Chapter Text
There is a kind of blindness in familiarity, a way of mistaking burden for routine. Stolas has seen it in the way the crown grows heavier on his King with each passing day. He watches for Blitz’s tells. The way he languidly drapes himself over the throne, wearing an all-too-familiar bored look.
Below, two imp nobles present their dispute to the court. It is always about land. Always about their holdings.
His King is not oblivious to politics, but the finesse it requires—the fine touch to navigate its bureaucracies—is something he falls short of. Stolas thinks of that affectionately; it is who Blitz is, and he accepts him wholeheartedly.
Blitz slouches further into the throne. He is more comfortable with violence. Peace times bring an uncomfortable silence, and the frivolous politics is insufferable.
“I am left at a deficit, Your Majesty,” the imp noble pleads.
“I was always entitled to that acreage! It should’ve been willed to me in the first place!”
Impatient regal fingers begin tapping the arm of the throne.
“Yet it was not!” the other noble barks.
It quickly devolves into yelling. And when one noble’s injustice is another’s paranoia for tomorrow, it is easy enough to rope in their audience. The higher class of society at each other’s throats with sharp words and accusing fingers.
It does not concern Stolas. After all, he is a Goetia. And Goetias are only concerned with those they are bound to. He studies Blitz’s deepening frown and feels magic prickle at his fingertips.
Blitz’s jaw tightens.
It is enough.
The air compresses. Stone groans beneath large black talons lunging forward, stopping just shy of the two noble imps. Stolas towers over them in his eldritch form. His maw, wide enough to devour them both whole, opens in an earsplitting screech. Commanding the court into silence.
“Stols.”
He pulls back from the cowering nobles. Rotating his head in that manner that unsettles most, to face Blitz. Still bored, Blitz beckons him with a hand. Stolas complies instantly, shifting into a plume of black smoke. Reforming at his King’s side.
Blitz stands, the court remains silent. There is the slight bristle of the spikes along Blitz’s back that exposes his agitation—a cue that only Stolas is privy to view from this angle.
“Pay the shit-stain for what you took and stop wasting my time.” Blitz commands, turning his back on the court. He descends down the stairs towards the private exit, all too keen to skip any other formalities. Stolas follows, hearing the barely audible, “fuck’s sake.”
The silence of the court persists even after they leave.
“Your majesty…” Moxxie rests one hand on the desk and the other pinching between his brows. “You can’t just end a hearing like that–” his voice cuts off at the sight of Stolas glaring at him.
There is a huff from Millie, returning the expression, standing steadfast beside her husband.
Blitz’s tongue clicking in annoyance. He raises his hand in front of Stolas, subduing him. “Oh, c’mon, baby-dick. If I can’t even do that, what the fuck can I do?” He leans back in his chair. “What the fuck am I king for?”
Moxxie’s eyes cautiously leave Stolas to land on Blitz. “But it is more complicated than that.”
“Uh-huh.” Blitz nods absentmindedly, grabbing a sheet of parchment and starts folding it several times.
“You’re fragmenting nobility against each other.” Moxxie frowns, watching Blitz reach for a quill and putting it to paper.
“Down with nobility. Bring out the guillotine.” Blitz says without looking up. “Problem solved.”
Stolas stifles an inappropriate chuckle.
“Your Majesty! Without proper leadership they might form a coalition against us.” The scratching of Blitz’s quill seems to be his only response. “Sire,” Moxxie tries again, “it could escalate into a power vacuum. You could very well trigger a civil war.”
Blitz snaps open the paper fortune teller he’s just folded. “Pick a colour, Moxx.”
Moxxie sputters incoherent frustration, hands gesturing left then right, and finally into the air. Millie places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, pulling him back gently as she steps forward.
“Blitz.” she says firmly with affection.
This is a stronger approach. Stolas has seen plenty of people bid for Blitz’s cooperation, none succeed the way Millie does. It means Millie holds a special place amongst Blitz’s retinue.
Blitz groans, tossing the paper fortune teller over his shoulder. Stolas catches it effortlessly, cradling it in his open palms.
“I take it this whole spiel was leading somewhere,” Blitz mutters, sitting up. “But Moxx was taking too long dicking around.”
Moxxie raises a pointed finger, mouth agape as if to speak, but Millie does not let the conversation derail. “A political marriage.” Straight to the point.
“Come again?” Blitz blinks. “Actually, don’t. What the fuck?”
“A political marriage would restore confidence. It strengthens our borders and stabilizes support.” The words come out of Millie, but the conviction reverberates Moxxie.
It tells Stolas this is a well-planned ambush. Lines have been rehearsed. Contingencies anticipated.
“All I’m hearing is that I need to be domesticated or some shit,” Blitz gestures broadly to himself. “I mean, why the fuck would we need support? We’re not exactly defenseless." He dramatically presents Stolas. “He’s fucking clairvoyant.”
“Learned a big word, did you?” Moxxie mutters, crossing his arms.
Blitz leans over his desk. “Fuck you, baby-dick!”
“Blitz!” Millie slams her hands on his desk, causing him to fall back into his seat. Stolas’ mouth pulls tight, his hands cradling the paper fortune teller tense with restraint.
Her gaze eases, the fire replaced with a softer resolve. “We’ve built our kingdom for imp-kind by force. From war. We had to.” She glances momentarily at Stolas, before returning her attention back to Blitz. “And while I am thankful, you cannot rest the entire kingdom on one Goetia. Not in any meaningful way.”
Stolas keeps his expression still, understanding the judgement. Weapons win wars. They do not build kingdoms.
“You need someone by your side,” she smiles back at Moxxie, the confidence in her voice returns when she regards Blitz, “the realm needs to see that we can play nice with the rest of them. That we can play the part of a legitimate monarchy.”
Blitz’s tail flicks, and it is another cue Stolas cannot react to. The pattern is familiar. He learns from observing the three of them over the years, that relationships are complicated. That Millie and Moxxie are allowed to talk to Blitz this way—to irritate and displease him. That they are akin to family, even though they are not.
It feels like static beneath Stolas’ feathers. They rise just slightly, and he disciplines them back down just as quickly.
“Stolas,” Blitz says, drawing him from his stupor. “Wait outside.”
He doesn’t move, surely he heard incorrectly. It earns him a tilt of Blitz’s head towards the door. Something threatens to splinter in his chest.
Inclining his head to bow with the paper fortune teller still in hands, he bids his King farewell. Rising to full height, shoulders pulled back, he walks past Moxxie and Millie.
The door closes with a heavy thud behind him.
The wood is thick. The voices inside are muffled and he puts no effort in attempting to listen. A king is entitled to private counsel.
Looking down at the paper fortune teller in his hands, he glides his fingers along its edges. His obedience had wavered earlier. Enough that Blitz had to repeat himself. It unsettles him that something he does not understand is brewing in the depths of his core.
He observes the folded compartments. Curious of the kind of fortunes his King would write. Fingers hover to unfold them, but falter. There are some things he is not entitled to.
He responds appropriately, folding the contraption back to its default arrangement. And waits.
The door opens and Stolas perks up, standing to attention. Millie and Moxxie pass by casting a glance his way. It is not a look he recognises, nor does he need to. With Blitz finally emerging Stolas inclines his head.
“Stolas.” Blitz eyes the paper fortune teller in his hand. “You can get rid of that. C’mon, we got shit to do.” Already walking ahead.
A crease forms between Stolas’ brows. For a moment he considers pocketing the fortune teller—keeping it, just for a while. A harmless indulgence. Blitz didn't exactly say by what means to get rid of it. His fingers curl almost protectively around it.
Then—magic sparks at his fingertips. He sets it alight. The fortune teller disintegrates into dust in his palms. He brushes the ash from his hands clean and follows after Blitz, catching up easily with his longer stride.
There is no mention of the discussion he is excluded from. Not even a colourful, vulgar rant slandering Moxxie.
His King acts as if nothing happened.
There are tells though. The kind that are not there to be noticed. They grate on Stolas' psyche, like a crease in a book he cannot smooth out. The duties Blitz attends are dry and brain-numbing, but even for that, his input is… underwhelming. There is the absence of the short fuse that should have popped off at the third noble, the absence of childish deflective humour and inappropriate off-topic tangents.
It is clear. Blitz’s mind never left the study.
It takes the days turning into weeks for normalcy to mostly return.
Blitz hunches over the desk, candlelight flickering across his persisting frown as he scrawls another barely legible line. He slides the paper over to Stolas, smudging the wet ink in his carelessness. Stolas accepts it, placing it in the correct pile.
The desk is a chaotic mess, one Stolas orders in his mind for Blitz’s sake–processed tariffs, outstanding duties, the urgent and the deferrable. He tracks them until they’re in Moxxie’s capable hands.
“Alright, next.” Blitz’s hand is already reaching.
Stolas hands him the next stack of pages. Silently watching as Blitz brings it close to his face, hearing the faint frustration threading through his voice as he begins to mumble-read. It is something Stolas finds soothing; watching Blitz focus, even if it is at Blitz’s own expense.
His eyes drift to the bookshelf across the room. The familiar blue and gold spine of his Grimoire catches his eye. The red gem at centre sits dull beneath a film of dust, a testament to the longevity of his service.
Silence settles long before Stolas notices it. He turns, blinking in surprise at Blitz already watching him. Heat creeps beneath the feathers of his faceplate. Their eyes linger. He does not know how long Blitz has been staring. It dawns on Stolas–Blitz is studying him.
Blitz's eyes flick from him to the Grimoire. There is tension in his posture, the spikes along his back rising ever so slightly. His grip on the quill tightens, and his tail, unnervingly still.
“Your Majesty?”
The quill snaps.
“Blitz?” Stolas steps closer.
The ink bleeds into the paper and over red fingers. Blitz moves his hands away from the mess, examining the ink under his fingers.
Stolas moves with practiced familiarity. With a motion of his hand, the broken quill pieces lift into the air and are discarded by his magic. He reaches for a new quill from the stationery, offering it to Blitz in his open palm.
It isn’t taken.
Blitz’s gaze lingers on it, unusually pensive. His hand reaches for it, cautious.
‘Thanks…’ It comes out tense. When he turns back to the paperwork, he’s all sharp edges and something Stolas cannot smooth away.
It is uncomfortable, like new pin feathers breaking through his skin–tender and sensitive to the slightest touch. Except that discomfort was natural. Normal.
This is not.
These moments are relatively new. They are few in between but he can pinpoint precisely when they began. Since that discussion. The very one he was asked to leave.
Since then, there have been moments of… discomfort. Blitz acting oddly. Trying too hard to feign casualness. It isn’t just Blitz. Moxxie and Millie have been casting one glance too many his way.
It is beginning to unsettle him. That something visible to everyone else remains deliberately withheld from him. Bitterness gathers in Stolas' chest. He ignores it, pushing it down as he moves on to the next pressing task. Something he is useful for.
“The lowlands along the Zephyr River will flood.”
It is sobering enough for them to move on, falling back into familiar beats.
“When and where exactly?” Blitz is already moving, bringing forth the moon cycle, and rolling out the map of the kingdom.
“It will occur in three weeks' time. And the affected estates…” He traces the affected regions on the map, careful not to impede Blitz’s personal space.
Blitz grimaces. It means displaced Lords and Ladies, and that is if he can get them to evacuate in the first place. They tend to be a stubborn class.
“Alright. Let’s start drafting writs of removal.”
Stolas nods. He uses his magic to pull out a fresh stack of parchment and sharpened quills from the drawers.
Hours slip by, and they make good progress.
Stolas feels the lateness of the night grow—whether by his affinity for the stars or as nocturnal avian, he cannot say. With a small motion of his fingers, the candle burns brighter. He adjusts the flame carefully, ensuring the light falls across Blitz's work without glaring into his eyes.
Blitz focuses on papers in front of him. He’s always been generous with the amount of ink he uses. When he leans over to mark the reference map, Stolas moves the still wet page a fraction to the side, staying clear of Blitz’s forearms.
Blitz drops back in his seat. Returning to the stack of papers needing his signature. The quiet settles with only the scrawling of Blitz’s quill.
Mid-signature, the quill finally runs dry. Blitz clicks his tongue in annoyance.
Stolas is efficient in his movements. He offers one hand for the spent quill and presents a sharpened replacement in the other.
Blitz blinks. Placing the spent quill in Stolas’ hand—then pauses.
“…You’re being creepy.”
Stolas tilts his head, “I think of it more as efficiency.” He nudges the quill towards him.
Blitz snorts, finally taking it easily this time.
They settle into a companionable quiet interrupted only by parchment sliding and the scratching of a quill. The rhythm is familiar. Comfortable.
Blitz’s shoulders begin to loosen. The tension along his spine eases incrementally, vertebra by vertebra. His tail at rest, with the occasional laxed flick beside him.
Stolas allows himself the smallest adjustment in his posture to unwind, as if that itself were a reward.
“Do you ever get tired of this?”
Stolas straightens at the question.
“Of the paperwork.” Blitz quickly adds, still not looking up from the page. “The endless shit.”
He weighs what answer would soothe Blitz. “It maintains your kingdom. It is necessary.”
There is a pause.
“Yeah, yeah.” Blitz sounds tired. “Still shit.”
Stolas’ mouth pulls into a line. He should have said something more helpful. The silence that resumes is less comfortable than its predecessors, if the crease between Blitz’s brow is any indication.
Blitz finishes the last document, dropping the ink heavy quill and leans back hard enough to make the chair creak.
“Finally! If I sign one more fucking tariff—” he scrubs a hand down his face. Stolas reaches forward before thought intervenes. Black ink smears along Blitz’s cheekbone. Stolas’ thumb brushes Blitz’s skin, wiping the stain away before it sets, with a cloth drawn from his sleeve. The motion is precise.
Practical.
His eyes meet Blitz’s.
Stolas pulls away, bowing in apology to hide his face. “Blitz—Your Majesty,” he corrects himself, quickly. The embarrassment threatens to combust him. He keeps his gaze to the floor. “I acted out of turn.”
“Pour me something.”
Stolas raises his head a fraction to see Blitz turned away from him. It feels like a mercy, permitting Stolas to breathe. “Yes, right away.” He straightens.
Crossing to the sideboard, he selects the stronger decanter, Blitz’s preference on days when court has tested his patience. Today, perhaps, Stolas had been the source of that frustration. He pours without measuring.
The task is a privilege. Kings have perished from wines dealt from sleight of hand. Stolas returns with the glass and offers it carefully within Blitz's reach. As Blitz takes it, Stolas makes certain their fingers do not touch. He means to serve his King well.
Blitz rolls the glass lazily in his palm, smelling the liquor before taking a long drink. He downs the remainder, shoulders dropping another inch, then rolls the empty glass languidly between his fingers.
It is enough of a prompt. Stolas retrieves the decanter. Returning beside Blitz, pouring into the glass without a word.
Blitz hums a thanks and downs it too eagerly. The empty glass sits loosely in his grip.
Stolas takes a step about to pour another glass—
Until Blitz looks up at him.
Stolas stills. Fingers tightening, then stilling around the decanter.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Blitz mutters, voice roughened by drink and fatigue.
It flares, sudden and unwelcome. To be wanted. It blooms beneath his sternum, bright and insistent. He nods, slow and stiff. Finally moving he pours into Blitz’s glass.
“It is my purpose to be of use to you, my King.”
Blitz huffs, looking back at his glass, not quite amused, not quite disagreeing.
Stolas returns the decanter to the sideboard. He keeps his distance from Blitz. Outside the window, the stars burn bright.
He watches Blitz instead.
The weather is bright and mercilessly clear, with sunlight spilling through the tall windows in long, unbroken beams, highlighting the dust motes drifting lazily.
Blitz slouches further into his chair, a similar lethargy possessing him. “More paperwork?”
Stolas nods, placing the stack squarely in front of Blitz. “Routine updates, allocations, and correspondence. Nothing particularly urgent, but all must be addressed.”
Blitz grunts, lifting the corner of the pages and riffles them. “Let’s get it over with.”
Stolas hums approvingly. Remaining a presence more than a participant, stationed just to the side, close enough to receive and sort the papers, and far enough to avoid intrusion.
A knock sounds at the door before it opens.
“Blitz?” Millie pokes her head in.
“Perfect timing! Save me from this torture.” Brightening with sudden intrusion. He gestures her in, with Moxxie close behind her. They come to stand across the desk, a united front in a way that feels instinctive rather than deliberate.
Stolas takes several steps back. Hands fold neatly behind his back, shoulders easing into stillness as he becomes part of the room.
There’s a tense silence when Millie steals a reassuring glance from Moxxie. “Hey, Blitz…” She offers a smile that does not quite hold. It stretches too thin, too brittle at the edges.
“Christ on a stick. We're starting already?” Blitz’s enthusiasm falters as his shoulders slouch. “What is it?”
“Without going into too much detail,” her gaze flicks briefly toward Stolas. “You know how we discussed political marriage…”
Stolas remains unaffected. He ensures it. Keeping his posture unchanged, his expression neutral.
Blitz, however, does react. A flick of his tail beneath the table—quick, sharp.
“Yes, and I did as I said I would.” Blitz’s tone shifts, petulant in a way that sits uneasily against the title he bears. “Wrote those stupid as fuck letters. Haven’t heard anything since.” He shrugs, loose and careless.
Stolas conceals his confusion. He has not assisted Blitz with any letters recently.
Blitz despises the nuances of political correspondences. It is a task Stolas has always assisted with; translating his King’s abrasive candour into something… acceptable. He can only imagine those letters must have been devoid of the careful politeness such negotiations require.
The realization settles quietly, but not lightly. That the task was completed without investment in its success, or perhaps a deliberate refusal to secure it.
Stolas’ beak pulls into a faint frown. It’s becoming frustrating not knowing the motivations of his King.
Blitz leans back in his chair. “Turns out most kingdoms aren’t keen on being saddled with an imp. Royalty or not.” He says it as if it isn’t a personal insult.
“That’s just it,” Millie says carefully. “We got a response.” She holds up a pink envelope. Already opened.
“Wait—what?” Blitz squares his shoulders.
“It’s from Princess Verosika Mayday. She's interested in brokering a marriage.”
A beat.
“And in the Goetia.” She passes the letter to him.
Stolas feels his brows begin to knit and carefully smooths his expression.
Blitz snatches the letter. “Of course she is.” And reads.
There is the sound of Moxxie clearing his throat. “We think extending an invitation would be prudent. Negotiations are still ongoing, and it is a good sign she’s shown interest.” Ever the diplomat.
Blitz doesn’t look up. “Yeah. Alright. Thanks.” It is dismissive. As if his thoughts are preoccupied. Running an entirely different conversation in his head.
He looks up at last, Moxxie and Millie still standing. Waiting for his input.
“You guys can go.” He shoos them with his hand.
“Blitz–”
“Mills.” There is a finality to it.
Stolas feels the prickle of his feathers rising. There is too much missing information for him to decipher what Blitz needs from him. The gaps in the conversation irritate him more than they should. He tries to read between the lines harder.
Noting the way Millie hesitates leaving. Watching Moxxie’s hand come to her elbow, gentle but firm, guiding her towards the door as they leave without further argument.
Silence settles and expands, filling the room. The sunlight remains unchanged, dust motes drift lazily through the beams, indifferent to the tension.
He cannot see Blitz’s face, still angled away, into the letter. Eerily still. No telltale from the spikes on his back or movement of his tail.
“Your Majesty?”
No response.
Stolas leans forward slightly, just enough to try and catch a glimpse of his expression. He considers, briefly, allowing the silence to remain. It would be appropriate. The safe choice. Yet it does not sit well within him.
Taking a step closer, Stolas tries again.
“Blitz,” Stolas’ voice is soft, as though gentleness might make the intrusion permissible. “Is this what has been stressing you of late?”
There is a flick of his tail.
Encouraged, Stolas closes the remaining distance. The silence persists, and he searches for the correct thing to say. The useful thing. The thing that might ease whatever unseen strain has settled over Blitz’s shoulders.
“At your behest, I will serve your bride as I serve you.”
The words are offered with sincerity. With loyalty.
They land poorly. The tension in Blitz’s shoulders pulls tighter. Stolas’ hand lifts, before he seems to reconsider it—reaching out, as if he could soothe the tension.
“Stolas,” Blitz says at last, and Stolas stops mid-reach. “Quit hovering.”
The disapproval is quiet. He lowers his hand, retreats a step at once, bowing his head. The motion is smooth. Practiced. An apology shaped into form. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
Blitz glares at him. Hard.
He drags a hand over his face. “Fuck.” Reaching for a clean sheet of parchment and a quill. Tools grasped with more force than necessary.
A response, Stolas deciphers. To the princess.
Stolas’ brows draw together. Blitz struggles with words when agitated. Assistance would expedite the matter. He tries again—taking a step forward with an open hand.
“Your Majesty, I could—”
“Stolas.”
And Stolas knows, with the same certainty as the stars, that he has overstepped.
“Get out.”
The words are not raised. They don’t need to be. Not wanting to cause any more harm, Stolas heads towards the door. He turns, stalling his departure. With the desk between them, Stolas inclines his head. Blitz doesn’t look up.
Stolas straightens slowly, turns on his heel, and leaves. The door closes behind him with a heavy thud. The feathers along the back of the neck have stood without his notice. He brushes them down, forcing them to settle. There’s an uncertainty in him as if he’s out of orbit. Displaced. He attempts to recentre himself—rolling his shoulders back, hands once more folded neatly behind. He stands tall, posture immaculate. And waits.