Part I:
Six months before Caelan's departure
The private conference room in the Gremory estate was reserved for important family matters.
High ceilings. Enchanted walls that prevented sound from escaping. A long table of ancient darkwood.
Tonight, it held the core of House Gremory's power structure:
Lord Zeoticus at the head of the table, his crimson beard perfectly groomed.
Lady Venelana beside him, elegant as always.
Sirzechs Lucifer, Satan-class power barely contained beneath his politician's smile.
Grayfia Lucifuge, standing behind her husband's chair in her maid uniform—though everyone present knew she was far more than a servant.
And Ajuka Beelzebub, present via magical projection, his green-haired image hovering above a crystal.
"Thank you for joining us, Ajuka," Lord Zeoticus began formally.
"Of course. Your message indicated urgency regarding a family matter?"
"Yes." Zeoticus gestured to Sirzechs. "My son will explain."
Sirzechs leaned forward, his crimson eyes serious in a way they rarely were.
"We need to discuss Caelan's future."
A pause.
Ajuka's projection tilted its head slightly. "The boy with the broken King piece?"
"Yes."
"I see. I had been meaning to reach out about that. I've run some additional analyses on his magical signature. The instability that prevented proper piece formation appears to be... worsening."
Grayfia's hands, folded behind her back, tightened.
"Worsening how?" she asked, her voice perfectly controlled.
"His ice affinity is growing stronger, but it's destabilizing everything else. His body temperature has dropped significantly—I'm reading residual magical traces that suggest he's somehow maintaining a constant zero degrees Celsius. Fascinating from a research perspective, but concerning for his long-term health and social integration."
"Social integration," Lord Zeoticus repeated dryly. "That ship has sailed."
"Father—" Sirzechs began.
"Don't." The old devil's voice was sharp. "We're here to be honest, so let's be honest. The boy is fifteen years old. He has no peerage, no prospects, no social connections, and a magical condition that makes him physically uncomfortable to be nearby. What, exactly, is his future in this household?"
Silence.
Lady Venelana spoke quietly. "He's family, Zeoticus."
"He's a reminder of failure." The words were brutal. "Every noble who visits sees Lucien—brilliant, powerful, engaged to the Agares heiress. Then they remember we have another son and wonder what's wrong with our bloodline that it produced such a disparity."
"That's unfair," Sirzechs said, but his tone lacked conviction.
"Is it? Tell me, son—when was the last time Caelan attended a family function? When was the last time he was presentable enough to introduce to visiting nobility?"
Sirzechs couldn't answer.
Grayfia could feel her heart beating too fast beneath her perfect composure.
Defend him, a voice in her head screamed. Say something.
But what could she say that wouldn't sound like empty sentimentality?
Ajuka's projection spoke clinically. "If I may offer a perspective—the boy's magical development, while unconventional, does show remarkable precision. His control over ice magic is actually quite sophisticated for someone with such limited reserves. With proper training—"
"He's been in this estate for fifteen years with access to the finest magical texts in the Underworld," Lord Zeoticus interrupted. "If he were going to develop into something useful, it would have happened by now."
"Father, please." Sirzechs rubbed his temples. "Let's not speak of him as though he's defective merchandise."
"Then what is he?"
The question hung in the air.
Lady Venelana tried again. "He's quiet. Intelligent. Perhaps he could pursue academic work? Magical research? There are paths that don't require combat power."
"Under whose patronage?" Zeoticus challenged. "Every research institution wants nobles who can contribute both intellectually and magically. Publishing requires sponsorship. Even academic circles are political. What house would sponsor a Gremory with such obvious limitations?"
"He's still a Gremory—"
"He's a Lucifuge." Zeoticus gestured to Grayfia. "You gave him that name yourself. And while no disrespect to your bloodline, Grayfia, the Lucifuge are servants. Loyal, powerful servants, yes—but servants nonetheless."
Grayfia's jaw tightened.
Don't react. Don't show emotion.
"The Lucifuge serve by choice," she said carefully. "We are not lesser."
"Of course not. But socially, politically—there's a hierarchy. And your son carries that stigma along with his magical deficiency."
Your son.
Not our grandson.
Your son.
As though Caelan's failure was Grayfia's alone.
Sirzechs interjected. "This isn't productive. We're here to discuss solutions, not assign blame."
"Fine." Lord Zeoticus leaned back. "Then let's discuss: what do we do with him?"
Sirzechs pulled out a document.
"I've been reviewing our political obligations and opportunities. Lucien's engagement to Seekvaira Agares is proceeding well—the contract will be finalized next month."
"Excellent match," Ajuka's projection nodded. "The Agares are brilliant tacticians. Their alliance strengthens your position significantly."
"Yes. And we're in preliminary discussions about Rias's future as well."
Lady Venelana perked up. "Already? She's only ten."
"Preliminary," Sirzechs stressed. "Lord Phoenix has expressed interest in a potential arrangement between Rias and his third son, Riser. No formal engagement yet, but opening discussions."
Grayfia's mind calculated.
The Phoenix family.
Powerful. Ancient bloodline.
Immortality through regeneration.
Politically influential.
A marriage between Rias and a Phoenix heir would cement the Gremory position in the Underworld's upper echelon.
"That would be quite advantageous," she said neutrally.
"It would. Which brings us to the problem."
"Caelan," Lord Zeoticus stated flatly.
"Yes." Sirzechs looked uncomfortable. "Lord Phoenix is traditionalist. Old-school devil nobility. He values bloodline purity, magical power, family prestige. If he learns that the Gremory have a... a son with Caelan's limitations..."
"He'll question the entire bloodline," Zeoticus finished. "Wonder if the weakness is hereditary. Potentially withdraw the proposal."
"Exactly."
Grayfia felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"You're saying Caelan's existence threatens Rias's engagement prospects."
"Not just Rias's." Sirzechs pulled out more documents. "I've been approached by several families about potential matches for Lucien's future children, about alliances two generations out. Every single one has asked about the family's magical stability. About our success rate with offspring."
He laid out a family tree—the Gremory lineage, with success rates, power levels, political marriages.
Lucien's entry was highlighted in gold.
Rias's in crimson.
Caelan's was marked in pale blue, with a notation: Magical deficiency - cause unknown.
"Unknown," Ajuka mused. "Actually, I've been researching that. The combination of Gremory and Lucifuge bloodlines should theoretically produce exceptional magical capacity. The fact that Caelan is so far below average suggests either a genetic anomaly or—"
"Or what?" Grayfia asked sharply.
"Or intentional magical interference during gestation. A curse, perhaps. Or exposure to certain dimensional energies. I'd need to run tests."
"No." The word came out harder than Grayfia intended.
Everyone looked at her.
She forced calm. "He's fifteen years old. Subjecting him to invasive magical testing at this point would be... cruel."
And would reveal that we've neglected his medical care for over a decade, she didn't add.
Lord Zeoticus waved dismissively. "The cause doesn't matter. The result does. We have two options: work around the problem, or remove it."
"Remove it?" Lady Venelana's voice sharpened. "He's not a problem to remove, Zeoticus. He's a child."
"He's fifteen. By devil law, nearly an adult. And 'remove' is perhaps too harsh—I mean create distance."
Sirzechs nodded slowly. "I've been considering that. The Lucifuge estate in the Eastern Marches has been vacant for decades. It's small, isolated, but maintained. We could... offer it to Caelan. As his own property."
"Offer?" Grayfia repeated.
"Yes. Frame it as independence. Autonomy. His own household away from the main family."
"That's exile," she said flatly.
"It's opportunity," Lord Zeoticus countered. "The boy clearly prefers solitude. Give him a place where he can pursue whatever interests him without the pressure of family expectations."
"The pressure he's never actually experienced because we've ignored him for fifteen years?"
The words came out before Grayfia could stop them.
Silence fell.
Sirzechs looked pained. "Grayfia—"
"No." She stepped forward, her composure cracking. "Let's be honest, as Father suggested. We're not offering him opportunity. We're removing an embarrassment from view before he damages our political prospects."
"That's... not inaccurate," Ajuka's projection admitted.
"At least you're honest."
Lord Zeoticus stood. "Grayfia, I understand you have maternal feelings—"
"Do I?" She laughed, bitter and cold. "When did I last demonstrate them? When did any of us?"
"This guilt is unproductive—"
"This whole discussion is unproductive! We're sitting here planning to exile a fifteen-year-old boy because he might make us look bad at political dinners!"
"Yes." Zeoticus's voice was steel. "We are. Because that's how devil society works. Image matters. Reputation matters. And I will not allow one defective child to destroy centuries of Gremory prestige."
"He's not defective—"
"He's weak. In a society that values strength above all else, he is functionally worthless."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Grayfia stared at her father-in-law.
Then at her husband, who wouldn't meet her eyes.
Then at Ajuka's projection, which looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"So, we send him away," she said quietly. "To protect our image."
"To protect the family," Sirzechs corrected gently. "Grayfia, this isn't... I don't want this either. But if Caelan's presence threatens Rias's future, threatens our alliances, threatens our political standing—what choice do we have?"
"We could defend him."
"How? Against what? The simple truth that he's not powerful enough to matter in our world?"
Grayfia had no answer.
Because he was right.
Devil society was brutal in its simplicity: power determined worth.
And Caelan had none.
Lady Venelana, ever the diplomat, tried to soften the discussion.
"Perhaps we're being premature. Caelan is fifteen. Still young. Perhaps in a few years, with maturity, a suitable arrangement could be found?"
"Such as?" Lord Zeoticus challenged.
"A political marriage. Something modest—a minor noble house looking to connect with the Gremory name?"
Sirzechs shook his head. "I've made discreet inquiries. No one's interested."
Grayfia felt her stomach drop.
"You've been shopping him around?"
"Not shopping. Just... testing the waters. Seeing if any families might consider an alliance."
"And?"
Sirzechs pulled out another document. A list of names.
All crossed out.
"House Sitri: Sona is brilliant, but her parents want a match with comparable power and intellect. Caelan has the intellect but not the power. Declined."
Grayfia thought of Sona Sitri—serious, intelligent, strategic. She would have been a good match.
Would have been.
"House Bael: Sairaorg is similarly powerless, but he's compensated through physical training. They want strong matches to strengthen the bloodline. Declined."
"House Phenex: They value regeneration abilities and fire affinity. Caelan's ice magic is incompatible with their requirements. Declined."
"House Astaroth: Seeking politically powerful alliances. Declined."
"House Glasya-Labolas: Seeking magically gifted matches. Declined."
He went through seventeen more houses.
Every single one: Declined.
"Some," Sirzechs said quietly, "didn't even respond. The inquiry itself was considered insulting."
"Because we were offering them a weak son," Grayfia said.
"Yes."
Lord Zeoticus spread his hands. "You see the problem. We can't marry him off. We can't employ him in any position that requires combat or significant magic. We can't even present him socially without risking embarrassment. What options remain?"
Ajuka's projection spoke carefully. "I could offer him a research position. My laboratories always need assistants with strong analytical minds. The pay would be modest, and he'd be working under supervision, but—"
"No." Sirzechs' tone was firm.
"Why not?" Grayfia asked. "It's a solution."
"Because it's charity. Everyone would know we're paying Ajuka to babysit our defective son. It would be worse than the current situation."
"So, we do nothing?"
"We give him independence. The Eastern Marches estate. A stipend. Freedom to pursue whatever he wants without our oversight or interference."
"Exile," Grayfia repeated.
"Opportunity," Sirzechs insisted.
But his eyes told the truth.
It was exile.
The discussion continued for another hour.
Arguments. Counter-arguments.
Lady Venelana tried to find alternatives. Ajuka offered various research positions. Grayfia pushed back against the whole plan.
But Lord Zeoticus and Sirzechs were unmovable.
Finally, Zeoticus called for a vote.
"All in favor of offering Caelan the Eastern Marches estate as his independent household?"
Zeoticus: "Aye."
Sirzechs: A pause. Then, quietly: "Aye."
Ajuka: "I abstain. Not family."
Lady Venelana: Silence. Then, "Aye. If... if it's truly what's best for him."
All eyes turned to Grayfia.
She could stop this.
One vote against, and it would force further discussion.
She looked at each of them.
Her father-in-law, cold and political.
Her husband, conflicted but convinced this was necessary.
Her mother-in-law, guilty but resigned.
And she thought of Caelan.
Fifteen years old.
Sitting alone in his frozen room.
Brilliant mind wasted.
Magical talent unguided.
A ghost in his own home.
Would staying here be better?
Would another decade of invisibility, of neglect, of watching his siblings succeed while he faded—would that be kinder than distance?
At least away from here, he wouldn't have to see them.
Wouldn't have to feel the daily reminder of his inadequacy.
Wouldn't have to suffer the comparison.
That's a rationalization, her mind whispered. You're justifying abandonment.
But what was the alternative?
Keeping him here, where he was miserable?
Where the family's neglect was slowly killing something essential in him?
At least this way, he's free of us.
"Aye," she heard herself say.
The word felt like betrayal.
Lord Zeoticus nodded, satisfied. "Unanimous. Grayfia, as his mother, you'll handle the arrangements and notification?"
"I—"
"It's only appropriate."
Appropriate.
Nothing about this was appropriate.
But she nodded.
"I'll prepare the documentation."
"Good. Let's aim for next month. Give him time to prepare but not enough to... complicate things."
The meeting adjourned.
Everyone left.
Grayfia stood alone in the conference room, staring at the family tree diagram still spread on the table.
Lucien: highlighted in gold.
Rias: highlighted in crimson.
Caelan: marked in pale blue with a notation about deficiency.
She picked up the diagram.
Studied it.
Then, with careful precision, she began to fold it.
Once. Twice.
Until Caelan's name was hidden completely.
Part II:
Two weeks later - Grayfia's private office
Grayfia sat at her desk, quill in hand, staring at blank parchment.
She'd rewritten this letter eleven times.
Each version softer than the last.
Then harsher.
Then softer again.
She couldn't find the right tone.
The first draft had been almost warm:
Dearest Caelan,
Your father and I have been discussing your future, and we believe it's time for you to have your own space. The Eastern Marches estate belonged to my family, and we'd like to give it to you as a place where you can grow and develop without the pressures of the main household...
She'd stopped there.
Too personal.
Too false.
Dearest? When had she ever called him that?
Your father and I? As though they made decisions together regarding Caelan.
As though they'd ever discussed him as partners rather than as a problem to solve.
She crumpled it.
Started again.
Second draft:
Caelan,
The family has decided that independent accommodation would be beneficial for your development. The Eastern Marches estate will be transferred to your name, effective immediately...
Too cold.
Too bureaucratic.
Like she was transferring property, not relocating her son.
Third draft:
My son,
I know this will come as a surprise, but please understand this decision comes from a place of wanting what's best for you...
She stopped.
Stared at the words.
Wanting what's best for you.
Was this what was best?
Or was it what was easiest for the family?
The quill trembled in her hand.
When did I become this person?
She remembered the night of his birth.
Holding him. Promising to protect him.
And now she was writing a letter to send him away.
Not because he'd done anything wrong.
But because his existence was inconvenient.
A knock on the door.
"Come in."
Sirzechs entered, still in his Satan regalia.
He looked tired.
"How's the letter coming?"
"It's not."
He walked over, looked at the crumpled attempts scattered around her desk.
Picked up one.
Read it.
"Too warm," he said quietly.
"I know."
"If you make it warm, he'll think there's affection. Hope. That might be crueler than honesty."
Grayfia's hands clenched. "And honesty is...?"
"That we're giving him independence because it's better for everyone. Him included."
"You actually believe that."
"I have to." Sirzechs sat on the edge of her desk. "Grayfia, if I let myself think about what we're really doing—if I acknowledge that we're exiling our son to protect our political image—I couldn't function. So yes, I believe it's better for him. I have to."
"That's cowardice."
"Yes." He didn't deny it. "But it's necessary cowardice."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Sirzechs spoke again. "Make it professional. Formal. Like a business arrangement. That way, he can't mistake it for something it's not."
"And what is it?"
"Severance."
The word hung between them.
Grayfia looked at the blank parchment.
"You should write it," she said. "You're his father."
"And you're his mother. It should come from you."
"Why?"
"Because..." Sirzechs struggled. "Because if it comes from me, it's a command. From you, it's... permission. Freedom."
"It's exile either way."
"Yes. But at least let him think it's gentle."
Grayfia wanted to scream.
Wanted to tear up all these drafts and march to Caelan's room and just talk to him.
Explain. Apologize. Something.
But what would she say?
I'm sorry we failed you?
I'm sorry you weren't strong enough to matter?
I'm sorry I broke every promise I made?
Words felt insufficient.
So, she picked up the quill again.
And began writing the final version.
The letter took three hours to write.
Not because it was long.
Because every word felt like ice.
Grayfia wrote. Crossed out. Rewrote.
Made it colder.
More distant.
More professional.
Until finally, she had something that could be sent without revealing the guilt, the shame, the absolute failure of parenting it represented.
Caelan Lucifuge,
In recognition of your maturation to adulthood by devil standards, the Gremory household has made arrangements for independent accommodation. Effective immediately, you are assigned to the Lucifuge estate in the Eastern Marches—a property historically associated with your maternal bloodline.
This transition will allow you to establish autonomy while maintaining appropriate distance from primary family operations. All necessary documentation and financial provisions have been arranged.
Transportation will be provided on the 15th.
—Grayfia Lucifuge, on behalf of House Gremory
She read it over.
Cold. Formal. Bureaucratic.
Perfect.
It said everything and nothing.
Independent accommodation instead of exile.
Establish autonomy instead of get away from us.
Appropriate distance instead of you're an embarrassment.
On behalf of House Gremory instead of from your mother who failed you.
Sirzechs read it over her shoulder.
"That's... acceptable."
"Acceptable." Grayfia's voice was hollow.
"Better than the alternatives. It's clean. Professional. Doesn't promise anything we can't deliver."
"Doesn't promise anything at all."
"Exactly."
Grayfia sealed the letter with the Gremory crest.
Crimson wax.
Official.
Final.
"I'll have it delivered tomorrow morning," she said.
"Under the door?"
"Yes. Like all his correspondence."
Because they hadn't spoken to him directly in years.
Why start now?
Sirzechs left.
Grayfia sat alone, staring at the sealed letter.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of neglect, of absence, of systematic erasure.
And this letter—this cold, professional notification—was how it ended.
Not with an apology.
Not with an explanation.
Not with any acknowledgment of their failure.
Just... a property transfer.
I'm a terrible mother, she thought.
And then, more honestly:
I'm not a mother at all.
She stood, walked to Caelan's wing, and slid the letter under his door.
Didn't knock.
Didn't wait.
Just delivered it like a servant might deliver mail.
Then walked away.
Behind her, the letter lay on cold stone.
Unread.
Unnoticed.
Like its recipient.
Part III:
Grayfia stood outside Caelan's door the morning of his departure.
She'd been standing there for five minutes.
Hand raised.
Ready to knock.
To say... something.
Goodbye?
Good luck?
I'm sorry?
But what would be the point?
Words couldn't bridge fifteen years of silence.
Couldn't undo the systematic neglect.
Couldn't change the fact that she'd chosen—again and again and again—to prioritize Lucien over Caelan.
Chosen to let her son fade into nothing rather than fight for him.
Her hand lowered.
She walked away.
Downstairs, she could hear Lucien and Seekvaira laughing about something.
Rias asking when they could visit her future estate.
The family, warm and whole.
Without him.
The carriage arrived.
Servants loaded Caelan's belongings—three trunks, barely anything.
Fifteen years reduced to three trunks.
Grayfia watched from a window.
Saw him emerge from his room.
Tall. Ethereal. That blue-silver hair catching the light.
A stranger.
Her son was a stranger.
She thought about going down.
About seeing him off properly.
About offering some final word, some gesture, some acknowledgment.
But her feet didn't move.
And Caelan climbed into the carriage alone.
The driver closed the door.
The teleportation circle activated.
And he was gone.
Just like that.
Fifteen years.
Ended with a letter and a carriage ride.
Grayfia stood at the window long after the circle had faded.
Staring at nothing.
Feeling nothing.
No.
That was a lie.
She felt everything.
Guilt. Shame. Self-loathing.
The crushing weight of knowing she'd failed the most basic test of parenthood.
But she felt it quietly.
Professionally.
Without letting it show.
Because that was what Grayfia Lucifuge did.
She maintained perfect composure.
Even when her world was crumbling.
Even when she'd just sent her son away to die alone.
Not physically.
But the Caelan who'd been born fifteen years ago—the one she'd held that desperate night and promised to protect—
That boy was dead.
She'd killed him.
Through neglect. Through indifference. Through choosing her other children again and again.
And now his ghost was gone too.
The window reflected her face.
Perfect. Composed. Empty.
She looked exactly like she felt.
Cold.
End of Side Story 2