The dining hall reeked now — of blood, of old wood soaked through, of despair so thick it tasted like metal on the tongue.
The boy's body still lay sprawled across the table, crimson staining the fine linens, his glassy eyes fixed on his bleeding arm. His mother sobbed brokenly, clutching his limp hand, her tears streaking his wet cheeks. The daughters sat frozen, faces wet and vacant. Servants stood like statues, none daring a sound.
And yet, Envy smiled.
A cruel, satisfied curve of her lips, as though this were a play and the audience's horror the standing ovation.
After a long, almost tender moment of basking in their misery, she clapped her hands softly.
"Azrah," Envy called, her tone light, playful, as though inviting a friend for tea.
The humanoid demoness — tall, silver-haired, with eyes like dead glass and a predatory grace — stepped forward with a bow. "Mistress."
"Be a dear, would you?" Envy gestured lazily at the severed stump of the boy's arm, the blood still trickling sluggishly onto the rug. "Can't have him making a mess before dinner."
The words hung in the air, obscene in their casualness.
Azrah moved smoothly, kneeling beside the boy's body, placing a pale hand over the wound. A cold glow pulsed from her palm, closing torn flesh, stemming the blood. She made no effort to ease pain — there was no point now — but the bleeding stopped.
The family could only watch, stricken, breaths tight in their throats.
"Lovely," Envy murmured. Then, her gaze drifted past them — to the line of servants pressed against the walls. Her attention settled on one in particular.
The slave girl.
Small. Thin. Skin a pallid shade of fear. The bruises on her arms, half-hidden by threadbare sleeves, told their own history. She clung to the wall as if she could disappear into it.
Envy's smile softened — mockingly so. "You. Come here."
The girl flinched as if struck, eyes darting to Veylan in frantic appeal.
Envy's smile faltered. A frown touched her lips. She made a mock-sad face. "Oh, come now. I'm not going to hurt you. Once, not so long ago, I was you." Her voice turned honeyed, coaxing. "I just want to hear what you want."
A long, ragged pause. The girl's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her hands trembling. But slowly — drawn by something colder than mercy, something keener than hope — she stepped forward.
Envy leaned forward, studying her, taking in the thin limbs, the hollow cheeks. "Well, master," she said, casting a smirk Veylan's way. "You've been busy, haven't you? Still scum, as always."
Veylan, red-faced, started to snarl something in return — but Envy didn't even glance at him. His words died like ash on his tongue.
"Now then, little one," Envy said, turning back to the girl. "Tell me… what do you want?"
The girl hesitated. And then, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper, she answered:
"I… I want him dead."
The words shattered what little composure remained in the room.
Veylan lunged to his feet, roaring at her, his face contorted with fury and fear. "You filthy little—!"
Another cry cut him off.
A scream — this time from his son.
Another wet thunk.
The boy's other arm hit the table.
Blood spattered the dishes.
The boy's shriek was a high, keening wail, pure agony. His mother moved to rise — but Envy brought the haft of her scythe down on the table with a ringing crack.
"I don't recall giving anyone leave to stand," Envy said mildly.
The mother froze, tears streaming down her face.
The daughters choked on sobs.
The slave girl dropped to her knees.
Envy rose with languid grace, her scythe sliding effortlessly into her hand. She crossed the space to the boy, now writhing at the demoness Azrah's feet, and crouched low, her obsidian hair falling like a curtain.
"Well, well," she murmured, locking eyes with him. "Such bad manners at my table."
A flicker of movement.
One clean stroke.
The scythe split his chest with a wet crack, cleaving flesh and bone, the great oak table splintering beneath him. His final scream was lost in a choking gurgle as blood spilled from his mouth, his wide, terrified eyes dimming.
The room was a mausoleum of silence.
The boy's body twitched once. Then lay still.
His mother, beyond grief now, crawled to him, keening brokenly. The daughters could no longer muster sound.
Veylan slumped into his chair, staring as if his eyes could unsee what had been done.
And Envy… Envy laughed.
It was a high, cruel sound, rippling through the room like cold steel dragged over stone. She let it hang there, savouring their horror like fine wine.
Finally, Veylan found his voice — or what was left of it. "Why?" he rasped, his words raw, broken.
Envy tilted her head, feigning thought.
"Why…?" she mused aloud. "Why, master… I was simply punishing you." Her smile turned razor-sharp. "For the outbursts you were throwing at my dinner party."
The words hit like iron, not shouted — but softly, with the lazy disdain of a queen dismissing a fool.
There was no hatred in them. No righteous fury.
Just amusement.
And that was what made it unbearable.
She returned to her chair, crossed her legs once more, and tapped the scythe against the floor with a clink.
"Now then," Envy said brightly. "Let's all get back to our seats… before it gets a little more bloody, shall we?"
No one dared refuse.
The shadows pressed in.
The feast had only just begun.
* * * * *
The room reeked of blood, fear, and smothered tears. The boy's lifeless body still lay sprawled across the dinner table, crimson pooling beneath him, staining the fine linens a deeper shade of ruin. The rest of the family sat motionless, backs stiff, eyes glassy with shock. None of them dared speak, not after what they'd witnessed.
Envy sat languidly in the master's chair, her scythe propped against the table, a predator's grin playing on her lips. She rested her chin in one palm, violet gauntlet catching the glint of candlelight.
Azrah, the tall demoness who had delivered Veylan's family, stepped forward and bowed low. "Mistress Envy," she murmured, her voice a careful, silken thing, "what shall we do with them?"
Envy's smile widened.
"Alive," she said softly, almost wistful. "For now. Lock them away. Strip them of titles, lands, pride. Let them rot in darkness like I did. I want them to have time to reflect. To imagine worse things than death."
A murmur of assent. The other demon, a slate-skinned male named Morthan, gave a toothy grin as he hauled the sobbing mother away from her son's corpse. One by one, they dragged the broken family from the room. Even the servants didn't protest. The weight of hopelessness was absolute.
Only the slave girl remained, trembling by the wall.
Envy's gaze found her.
"You," she called, her tone unexpectedly soft. The girl flinched, but didn't move.
Envy stood, crossing the bloodied floor in a few quiet steps. She knelt so their eyes met. There was nothing cruel in her expression now — no mockery. Just a flicker of recognition.
"I was you once," Envy whispered. "A collar. Bruises. Empty belly. The lie of mercy dangled in front of me like a bone before a starving hound."
The girl's wide, hollow eyes shone with tears.
Envy lifted a hand, brushing tangled hair from the girl's face. "But you don't have to die like this. Not in chains. Not for him. I won't promise freedom — there's no such thing in this world." She smiled, a gentler, dangerous thing. "But I can promise you a better death. When you're ready."
The girl swallowed hard, then nodded. Envy rose and addressed Azrah and Morthan. "See she's fed. Bathed. The others go to the cells."
They bowed and obeyed without question.
When the room was empty save for Envy and the bloodstained table, Azrah returned.
"You've claimed the house," Azrah remarked. "The council in Solmaria will riot when they learn of this."
Envy gave a careless shrug. "Let them. They'll call it barbarism, but the message is clear: the old world is dying. Veylan's house was the first rot to be excised. There'll be more."
Morthan chuckled darkly. "And the Crimson Vow?"
Envy's grin sharpened. "Leave them. They're still useful. I've learned my lesson about revenge, Morthan. It's a poor fuel. But power… power lasts."
The demons exchanged glances, unnerved even now by her calm.
Azrah hesitated. "Your orders, Lady Envy?"
"Claim the estate," Envy purred. "And prepare my message to Solmaria's high court. It's time they knew I'm watching."
From somewhere in the shadows, the whisper of moving fabric.
A lone slave girl knelt in the darkness, unseen by all but Envy. The demoness spared her a final glance.
"Survive," she murmured, so low only the girl could hear. "And find your own teeth."
Then Envy turned, her scythe glinting as she vanished into the black halls, leaving blood, terror, and whispered promises in her wake.