Vael had a habit of appearing exactly when Malerion had just found a moment of quiet.
Sometimes it was coincidence.
Sometimes it was boredom.
Sometimes, Malerion suspected, the prince simply followed whatever emotion trail interested him most.
Today was one of those days.
Vael pushed open the side door of Sin Rouge's upper floor, feathers ruffling from the light breeze outside. He wore a more casual version of his noble attire still elegant, but less ceremonial, like someone experimenting with the idea of "normal clothes" and doing a questionable job of it.
"You're alone," Vael said, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. "Good. I wanted to talk without the others panicking."
Malerion lifted an eyebrow.
"They don't panic."
Vael stared at him.
"…They panic," he repeated firmly. "Especially Quill. He turns purple."
"That's just his blood pressure," Malerion said.
Vael tried not to laugh, then failed.
He sat down opposite Malerion, wings folding neatly behind him, eyes bright as always too bright, too sharp for someone who thought he was simply "exploring."
"So," Vael began, leaning forward, chin on his hands, "I've been thinking about something."
"That's usually dangerous," Malerion replied.
"For who?" Vael asked.
"…Yes."
Vael grinned, amused, and continued without hesitation:
"I've been wondering about strength. Power differences. Why some demons can shrug off attacks that would kill others. Why some magic feels… dense and old, while others feel thin. Why you feel
He stopped.
Malerion's gaze softened, though slightly.
Vael took a breath.
"You feel different," he said quietly. "Not threatening. Just… unusual."
Malerion kept calm, voice steady.
"And that concerns you?"
"It interests me," Vael corrected. "And I've never met a demon who wasn't born into a set amount of magic. Goetia, for exampleour potentials are fixed at birth. We refine, we polish, we expand our control… but we don't really grow only to the limits of blodline. Not the way sinners sometimes do in stories."
Sinners aren't meant to grow either, Malerion said.
"That's exactly it!" Vael's eyes widened with excitement. "You're not like the usual demons here. When I first met you, your presence was thin barely noticeable. But now… I can feel it, like a warm pulse in the background. It's stronger."
"That just means you're paying too much attention," Malerion replied smoothly.
The prince smiled, unconvinced.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I've noticed something else, too."
Malerion stayed quiet.
Vael tapped a finger against the table, thoughtful.
"You told me before that young Goetia are vulnerable that even someone strong in magic can be killed by simple weapons if they're inexperienced. And you're right. Our history proves it. Young ones are reckless, proud, easy to corner if they haven't formed their full rites yet. But you… you don't treat me like I'm fragile."
"No," Malerion agreed, "you treat yourself like you're invincible. Someone has to balance that out."
Vael's wings flattened slightly, embarrassed but amused.
"Maybe I do," he murmured. "But I'm learning. Slowly. And I appreciate… well, the honesty."
Malerion watched him for a moment.
Vael had grown not physically, but mentally. He carried himself differently now. Still curious, still naive in some ways, but more aware of the dangers that shadowed his steps.
And he trusted Malerion, perhaps too much.
Which made the next part harder.
Vael looked down at his hands, thumbs tracing each other.
"Malerion… do you trust me?"
The room grew still.
Malerion didn't flinch.
He didn't look away.
But he didn't answer immediately either.
Vael waited, patient, eyes bright with something fragile.
Finally, Malerion spoke.
I trust you enough he said. More than most.
Vael's expression softened.
"But there are things," Malerion continued quietly, "that I can't explain. Not now."
Vael nodded slowly, accepting, though curiosity flickered like a flame behind his eyes.
"I won't push," he said. "Just… don't shut me out completely."
I won't.
Vael smiled.
Genuine.
Warm.
A rare thing in Hell.
They talked a little more small things, nothing dangerous. Vael joked about Dreg's terrifying cooking, complained about his tutors, bragged about sending a magical painting to the Pride Ring archives. Malerion listened, gave short replies, let the moment breathe.
Eventually, Vael stood.
"I should go before someone assumes I'm here to declare war," he said lightly. "I'll visit again."
"I know."
Vael lingered a moment.
"Malerion," he added softly, "I'm glad I met you."
He left without waiting for a reply.
The room fell quiet.
And that was when Malerion finally let the mask slip a fraction.
Alastor's whisper slid through his mind like cold static.
"You handled that well… but he is learning faster than you expected."
"He asks too much," Malerion replied silently.
"He asks because he trusts you."
"That's the problem."
Malerion walked to the window, watching the neon haze dance across Sin Rouge's streets. Vael's presence lingered faintly, like a spark of clean magic in the grime.
If the prince ever learned the truth
that Malerion's power didn't belong to Hell's laws,
that he was an anomaly growing outside every bloodline and hierarchy
it wouldn't just endanger Malerion.
It would endanger Vael.
Deeply. Permanently. Irreversibly.
Lesser Goetia would strike first.
Greater houses would notice next.
And the Seven Sins would eventually look down.
Knowledge wasn't always power.
Sometimes, it was a knife.
Malerion closed his eyes.
For his sake, he whispered to himself, I keep my distance."
Not emotionally
but truthfully.
Vael didn't understand how close he stood to something the entire underworld would kill to study, control, or erase.
And Malerion intended to keep it that way.
For now, ignorance was safety.
For Vael.
For Sin Rouge.
And for the future both of them were walking toward together or not.