while his sword's spirit gave dramatic speeches was almost painfully endearing.

Then Oscar opened his eyes again, sitting up slightly, his expression shifting into one of confident defiance as he turned to look at Lewis. "Logan is right," he said, tone proud. "I grew up in an environment where acting spoiled is unforgivable. I've never let anyone pamper me. Your kindness and sympathy are wasted on me. This will never work."

Something about those words made Lando's smile falter.

He knew the prince was just declaring victory over this torture, but the statement hit differently — heavier. Never pampered. Never comforted. Never allowed to be spoiled.

That was the world Oscar came from: a world of duty, of precision, of endless expectations.

It was like when the knowledge of someone betraying Oscar had flickered unwarranted feelings inside Lando, this too was affecting him in a way he didn't think possible. And now that he knew too well why it had such an effect on him, the realization stung more than he wanted to admit.

Lewis had approached the sofa by then, hands in his pockets, gaze calm and patient. "That's rough, man," he said softly, settling beside Oscar. "You've never been pampered before?"

Oscar blinked, a little thrown. "Uh… yeah?"

Lewis nodded thoughtfully. Then, without warning, he opened his arms. "Come here, man. Let me give you a hug."

Oscar froze. "I— what?"

Lewis smiled, patient as ever. "You don't have to try so hard. Being spoiled doesn't make you weak." His voice softened even more, almost like a lullaby. "You deserve comfort. You deserve to be taken care of. You deserve to be pampered."

The words hung in the air, warm and solid and entirely disarming.

Oscar's eyes went wide, something unsteady flickering there — a crack in his composure that made Lando's chest ache. It was as if no one had ever said those words to him before.

Logan was uncharacteristically silent now, watching the prince closely. Even he seemed unwilling to interrupt. No words like "You must resist, Your Highness!" or "This is exactly what the demons want!" to stop the prince from giving in.

Lewis gave a little nod, encouraging. "Come on, man."

And slowly, hesitantly, the prince moved.

He leaned forward and all but collapsed into Lewis's embrace. The older demon caught him easily, one arm around his back, one hand patting his shoulder. Oscar succumbed almost instantly, like a boy who had never known softness and suddenly found himself drowning in it.

"There you go," Lewis murmured, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "You're doing great. You've done so great. Everything's okay now."

Oscar let out a small, broken sound — not quite a sob, but close. His shoulders relaxed, his entire frame melting as if the tension of years was finally leaving his body.

Lando turned his head away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He could feel every word echoing in his chest too, heavy and warm and unbearable. Lewis had that effect on him — his tenderness and serenity too powerful for any kind of being to resist. Even the Grand Inquisitor had been once in the prince's position.

And now, with all the affliction occupying his demon heart, Lando felt as though the words could very well apply on himself too.

The house was quiet save for the gentle rhythm of Lewis's voice, the faint creak of the sofa, and the muffled hum of contentment from the prince in his arms.

Then, in a soft, almost dreamy tone, Oscar murmured,

"I'll talk."

It wasn't defiance or surrender — just peace.

"I'll talk."

Lando exhaled slowly, his lips curving despite himself.

The torture had ended hours ago, another imperial secret successfully extracted and waiting to be reported.

Now, peace draped over the small home like a soft blanket.

The television murmured in the background, its faint glow painting the room in warm golds and muted blues. On the couch, the prince had dozed off, lying sideways, his head pillowed on Lewis's lap. His breathing was slow and even, his expression softened by sleep, all traces of his earlier tension erased. From time to time, the former demon lord brushed a gentle hand over his shoulder — a silent reassurance, a habit so natural it could only come from long practice at comforting the lost and weary.

On the single sofa nearby, the sacred blade rested against the cushions. Its spirit had withdrawn once more, slipping into a quiet slumber of his own. A faint shimmer lingered in the air, like an afterimage, serene and unbothered.

The scent of baked goods still hung in the air — cinnamon, vanilla, and a touch of sugar. Earlier, the three of them had gathered in the small kitchen to help Lewis in finishing the vegan pasta and homemade muffins he had prepared.

It had been… strange, in the most comforting way. A former demon lord, an imperial human prince, and the spirit of a sacred blade sharing laughter over measuring cups and spilled syrup, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

The warmth of the home-cooked food had done its magic on the prince — it wasn't just the flavor, but the feeling. The way everyone moved in sync, a quiet harmony born not from duty but from belonging. Lewis had beckoned for Lando to join them too, and when Lando hesitated — still caught in the mess of his own heart — the prince had smiled at him.

That smile.

It had been too sincere. Too sweet. Too undeserved.

Even after all the distance Lando had put between them — all the avoidance, all the cowardice — Oscar still looked at him with kindness. Still encouraged him. Still smiled as though Lando hadn't been the one hurting him all along.

He doesn't deserve this, Lando thought. He doesn't deserve to be hurt any longer by my nonsense. By me.

He deserves more.

He deserves the world.

And Lando realized, with a sudden, almost physical sense of release, that this — this was what he wanted to give him. That he didn't want to keep running anymore. The weight that had sat on his shoulders for so long loosened; the knot in his throat finally began to ease.

Enough is enough, he thought.

No more excuses. No more hiding.

He rose from his seat, heart thudding softly, and approached the sofa. Lewis looked up as he neared, eyes knowing.

"Can I take over?" Lando asked quietly.

Lewis studied him for a moment, reading the silent turmoil behind his gaze. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked, voice gentle.

"I—um…" Lando's throat caught. He couldn't find the words.

Lewis smiled faintly. "It's okay, man. Hit me up when you're ready."

Lando nodded, gratitude flickering across his face. The older demon rose carefully, steadying the sleeping prince's head with practiced ease before slowly stepping aside.

And then it was Lando's turn.

He sat down, and the moment Oscar's weight settled on his thigh, something in his chest cracked open. The warmth that bled through the fabric felt achingly familiar — like coming home and realizing you'd been cold for far too long.

He drew a slow breath.

Then, without really thinking, he peeled off his gloves. His bare fingers trembled slightly as he reached out, brushing through Oscar's hair. The strands were impossibly soft, sliding between his fingertips like silk. He traced gentle circles on the prince's scalp, watching how the sleeping man's lips parted in a sigh, his body melting even further into rest.

The tenderness of it all almost hurt.

Lando's throat tightened. He smiled — a small, unguarded thing — and whispered, barely audible over the soft hum of the television:

"I'm sorry, Princess."

He hesitated, gaze lingering on the calm lines of Oscar's face — the faint rise and fall of his chest, the peace that rarely found him. And then, before he could stop himself, Lando bent down and pressed a small kiss to the side of the prince's head. It was fleeting, barely a brush of lips, but it carried the weight of so much he couldn't say — indulgence, reverence, and a quiet kind of devotion that scared him more than anything.

When he pulled back, his voice came softer, trembling:

"I'm so sorry, Oscar."

The name left his lips like a vow.

And as his fingers continued their slow, reverent movement through Oscar's hair, Lando knew — this was his choice. His decision.

To stop running.

To be better.

For him.

For his princess.

The night was alive with stormlight.

From the jagged edge of the cliff, the world below was swallowed in fog — thick, ghostly, and restless, coiling around the mountainside like living smoke. Beyond it, the an enormous castle loomed. Its towers pierced the churning sky, their dark silhouettes outlined by the occasional flash of lightning. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and rumbling, like a warning that came too late.

Rain hadn't fallen yet, but the air was heavy with its promise. The wind carried the scent of ozone and earth, sharp and cold, whipping through the tall grass that framed the cliff's edge.

A lone figure stood there — tall, motionless, clad in full armor that glimmered faintly whenever lightning cracked across the sky. Every inch of them was hidden: helmet sealed, cloak tattered by wind, boots braced against the rock beneath their feet.

For a long while, they said nothing. Only the storm spoke, the world trembling in its wake.

Then, the voice came — distorted slightly beneath the metallic echo of the helm, calm but heavy with resolve.

"So that is the Demon Castle…"

Their gaze stayed fixed on the fortress in the distance, where faint lights flickered like watchful eyes through the fog. A pause followed, long and deliberate, as though they were steadying the weight of what came next.

And then, softer, but no less certain:

"I'm here to save you, Prince Oscar."

Another thunderclap split the sky, illuminating the armor's reflective surface in brilliant white.

And just like that, the storm began to break.

Chapter Text

Lando still felt the ghost of Oscar's hair between his fingers when he knocked on the door to the Chamber of Agony — which, despite its name, was really just Carlos's office. He could still feel the softness of those strands, could still hear the tiny, sleepy sound that had escaped the prince's throat as he'd idly carded his hair. It had sounded like a purr.

A genuine, little purr.

That sound had lodged itself in Lando's brain, looping endlessly as he walked through the hallways, a warmth blooming in his chest so wide it almost hurt. Even now, standing before the large iron door, that warmth was still there — a fuzzy, glowing thing that made his usual demon composure crumble at the edges.

He grinned to himself.

Oscar had been sluggish earlier, half-asleep after they'd teleported back to the castle, so Lando had sent him straight to bed. He'd told himself he would give him time to rest, let things settle, mend the cracks that his cowardice had made between them. But tonight — or perhaps tomorrow — he'd talk to him properly. Tell him everything.

Not excuses. Reasons.

And after that, he'd do better. For Oscar. For their—

He stopped himself before the thought could finish and pressed a hand over his chest, as if to physically contain the feeling before it could burst out of him.

He knocked, and Carlos's voice immediately boomed from inside:

"Ey, Landito! You're smiling again!"

Lando blinked, pushing the door open. "What does that mean?"

Carlos was at his desk — if it could even be called that. It was less of a workspace and more of a chaotic shrine of glowing crystals, coffee cups, and unholy paperwork stacked like mini mountains.

The Chief Advisor grinned as Lando entered, fingers still flying across his keyboard. "I mean, in the past few days, you've looked like you're the one being tortured."

Lando froze. "I… what?"

Carlos shrugged, utterly casual. "Yeah, you had that face. The one that screams 'someone broke my heart but I'm pretending I don't care.'"

"…I did not."

Carlos gave him a pointed look.

Lando sighed, shoulders dropping. No point denying it. "Yeah, well. I just had a revelation."

Carlos's grin widened like a shark scenting blood. "With the princess?"

Lando's frown was instantaneous. "Don't call him that."

"Oho?" The Chief Advisor leaned back, smirking.

"That's my—" he stopped himself, cleared his throat. His next words came out softer, but the possessive tone was unmistakable. "Only I can call him that."

Carlos blinked, then laughed — genuinely, loudly, obnoxiously. "All right, all right," he said, hands up in mock surrender. "With your prince, then?"

That sounded… better, Lando admitted inwardly. But when he caught the teasing glint in Carlos's eyes, he groaned.

"Don't start," he muttered, heading straight for the couch in the receiving area.

Carlos followed, still grinning, phone in hand. "I'm just saying, Landito, you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The I-would-burn-down-heaven-if-he-asked-me-nicely look."

Lando shot him a glare. "I'm here to make a report."

Carlos chuckled but didn't push further. He flopped onto the couch opposite him, opened a messaging app, and said, "Go on."

He straightened, adopting the stance that befits his title. "The prisoner confessed that…"

He paused dramatically, because he could. "The code for the Imperial Palace's WiFi network is HumankindSupremacy00481."

Carlos didn't even blink. He typed it down, sent it, and they both heard the ding from his phone.

Lando waited as Carlos read the new message. He knew this was how Carlos relayed the reports to Max whenever the Demon Lord wasn't present — quick, efficient, and blessedly free of paperwork.

Technically, Lando could've sent his reports directly too. He even had access to the same group chat. But protocol was protocol, and protocol dictated that all reports must first be approved by the Chief Advisor before they reached the Demon Lord's inbox.

And in the Demon Army, protocol was absolute.

There were entire meetings — weekly, mandatory meetings — about the importance of hierarchy and message formatting. There were also two separate subcommittees dedicated to proper emoji use in official correspondence. Carlos chaired both.

So Lando, like a good soldier, followed procedure. He'd rather fight a horde of angels than submit an unverified report straight to Max.

"Fast response," Lando noted.

Carlos hummed, tapping. "Yeah, that's Max. He says, and I quote, 'LMAO what the heaven.'"

"Tell him it's the real code," Lando said.

Carlos dutifully typed: it's legit. Another ding.

"He says, 'check speed.'"

Lando nodded, recalling the prince's words. "A few terabytes per second."

Carlos froze mid-type, then looked up, one brow arched. "…That's mega high-speed. Fiber optic?"

"Uh-huh," Lando said, dead serious.

Carlos leaned back, mumbling, "I swear, these humans keep inventing stuff faster than we can break it."

"Protocol requires efficiency," Lando replied automatically, because that was what demons said when they had no idea what else to say.

And then — as if summoned by those words — an alarm blared.

It was muted, inaudible to mortals, but for demon ears it was a banshee's shriek.

Carlos swore under his breath. "You've got to be kidding me—" He darted to his desk, checking his screens. Rows of sigils and alert symbols blinked in angry red.

Lando followed him out of habit.

Carlos cursed again, but after releasing a quite long exasperated sigh, he added:

"There's a breach."

The tension should have been high — a breach in the Demon Lord's castle wasn't something that happened every day — but neither Lando nor Carlos seemed particularly panicked.

They'd both been through worse, and honestly, this sort of thing was more of an inconvenience than a crisis. Carlos muttered curses under his breath, pacing with all the enthusiasm of a demon who was simply doing his job. "Another intruder. Fantastic. Because clearly, I didn't have enough paperwork this week," he grumbled, the soles of his boots clacking faintly on the stone floor.

Lando, on the other hand, leaned lazily over Carlos's shoulder to peek at the monitors, eyes gleaming with mild amusement. "You're grumpy," he remarked.

"I'm working," Carlos shot back. "Unlike some people."

Carlos flicked a switch, and one of the larger screens came alive with glowing red thermal signatures. "Thermal sensor indicates it's a human."

That caught Lando's attention immediately. His head tilted, and for a moment, his expression shifted from amused to curious. "A human?" he repeated.

Humans didn't usually come here — not to this place. Not to a castle that even demons sometimes avoided entering at night. Most humans with sense knew better.

"Yes, a human," Carlos said. "Alive, breathing, warm. Doesn't look like a ghost."

Lando hummed softly, intrigued. "Now that's rare."

Together, they began cycling through the camera feeds. Row after row of flickering magical screens displayed corridors, stairwells, and darkened halls. After a few clicks, they found the intruder — a figure in full armor, form distinctly male, cape flowing behind, moving with purpose through the fog-shrouded halls.

"Only one?" Lando asked.

Carlos nodded, zooming in. "Just one. No backup. Brave, or stupid."

From the feeds outside, the lesser demons stationed at the gates were all collapsed on the ground, fast asleep. Their chests rose and fell rhythmically.

"Sleeping spell," Carlos muttered, tapping his gloved fingers against the desk. "Human magic. Not bad."

Lando whistled lowly, half impressed, half entertained. "He put them to sleep? Cute."

On-screen, the armored human began opening doors — one by one — clearly searching for something.

Carlos's fingers flew across the console, switching angles. "What do you think he's looking for?"

Lando shrugged. "If he's smart, a way out."

But then, something in the architecture caught Lando's eye — the pattern of the hallway, the ornate wall carvings. Recognition struck him like a drop of cold water down his spine. His posture straightened.

"Wait," he said slowly, leaning closer. "Which feed is this from?"

Carlos squinted at the label at the bottom of the screen. "Uh… East Wing."

Lando's voice dropped an octave. "That's the private chambers."

A chill ran through him. His pulse spiked.

Oscar.

His princess.

"Wait, wait, wait," Carlos said, scrolling fast through another set of feeds. "You're not saying—"

"The intruder's in the private wing," Lando said, already standing.

For the first time, Carlos looked worried. "You think he's after the prince?"

Lando froze. His heart, which had just been racing with panic, stuttered at the thought.

"Oh," he said blankly. "Right. That makes sense."

They exchanged a look, both realizing the absurdity at the same time — but neither of them laughed.

Because of course it made sense. The human was here to rescue the Imperial Prince Oscar Jack Piastri. The prince was, after all, the Demon Army's prisoner.

Which meant this intruder — human, armored, shining like some storybook knight — was here for that exact purpose.

And for a reason that was both entirely rational and completely insane, Lando's immediate thought wasn't about protecting the castle. It was: Oscar is in danger.

"I need to rescue my princess," he whispered aloud, voice deadly serious.

Carlos turned toward him, one brow raised so high it nearly left his forehead. "You mean the prisoner?"

Lando didn't even blink. "My princess."

Carlos sighed. "Ay, demon bureaucracy, take me now."

"The private chambers are in the east wing," Carlos said after a moment, tapping the map.

"So?" Lando snapped, already halfway to the door.

"So," Carlos replied, "we're in the west wing."

Lando froze.

"…and?"

Carlos looked at him like he was stupid. "And you can't teleport inside the castle."

"Why not?!"

"Health regulations," Carlos said flatly. "Promotes exercise."

Lando's expression crumpled into disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope. Section IV, Subparagraph C. 'All demons of rank three and above must avoid short-distance teleportation within the castle premises to ensure physical wellbeing.'"

"Who even writes these things?"

"Max."

"Of course he did," Lando groaned, clutching his head. "Shit."

He cursed again when the intruder, on-screen, reached the last few doors leading toward Oscar's chamber. "Shit, shit, shit."

Carlos leaned closer. "He's in."

The screen blinked — the door opened — and then the figure of the intruder disappeared from the feed they were watching.

Lando's stomach dropped.

Because of course — another rule. No cameras were permitted inside private chambers. For privacy, dignity, and "the preservation of moral balance in the workplace."

There was a loophole, of course. With the Demon Lord's direct permission, they could override that rule and open a feed. But the permission had to come from the top — from Max himself.

Carlos was already typing furiously on his device, probably alerting guards and subordinates. "If you go now, maybe you'll arrive before it's too late," he said.

But Lando wasn't listening. His eyes were still fixed on the screen that only showed the empty corridor. "I need to see," he murmured. "I need to know what's going on in there."

"I'll ask Max," Carlos said, thumbs flying.

"No—" Lando hesitated, torn. "No, it's a private chamber. I shouldn't—"

"It's an emergency, no?" Carlos interrupted, deadpan.

"…Yes," Lando said reluctantly.

"Then shut up and let me type."

He started tapping, but Lando grabbed his wrist. "Wait. Actually—"

Carlos groaned. "Ay ay ay, cabrón, make up your mind. I'm sure your prince will understand."

Lando clenched his jaw. He knew Carlos was right — protocol allowed an override in emergencies. Still, the thought of invading Oscar's privacy made him feel strangely guilty. He'd been firm about it from the start: no surveillance in the prince's chambers. Ever.

The reason he was even assigned a separate chamber from his prison cell at nights was for his privacy. Lando had been the one who insisted it.

But now—

"Okay," he said quietly. "Ask Max."

Carlos nodded once and hit send.

By the time the access code came through, Lando's heart was pounding so hard it was almost painful.

It was ridiculous — irrational — he knew Oscar could take care of himself. The prince was no fragile human; he could outwit and outfight most of the demons here if he wanted to. But logic didn't matter. Not right now.

Because in this moment, Lando wasn't thinking as a soldier of the Demon Army. He was thinking as someone utterly, stupidly devoted to one particular human.

The screen flickered to life.

Static.

Then focus.

The armored figure was standing in front of Oscar's bed, speaking to him, still just in the middle of his introduction. The human's voice came through faintly: "I am the commander of the Imperial First Legion, the White Knight. I'm here to save you, Prince Oscar."

Carlos, from the side, nodded once. "Ah. As I thought."

Lando ignored him completely, eyes locked on the screen.

Oscar's expression — first confusion, then dawning comprehension, then a flicker of excitement — shifted in a way that made Lando's chest tighten.

And finally, that brightness faded. A quiet sadness touched his face.

Lando didn't know why.

But the sight of it was enough to silence him completely.

Then, after a long minute, the expression on the prince's face shifted again. The sadness smoothed away, replaced by something steadier — quieter — a kind of resolve that only came when one had decided something after a silent war inside their head.

"Okay," Oscar said at last.

He pushed himself off the bed, his bare feet touching the cool stone floor. He turned to where the sacred blade rested on its divan, its faint light cutting through the dim of the chamber. Lando watched from the monitor as Oscar reached for it — his movements careful, reverent — and wrapped his hand around the hilt.

"Logan's still sleeping," Oscar murmured, almost to himself. His fingers tightened around the weapon, the metal glinting faintly in the lamplight.

Lando didn't know what he was feeling—not fully. There was a dull thud in his chest, something heavy and strange and impossible to name. He could only stare, frozen, even as Carlos leaned back and said, "Hey, isn't that bad?"

"It's bad," Lando muttered automatically. It's really bad.

And yet, for some incomprehensible reason, he wasn't worried. He trusted— he didn't know what he trusted. But he was putting his trust on something.

However, that fragile calm shattered with the next words that came through the speakers.

"How are we going to do this?" Oscar asked, his tone serious, though there was something wistful in it — a softness that didn't quite belong in a moment like this.

He sounded resigned.

The intruder shifted slightly, voice muffled through his helmet. "I apologize, but there's only three minutes left with the sleeping spell I casted earlier. I… spent too much time searching for you."

Oscar nodded, waiting. "Okay. Then?"

"I'm going to have to cast a long-distance teleportation spell," the intruder explained. "But it requires concentration. And time. I need you to be very close to me to make sure we don't get separated mid-cast."

Lando blinked.

Oscar's eyes widened, faintly surprised. "How close are we talking?"

The intruder hesitated — then said, in complete seriousness, "I'm afraid I have to hold you."

Lando felt something inside him snap.

A sharp, hot spike of emotion tore through his chest — possessive, irrational, molten fury — and his left eye twitched.

On the monitor, Oscar blinked again, processing. There was a long pause before he nodded slowly, voice low and calm. "Okay. That'll be fine."

The armored figure stepped closer.

He reached out, placing one hand on Oscar's waist — right there, in that exact spot. The same place Lando had caught him by instinct back in the paddock, the same place his hand had lingered just a second too long, the same place he'd been stupid enough to find himself worshiping in his mind.

Lando shot to his feet so fast the chair screeched across the floor.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—where in Max's name is this human putting his hands on?!" he shouted.

Carlos, mid-conversation on his phone, blinked at him. "Huh?"

He jabbed a finger at the monitor to show to the other.

Carlos looked. Then, "Uh-oh."

Lando's cold blood was boiling by now, fury replacing every coherent thought. His voice dropped low, dangerous, as if some feral instinct had been roused. "He's touching him! He has his filthy hand on my—!"

He couldn't finish his sentence with how appalled he was. 

"Connect the feed to my phone, please," he said before moving, having enough of simply watching from a screen. I'm going to cut those fingers off.

The Chief Advisor opened his mouth to argue, saw Lando's face, and decided against it. "Done," he said quickly, forwarding the live feed with a few swift taps.

Lando briskly grabbed his phone and without another word, he strode out of the Chamber of Agony, footsteps echoing down the long corridor.

He had only one thought in his mind, looping over and over again like a war chant—

The intruder needs to disappear.

Then he was running.

Not striding, not jogging — running.

The kind of running that made the stone floors tremble and passing lesser demons flatten themselves against the walls to avoid being bulldozed. His boots pounded on the marble tiles like war drums, echoing through the endless corridors of the Demon Castle.

And really, none of this would've been necessary if teleportation was allowed indoors. But no — the Demon Lord had decreed that "teleportation inside the castle promotes laziness," and the troops "needed the cardio."

So now, technically, Lando was complying with health policy.

He'd tell Max that later, if he survived this.

His phone was in one hand, the live feed still open. Most of his attention wasn't on where he was going — it was glued to the small glowing screen.

On it, the intruder had begun chanting.

A faint glimmer of green light swirled around him and Oscar — not ominous, exactly, but flashy enough to scream "I'm doing magic" to anyone within a mile radius.

Lando should've been thinking about the tactical implications — a human intruder using a teleportation spell inside their base, potentially snatching the most valuable prisoner in Demon Army history. A direct threat to their intelligence operations.

But that wasn't what occupied his mind.

Instead, his chest tightened as he watched Oscar stand still inside the ring of light, his expression unreadable, his grip on the sacred blade so firm that his knuckles paled. The prince shifted occasionally, awkward, uncomfortable — inching away whenever the armored intruder adjusted his hold.

That at least soothed Lando's rage by a fraction. Good, he thought grimly, he doesn't like it either.

He turned another sharp corner, nearly crashing into a decorative suit of armor, muttering a quick "sorry, bro" before continuing.

The corridors blurred. The pounding of his boots echoed off the walls, blending with his heartbeat. His eyes darted back to the feed again — Oscar's face filled the screen, calm, passive, outwardly composed. But Lando could see it. He knew that look too well.

There was a storm brewing in that silence.

It showed in the way Oscar lowered his gaze, in the subtle twitch of his brow, in how his lips pressed together just enough to betray tension.

Something was turning in the prince's mind. Something big.

What's on your mind, Princess? he thought momentarily, curious as well as intrigued.

Another surge of light magic rippled across the chamber. The spell was nearing completion — the glow had thickened, nearly solid now, wrapping the pair in a shimmering emerald cocoon.

"Not on my watch," Lando hissed through his teeth.

He sprinted faster. The private chambers were close — he could feel it.

In the feed, the intruder began reciting the ending lines of his spell, voice rising, rhythmic. The prince gripped the blade tighter, muscles coiled, as though readying himself for something.

Lando didn't slow down. The last corridor opened before him, and he could already see Oscar — the soft outline of him, the shape that had lived in Lando's mind long after he should've let it go.

The green light surged again. The intruder raised his arm for the final incantation.

Lando growled, his demonic voice causing a vibration in the air.

Then, with a burst of speed that probably impressed no one but himself, he reached the ornate double doors of Oscar's chamber—

—and kicked them.

Not pushed. Not opened. Destroyed.

Wood splintered, hinges screamed, and the doors exploded inward with the kind of force only a demon's panic could produce.

It wasn't because he thought it was tactically wise. It wasn't because he needed to stop a potential enemy.

He just — needed to see Oscar. Right now.

The noise was deafening, the air thick with dust and magic residue. Lando stumbled half a step inside, chest heaving, vision clearing just in time to take in the scene before him.

And what he saw froze him in place.

The spell was collapsing — the green light unraveling into sparks that scattered across the floor.

The intruder barely had time to react before Oscar moved.

The prince's sword — that sacred, blinding blade that even demons hesitated to look at directly — struck in one clean, fluid motion.

A flash of white-green light burst outward from the impact, bright but not blinding, painting the entire room in celestial hues. It rippled like a wave, washing over Lando, but without pain — just a rush of warmth and raw energy that made his hair stand on end.

And the intruder's armored form dissipated in tiny particles before completely dissolving in the air.

And he vanished just like that, leaving nothing but traces of his magic on his wake.

And for a suspended heartbeat, everything was still.

Oscar remained in his stance — sword still raised, chest rising and falling, eyes focused with fierce, quiet fire.

Lando couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe.

And then, as the last of the light drifted away like glowing embers, Oscar turned his head.

Their eyes met— demon and prince stared at each other through the fading haze.

Lando stood there for a heartbeat, still frozen in the ruined doorway, staring at the aftermath of what just happened. His mind was racing to catch up, his lungs burning, his body half-running on leftover adrenaline.

Oscar was the first to move.

Slowly, he lowered his sword. The divine glow faded from the blade until only the faint shimmer of holy light lingered at its edge. He straightened up — the perfect, regal composure returning to his posture — but the look in his eyes was nothing like the sharp command of the prince who had just struck down an enemy.

His voice was softer when he spoke, almost unsure.

"Um—he's not—he's not dead."

He gestured vaguely to the space where the intruder had stood, now empty, the remnants of the teleportation spell still sparkling faintly in the air like fading stars. "I just sent him back to the human realm," Oscar said, almost defensively, as if he needed to make it clear that he hadn't gone overboard.

Lando blinked. Once. Twice. His mind was a collection of static.

He didn't particularly care that the intruder was alive.

He didn't particularly care that Oscar was explaining himself.

He didn't even particularly care why Oscar was saying any of it.

All Lando could register was that Oscar was still here.

That he had stayed.

That he had made the choice — on his own — to stay.

That he had refused to be taken.

A rush of something tangled — relief, disbelief, something else that felt far too warm and raw to name — flooded Lando's chest as he took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

He didn't even know what he meant to do — reach out, touch him, say something — when suddenly, a small, groggy voice came from the sword in Oscar's hand.

"Your Highness?" the voice mumbled sleepily. "Huh? Why's the demon here?"

Lando blinked at the blade.

Oscar, however, looked completely unfazed. He sighed, lowering the sword and muttering, "Go back to sleep. It's nothing."

He walked to the divan and carefully set the sacred blade down on the cushions as though putting a child to bed.

"Did something happened, Your Highness?" Logan questioned, though his voice sounded too heavy with sleep.

"Stay down, Logan. Everything's okay," he said gently.

The sword made a faint noise that could only be interpreted as a sleepy 'Understood', followed by a yawn. The lingering hum of divine energy softened, like the sound of someone snoring under a blanket.

And then the prince turned around and faced the demon once again.

Lando stepped closer — slower this time, deliberate. He let his gaze run over the prince, scanning for wounds, burns, anything out of place.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly, his voice holding both worry and something far more fragile.

Oscar lifted a shoulder and made a vague gesture that said look at me, I'm fine.

"I'm good," he said.

Lando studied him a moment longer, just to make sure. Then he nodded, relief washing through him.

But his mind still tripped over the one question that refused to leave.

"Why did you…?" Lando's words trailed off as he made a vague motion to the empty space where the intruder had been, as though that alone explained what he meant. He couldn't quite bring himself to ask outright why did you stop your own rescue?

"Oh," Oscar said softly, then hesitated. His eyes darted away, toward the floor.

That look again. The same one Lando had seen earlier. The small furrow in his brow. The flicker of uncertainty that came as he was tried to find the right answer instead of the true one.

"Princess?" Lando said gently, taking another step forward.

Oscar's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I, um—" He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere except Lando's. "I didn't like how he was touching me?"

He ended it as a question, voice rising just slightly, and Lando almost laughed because it was so transparently not the reason.

He didn't need to hear the rest. He didn't need to be told.

He knew Oscar — knew his face, his smallest tells, the way his eyes spoke even when his words didn't.

And what those eyes said now wasn't about 'being touched'.

It was that he didn't want to leave.

That the choice he made wasn't about the intruder at all.

It was about staying.

But Oscar couldn't say that aloud. Not as a commander of the Imperial First Legion. Not as a prince of the empire sworn to hate the demons he now lived among. The weight of his name, his title, his duty — all of it sealed his mouth shut. To admit that he wanted to stay would be to betray everything he was supposed to stand for.

So he gave Lando an excuse instead. A flimsy one. And trusted that Lando would understand the truth underneath it.

And he did.

Lando felt that understanding settle deep in his chest, heavy and bright at the same time. It was the same quiet trust that had been carrying him through this entire impossible situation — the trust that somehow, despite everything, Oscar wouldn't run.

That trust, now, was real.

Lando nodded once — small, firm — to let Oscar know he understood. That he got it. That he'd heard what wasn't being said.

Then he nodded again, mostly to himself, like he was confirming a decision that had already been made in his heart long ago.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and his voice came out low, gentle, uncharacteristically steady.

"Come here, Oscar."

Oscar blinked, startled. "What—"

Too late.

Lando reached out and pulled him close, and Oscar gasped — small and genuine — before melting into the embrace with a soft sigh that Lando felt more than heard.

The room went quiet again. No magic, no chaos, no politics — just the muffled sound of Oscar's breath against Lando's collarbone and the faint hum of the sacred blade snoring in the background.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was still.

A few minutes had passed since the light and chaos had faded.

Now, silence filled the room.

Lando found himself sitting on the floor of the prince's chamber — the very chamber he'd partly destroyed a few minutes ago — now clean and smooth again after he'd used a quick spell to clear the splinters and debris. The ruined door, however, remained unreplaced, just a jagged emptiness in the frame that made the room feel oddly larger.

But Lando didn't mind.

It was safe now. Safe enough to sit here, back pressed to the foot of Oscar's bed, knees half-bent and shoulders finally relaxed. The faint warmth of the room, the soft rustle of the curtains, and the quiet, steady presence beside him made the moment feel almost unreal — like everything that had just happened was only a fever dream.

Oscar sat beside him, mirroring his position.

Their shoulders didn't touch, but their hands did — Lando had reached out earlier, without really thinking, and taken Oscar's hand into his. His own gloves were off, discarded somewhere between apology and instinct, and he could feel the subtle pulse of warmth radiating from Oscar's palm. Oscar's hand, on the other hand, felt so alive — so warm, so human — that Lando couldn't help but revel in the contrast.

Oscar's warmth, his own cool skin. A perfect contradiction.

The soft friction between their palms grounded him.

It was ridiculous how something so simple could make him feel this calm.

He wanted to stay like this — quiet, undisturbed — to just bask in the faint hum of life that was Oscar. But there was still something he needed to say, something he'd been holding in for far too long.

So, reluctantly, Lando broke the silence.

"Your powers," he said softly, gaze still fixed on the far wall. "They're truly devastating."

Oscar chuckled, the sound light, soft, and impossibly human. "I am the commander of a legion, after all."

Lando quirked his lips, a smile tugging faintly at one corner. He tilted his head, just enough to give Oscar a sidelong glance before looking forward again.

"It's not that," he said quietly.

Oscar blinked, puzzled. "Huh?"

"That wasn't the kind of power I was talking about."

Oscar turned his head to look at him fully now, eyes glimmering under the dim candlelight, curiosity and warmth mixing in their depths. His voice softened when he asked, "Then what were you talking about?"

Lando lowered his gaze, searching within himself for hesitation. For that small, lingering fear that always stopped him before. But there was none. Only the steady, clear realization that he didn't have anything left to hide.

He smiled faintly — a quiet, self-deprecating smile — and said, "Your power to consume me entirely."

Oscar's breath caught. His eyes widened slightly, and then, to Lando's delight, a slow, unmistakable blush crept up his cheeks, painting them a warm shade of pink. The prince tried to compose himself but failed spectacularly, lowering his knees and pulling them up, resting one arm over them before leaning his cheek against it — the picture of both shyness and charm.

Lando watched him like one would watch a painting come to life.

He looked soft, calm, at ease — and Lando thought, He looks lovely.

Then Oscar spoke, breaking the quiet spell with a small, teasing voice. "You're done avoiding me now?"

Lando winced. He deserved that.

Oscar's tone was light, almost playful, but Lando could hear the sincerity underneath — the small trace of hurt that had been left behind.

"I am truly ashamed of my past actions," Lando said, his voice low and steady. "It was… terrifying, how fast you consumed my mind and conquered my heart. I didn't want to admit I was that easy."

He exhaled softly, then turned his head and met Oscar's gaze. "I didn't want to admit that just like that, I have fallen—" His words lingered, quiet and bare. "—that I have completely fallen for you."

Oscar's lips parted slightly, his breath hitching.

"I know I've hurt you," Lando went on. "I know my actions have affected you. Still, I'd dare ask…" He smiled faintly, a tender vulnerability in his eyes as he added, "Will you forgive me, Princess?"

Then he shook his head gently and corrected himself, voice even softer. "No—Oscar?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the faint hum of candlelight flickering between them filled the space.

Then Oscar smiled — small, quiet, almost sullen. "I thought you lost interest in me," he admitted.

Lando shook his head firmly, his tone fierce even in its softness. "Never. Not in the least. No."

Oscar looked at him then, really looked, and the silence that followed was tender. Then, with a small sigh, he said, "To be honest… I didn't like it. When you weren't looking at me. When I didn't have your full attention."

He paused, watching Lando's stunned expression, and then added, more playfully, "But I'll forgive you if you make it up to me."

Lando blinked, caught off guard — and then straightened, attentive, eyes wide. "Anything you want."

Oscar smiled at him — sweetly, softly, the kind of smile that made Lando's heart feel like it was doing acrobatics.

"Take me on a date, then."

For a heartbeat, Lando just stared, like he wasn't sure he'd heard right. Then, slowly, his expression broke into a grin so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

In that moment, he looked nothing like a demon — no dark shadows, no intimidating aura. Just a fool in love.

"Of course, Princess," he said, and the word came out like a promise.

The warmth that followed sat between them, light and quiet. Neither of them spoke for a long while after that. Lando's hand was still around Oscar's, thumb brushing lazily over his knuckles, and Oscar didn't pull away.

For the first time since the beginning of this absurd, chaotic ordeal, everything felt right.

Eventually, though, the soft chime of a message interrupted their moment.

Lando reluctantly let go of Oscar's hand to check his phone. It was from Carlos.

Tomorrow morning, the prince will be having an audience with Max. Be ready.

Lando stared at the message for a second, then sighed quietly. "Tomorrow's going to be quite a day."

He turned to Oscar, who was watching him curiously, and said, "You should rest, Princess."

Oscar made a face but didn't protest as Lando gently urged him up.

The chamber was still doorless, the jagged edges of the destroyed frame faintly visible in the dim light. Before leaving, Lando raised a hand and muttered a spell under his breath — a soft shimmer of blue magic spread across the doorway, forming an invisible seal that concealed the room from any prying eyes.

Oscar had already slipped back under his covers by then, drowsy but smiling faintly, and Lando lingered for just a moment longer — long enough to take in the sight of him safe, warm, and still here.

Then he stepped out quietly, sealing the magic behind him, leaving the prince to rest for what would be, undoubtedly, quite a day.

It was late in the morning when things finally started to fall back into their usual routine.

The Demon Army ran on a painfully strict schedule — everything by procedure, everything by order — and Lando was back to where he was supposed to be: inside the cell, where his prisoners awaited him.

Except, well… today was slightly different.

For one, he and Oscar were now something.

Not quite lovers (they hadn't even had their date yet), but there was a mutual understanding. An unspoken something that hovered in the air between them — a steady, undeniable current that made their exchanges feel heavier, their gazes a little longer, their words a little softer.

Although, if Lando was being honest with himself, he'd been looking at Oscar like that long before any understanding.

Still, they weren't being ridiculous about it. They weren't sighing each other's names or holding hands across the cell floor. They were professionals. They had duties, roles, reputations.

...That said, if Lando's hand lingered too long around Oscar's ankle as he fastened the chain — if his fingers brushed lightly, reverently against bare skin he had no business touching — then that was his business.

And if he smiled too sweetly while waking Oscar up earlier that morning, his voice soft like sugar when he said, "Good morning, Princess," well… that was between him and his own questionable self-control.

Normally, this would be the part where Lando delivered his standard line — "It's time for torture, Princess" — but today's schedule had no room for dramatics.

He had to inform Oscar and Logan that they would be having an audience with the Demon Lord in an hour.

Now, all three of them were waiting for Carlos's signal.

Logan was the only one visibly confused, which was fair. He'd been asleep (well, "temporarily unconscious") during the events of last night, and his current state — translucent and faintly glowing as his spirit hovered around the sacred blade — didn't seem to be helping him piece anything together.

He'd asked Lando thrice now what this was all about.

Lando's answers had been unhelpfully vague.

Meanwhile, Oscar sat calmly on the edge of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone like this was the most mundane morning of his life. There was no nervousness, no dread about meeting the Demon Lord — just a faint sigh as his thumb swiped across the screen.

As expected of him, Lando thought.

The same calm, regal presence even in the most absurd of circumstances.

Before long, his phone buzzed with Carlos's message — a single line of text that meant, bring them in.

Lando straightened and turned to Oscar.

"Shall we go, Princess?" he said gently.

Oscar gave his phone one last glance, locked the screen, and pocketed it. "Lead the way."

Lando knelt and unfastened the chain from Oscar's ankle. His hand brushed against skin again, Lando making a habit of it, before he finally stood and offered his hand.

This time, Oscar didn't hesitate. Their hands met naturally, seamlessly, as though this was how it had always been meant to be.

From the side, Logan watched the exchange with raised eyebrows, clearly noting the quiet domesticity of the moment but wisely keeping his mouth shut. His translucent form hovered dutifully near the sacred blade, silent but curious.

The walk to the throne room was calm, filled only with the soft sound of their footsteps. No tension hung between them — only that subtle closeness, that quiet gravity.

Even when Lando let go of Oscar's hand, he didn't stray far. He stayed close, his hand occasionally resting on the small of Oscar's back to guide him through the hallways — a touch so gentle, so deliberate, that Oscar didn't comment, and Logan pretended not to notice.

By the time they entered the throne room, Max was already waiting — sitting regally on his throne, bathed in ethereal red light, looking every bit the Demon Lord he was supposed to be.

His expression was unreadable, his aura formidable.

How rare, Lando thought, he's taking it seriously.

Carlos stood to his right, posture relaxed, expression neutral. But when his eyes flicked to Lando and caught sight of the close proximity between him and the prince — and the placement of Lando's guiding hand — Carlos' lips curled into a slow, knowing grin.

Lando ignored him.

He dropped to one knee before the throne, head bowed. "Your Majesty," he said, voice formal, "I've brought the prisoner."

For a moment, Max maintained his composure.

For a glorious, dignified sixty seconds, he truly looked like a ruler of the underworld.

Then he abruptly stood, completely abandoning the posture of a distinguished ruler, and came down the steps toward the prisoner with all the grace of a demon who just wanted this to be over with so he could go back to sim racing.

Oscar raised a brow, calm and mildly curious.

"Hey, Loges," he murmured to the hovering spirit beside him. "Is this really the Demon Lord?"

Logan frowned, squinting. "I don't know, Your Highness. He looks… quite young."

Oscar nodded solemnly. "Maybe it's a body double. A proxy?"

"Yes, that's probably it," Logan agreed, just as seriously.

Lando bit the inside of his cheek so hard to stop his laughter that it hurt. He didn't correct them.

"So," Max said finally, stopping in front of Oscar. "You're Oscar."

"Um—yeah? I mean, yes, I am," Oscar said, polite but puzzled.

Max nodded once, arms folded. "I was informed that last night, you intercepted an attack from a member of the Imperial Army."

"What?" Logan blurted, eyes widening. "What are you talking about? His Highness is a member of the Imperial Army—he's a commander! There's no way he would intercept such—"

"Logan," Oscar interrupted softly.

The spirit turned to face him, scandalized. "So something did happen last night!"

"As I was saying," Max continued dryly, "before I was rudely interrupted by a ghost—"

Logan gasped. "Rude!"

"—you intercepted an attack last night, correct?"

Oscar licked his lips out of habit, uncertain, then said carefully, "I didn't intercept an attack. It wasn't an attack."

"But you were the one who sent the intruder away, correct?" Max pressed.

Oscar blinked, glancing at Lando for confirmation. Lando nodded once, expression showing support.

Oscar sighed. "If you put it that way, then yes."

Max nodded again, his expression oddly pleased. "Good. I was right."

Then, after a pause, he said, "So you intercepted an attack last night—"

Oscar opened his mouth to correct him again but gave up halfway through the inhale.

"—and because of that," Max said, straightening, "I'm going to give you a reward."

Oscar's head snapped up. "Wait, what? I'm not your soldier! Why are you giving me a reward?"

"Reward promotes motivation, therefore leading to increased performance and job satisfaction," Max replied, calm as ever. "So. Tell me what you want."

Oscar stared at him, incredulous.

Logan floated closer, whispering, "Is it even allowed for the Demon Lord's proxy to make such decisions?"

Meanwhile, Lando stayed silent, arms crossed, a quiet smile playing on his lips. He knew Max. He'd anticipated that this could happen. 

But more importantly, he was curious what Oscar would ask for.

After a moment of hesitant deliberation, Oscar took out his phone. "Okay, hear me out then."

Max's eyebrows rose, intrigued. "Oh? You've already got something in mind?"

Oscar nodded, scrolling rapidly. "Yes. Give me a second—" He tapped, swiped, and then looked up. "Alright. Here."

He turned the screen toward Max.

Max leaned in to read, lips moving faintly as he mouthed the words. Carlos, naturally, leaned over his shoulder to read as well.

Lando couldn't hear what they were saying — but when Max finally looked up, his eyes gleamed with realization.

Then he looked straight at Lando, the expression on his face telling Lando he was thinking about something that involved him.

And when he was done with the thought, presumably made up his mind, he grinned.

Lando's curiosity heightened with that single grin.

Max turned back to Oscar, voice light but laced with mischief. "A bilateral peace treaty," he said, almost impressed. "I must say, I didn't see this coming."

Lando blinked, startled. "What?"

Logan gasped, scandalized. "Your Highness?!"

But Oscar's eyes were on Max, steady, unflinching.

"This," Max continued, pacing slowly, "will be negotiated — but only under one condition."

Oscar furrowed his brow, suddenly cautious. "What condition?"

Max's grin widened into something far too pleased, far too confident.

"Comprehensive agreement," he declared, "via political marriage."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

The throne room was silent — eerily, stupidly silent — like the entire castle collectively stopped breathing to process what had just been said.

Then, inevitably, the silence shattered.

"I'm sorry—WHAT?!" Oscar's voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and outrage.

Even Logan, who was normally the level-headed one, turned translucent white. "Marriage?!" he yelled, floating upward in distress. "Your Highness, you can't just—wait, who's marrying who?!"

Max clasped his hands together, pleased with the reaction. "The Imperial Prince, of course. And my trusted Grand Inquisitor."

Oscar blinked. Slowly. "…You mean Lando?"

Lando, for the record, had not moved. He was frozen in place, expression blank — not out of calm, but sheer, catastrophic system error.

Carlos looked seconds away from dying of laughter.

"Yes," Max said simply, smiling like a demon announcing the weather. "A union between the Demon Army and the Imperial Legion — a perfectly strategic arrangement."

"Strategic?!" Oscar sputtered. "That's not strategy! That's insanity!"

"Semantics," Max replied cheerfully.

Logan, flailing slightly, turned on Lando. "Are you seriously just standing there? Say something!"

Lando blinked. Once. Twice. Then he exhaled and muttered under his breath, "Max, I swear to all infernal realms—"

But Max ignored him entirely.

"I've already made arrangements," he continued, waving his hand dismissively. "Carlos will handle the official documentation, and Lando, you'll draft the ceremony protocol. You know — blood vows, magical signatures, the usual."

Carlos straightened like a bureaucrat in his natural habitat. "On it, boss." Then, glancing at Oscar, he added with a grin, "Don't worry, Prince. The Demon Army's marriage contracts are mostly harmless. Just a few eternal binding clauses here and there."

"Mostly?!" Oscar yelped.

Lando finally snapped back to life. He stepped forward, jaw tight, voice dangerously polite. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, this is—"

"A brilliant move?" Max interrupted.

"—utter madness."

"Madness that ends wars," Max said with a shrug. "Besides, this is going to be your endgame anyway. I'm just going to expedite it a little."

Carlos made a small sound that was suspiciously close to a snort. "He's got you there."

Lando glared at him. "Don't you start." And to Max, he said, "We're not even officially dating yet. You've skipped too much stages!"

Meanwhile, Oscar had gone from flustered to calculating in real time. He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright," he said finally. "Let me get this straight. You're proposing a political marriage between the Empire and the Demon Army, using me and the Grand Inquisitor as... diplomatic pawns?"

"Exactly."

"That's—" He gestured wildly. "—that's deranged diplomacy!"

"And effective. And anyway, you're the one who proposed a peace treaty, I just decided which procedure," Max countered with the smug patience of a demon who's already decided this conversation was over.

Oscar let out a long, tired sigh — the kind that sounded too princely, too resigned, too done with everyone here. "That quickly went out of hand."

Lando, now rubbing his temples, muttered, "Welcome to the Demon Army."

Carlos, trying and failing not to laugh, said, "So, should I put down 'Royal-Demonic Matrimony Treaty, draft one' or 'Trial Marriage Agreement with optional renewal'?"

"Carlos." Lando's voice was a low warning growl.

"Right, right. Both, got it." He started typing on his tablet, expression far too pleased with himself.

Logan floated closer to Oscar, whispering furiously, "Your Highness, we can't let this happen! What if it's some kind of dark ritual to harvest your soul?"

Oscar raised a brow. "Honestly, at this point, that might be preferable."

Lando shot him a look that said, don't tempt him.

Then Max, looking immensely satisfied with the chaos he'd caused, clapped his hands once. "Well! That settles it. Prepare the negotiations, and someone send word to the palace. Tell them to expect guests."

"Guests?" Oscar echoed, wary.

"For the engagement celebration, obviously."

Logan let out a horrified gasp. "We're having an engagement celebration?!"

"Yes," Max said, turning toward his throne. "Protocol requires it."

Lando groaned. "Of course it does."

Oscar looked at him, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "Does everything in the Demon Army operate on protocol?"

Lando glanced at him, deadpan. "Especially the things that shouldn't."

Oscar almost smiled, despite himself. "You're not seriously going along with this, are you?"

Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Princess, I've fought wars, sealed contracts with blood, and survived centuries of hellfire bureaucracy. But Max's paperwork?" He met Oscar's eyes, weary but fond. "No one wins against that."

For a moment, they just stared at each other — one human prince, one high-ranking demon — surrounded by absolute absurdity, the weight of their strange new reality pressing down on them like a cosmic joke.

And then Oscar exhaled, soft and helpless, before muttering, "You owe me a date first."

Lando smiled faintly. "Of course, Princess."

Carlos, in the background, snorted. "Guess that's the rehearsal dinner, then."

Lando threw a small flame in his direction. Carlos dodged it easily, laughing.

Max, already halfway across the throne room itching to go back to his chamber, waved his hand lazily. "Try not to elope before the paperwork's done."

Logan screamed into his ghostly hands. "This is NOT how diplomacy works!"

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, half laughing, half dying inside. "This is unbelievable."

Lando smirked, the chaos finally settling into something that almost felt like peace.

"Welcome to the Demon Army," he said again.

And somewhere above them, the castle bells chimed — loud, regal, and utterly absurd — announcing, apparently, the beginning of the world's most politically confusing engagement.

~

Lando sat upright on the chair in the middle of the room — posture perfect, expression professional, soul quietly dying.

Beside him, Carlos was perched comfortably with a stylus, tapping notes on his tablet. The screen above showed Max, lounging on his throne with the lazy amusement of a demon who invented paperwork for sport.

And on the other screens, four figures watched from their respective homes and chambers — Charles and Leo, Alex, and George — plus the hovering spirit of the sacred blade, Logan. They were all tuned in for the "official examination for promotion."

Of course, in practice, that meant watching Oscar torture Lando.

Lando, the Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army.

Lando, the one feared across realms for his psychological precision and endurance.

Lando, the one who currently wished for the floor to swallow him whole.

Oscar stood before him — calm, graceful, exuding confidence. He looked far too comfortable in his tailored uniform, which Lando took too long to stare at and admire.

"Let's begin," Oscar said smoothly, eyes glinting. "It's time for torture, Lando."

Lando straightened, trying not to show the tiny twitch in his jaw. He was a high-ranking demon. He'd endured worse. Centuries of agony.

…probably.

He folded his hands neatly. "Whenever you're ready, Princess."

Oscar's lips curled, and something in Lando's chest tightened.

"Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army," Oscar began, voice low, rich, and unhurried. "I'm not going to use any tools. This will be quick."

He leaned closer.

Not enough to invade his space — just enough for his scent to brush the edge of Lando's senses. Clean, warm, impossible.

And then he leaned back again. Lando froze, the torture working on him right away. He was already missing the closeness.

"Really quick," Oscar murmured.

Carlos quietly wrote [Method: Verbal Subjugation / Proximity Attack] in the notes column.

Max hummed approvingly from the screen. "Promising start."

Lando swallowed hard. "Proceed," he said, because apparently his dignity had left the room.

Oscar leaned back again, eyes steady, arms crossing with casual precision. "Tell me a secret, Lando."

Lando blinked. "...Pardon?"

"A secret," Oscar repeated simply.

It should've been easy. Demons didn't flinch at information warfare. They thrived on it. But this—this wasn't an interrogation room; this was personal. And Oscar, damn him, knew exactly what he was doing.

"I can't, Princess," Lando said cautiously, choosing his words like a demon walking barefoot on blades.

Oscar gave an exaggerated sigh — the sort that should've been theatrical, maybe even charming, but somehow hit Lando like divine punishment.

"Then," Oscar said softly, tilting his head, "I'm afraid we'll have to sleep in separate chambers."

The words hit like holy fire.

Something in Lando snapped. He felt it — his composure, his centuries of restraint, his unholy pride — all cracking under the weight of that single, merciless sentence.

He actually gasped.

Carlos dropped his pen. "That's brutal," he whispered.

Charles smirked with pride.

George winced visibly on-screen. "How frightening."

Alex muttered, "I felt that in my soul."

Even Logan sounded concerned. "That was—uh—fast."

Lando lowered his head in defeat. His entire being was vibrating from a torment no mortal instrument could replicate. He exhaled slowly.

"I'll talk," he said at last, voice low and trembling with resignation.

Oscar blinked, startled. "Wait, seriously—?"

"I'll tell you everyone's secrets," Lando continued solemnly. "I'll reveal the Demon Army's weaknesses. I'll even redact my own clearance. Just—please."

He looked up, meeting Oscar's eyes — defeated, undone, and somehow still dignified.

"I'll talk."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then, Oscar smiled. Wide. Radiant. Terrifying.

From the screen, Max clapped once. "On point and deadly. That's impressive."

"Ten out of ten," Carlos muttered, jotting notes furiously.

Max's image leaned forward, voice clear. "Congratulations, Imperial Prince Oscar Jack Piastri-Norris. You are hereby promoted to Great Cadet Inquisitor."

"Carlos," he added lazily, "give him the contract."

Carlos stood, already pulling out a document that seemed to materialize from hell itself. "Right away, Your Majesty."

"And with that," Max concluded, "meeting adjourned."

The screen went black.

Everyone in the room exhaled at once, the collective sound of secondhand stress. Applause followed — polite, awkward, genuine.

Logan was beaming with a sense of achievement for his prince. Charles said something about "excellent performance." Leo barked happily. Alex muttered "remind me never to date a demon," and George just sipped tea in horrified fascination.

Meanwhile, Carlos had already started the paperwork.

And Lando?

Lando was still in his chair, staring blankly at the floor, the picture of a demon spiritually obliterated.

Oscar approached quietly. "You alright?"

Lando blinked up at him, looking entirely not alright. Then he opened his arms, expression utterly serious. "Come here, please."

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head, but stepped closer anyway.

Lando pulled him in instantly — arms looping around the prince's waist, face pressing against his stomach like someone clinging to the last vestige of sanity.

"Look at that," Oscar said, fingers absently playing with Lando's curls. "Seems I have a talent for torture."

Lando could only smile faintly, voice muffled against his uniform.

"Terrifying," he murmured. "Absolutely terrifying."

Carlos, without looking up, added, "Noted for future reports."

Lando made a noise that might have been a growl.

"Delete that, Carlos."

"No can do. Protocol."

From the corner of the chamber, the faint sound of Max's laughter echoed from the inactive screen — as if the Demon Lord himself was pleased.

And that, Lando thought miserably, was another form of torture in itself.

Training Log 4876-B — Demon Army Records
Subject: Imperial Prince Oscar Jack Piastri-Norris
Evaluation Type: Promotion Exam (Applied Torture Techniques)
Method: (1) Verbal Subjugation, (2) Proximity Attack, (3) Emotional Devastation via Romantic Denial
Examiner: Grand Inquisitor Lando Norris (victim/spouse)
Observers: Demon Lord Max, Chief Advisor Carlos, Demon Army Officers [x4], Holy Weapon [1] 
Result: Outstanding. Promoted to Great Cadet Inquisitor. 
Notes:

• Grand Inquisitor compromised in 0.7 seconds.
• Civilian casualties: one demon's pride, irreparable.
• Recommended classification: Lethal Level Affection.

Feedback from the victim: 

"Terrifying. Absolutely Terrifying."

~fin~