Zaliyah stood before the full-length mirror in his chambers, his breath hitching as he adjusted his fur coat that had long since surrendered to the roundness of his stomach.
He looked at himself-really looked. The frail boy who had been cast out of the Capital was gone. In his place was someone he barely recognized. His silver hair had reached a length that was pooling around his hips .
He pressed a hand to the low swell of his belly. He felt like a planet-slow, orbiting his own gravity, and perpetually exhausted.
"Nine months," he whispered. "You've spent nine months hiding in the ice, little one. I hope you like the cold."
In the palace, Lilith sat by the tall, arched window of her private quarters, her eyes fixed on the northern horizon .
"Nine months," she murmured, her fingers tracing the glass.
She remembered the feel of the infant Zaliyah in her arms before Mephisa had ripped him away. For eighteen years, she had lived in a hollowed-out world of grief, but since the revelations at the banquet, her world had been flooded with a blinding beautiful light. Her son was alive.
"Few more years" she whispered, A smile touching her lips. "In a few years, when the King's eyes are elsewhere, I will find you. I will hold you. I will see the man you've become."
She was excited, a dangerous thing for a woman in her position, but the joy was a flame she refused to extinguish. Her son was breathing. That was enough to sustain her through a thousand more nights of silence.
"The market?" Harun asked, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. "Your Highness, the snow is aggressive today. The wind is sharp enough to shave wood."
"I am aware of the weather, Harun," Zaliyah snapped, "But I have read every book in this castle's library twice. I know everything about demonic siege engines and nothing about Celestial labor. I assisted my mom with Riru's nursery, but that was just choosing fabrics and painting clouds. I need a guide."
Despite their silent protests, the Twin Chamberlains did as they were told. They were his hands and feet when his own body failed him. They bundled him into fur ear puffs, a matching hat, and his most expensive cloak, which now had to be pinned open at the waist.
The carriage ride to the exclusive boutique was a bumpy affair. Zaliyah sat wedged between velvet cushions, feeling every pebble on the road. When the carriage finally came to a halt, the shop assistant at his favorite boutique didn't just bow, she almost folded herself in half.
"A thousand welcomes my lady!" she squealed. Zaliyah was her favorite client, mostly because his budget was large enough to keep her in commission for a decade.
"Silks," Zaliyah commanded, pointing lazily at a bolt of sapphire blue. "And that lace. It looks soft enough for a baby's skin."
Harun and Iruna shared a bewildered look.
"I thought we were here for a book?" Harun whispered.
"He's a shopaholic, brother," Iruna replied, "Just carry the bags."
After draining the boutique of its finest fabrics, they finally moved to the bookshop.
The Librarian, a spindly demon with eyes that looked like gold coins, bowed so low his nose nearly touched the dusty floor. He smelled a payout.
"Do you have a pregnancy guide for Celestials?" Zaliyah asked, his voice echoing in the quiet shop.
The Librarian froze. He looked at Zaliyah like he had just asked for a map to the sun. "Celestials, My lady? We haven't seen their kind since... well, since the Noble Lady Lilith brought that particular brand of shame upon the realm. Such things are not kept in common stock."
Zaliyah remained silent for a while. "Then give me the demon guides. The high-born ones."
The man scurried off, returning with several leather-bound books. "These describe the later stages, My lady , Be warned: demon infants grow rapidly after the third month, and their power outbursts can... dismantle a room."
Zaliyah bought them all. On the way back, he leaned against the carriage window, flipping through the pages. The descriptions of toddlers accidentally setting fires or teleporting during tantrums made him giggle.
He felt a sudden, sharp kick against his ribs, as if the child was agreeing with the text. Before he could reach the next chapter, the rhythm of the carriage and the weight of the day pulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
From the high glass windows of his study, Xulthas watched the carriage pull into the courtyard. He saw Harun reach in and carefully scoop the sleeping Zaliyah into his arms, carrying him like a precious, fragile cargo.
Thalassa stood by the hearth, swirling a glass of deep wine. "He looks like he's due any day now,"
"To think he still has four more years in this castle," Xulthas replied, his eyes narrowing as he watched the silver hair trail over Harun's arm. "Plus, there will be a mini-version of him running through these halls soon. I think I may go visit my parents in the Southern Territory once the screaming starts."
Thalassa chuckled, "A mini-Zaliyah is exactly what this castle needs. It's far too quiet."
Xulthas smirked, his gaze shifting to his second-in-command. "What about a mini-Thalassa?"
The look of disgust that crossed Thalassa's face was visceral. "Are you crazy? Look at him. He can barely walk, he can't sleep, and he eats charcoal-bread at midnight. I'd rather buy a child from the auction market than make myself so vulnerable."
"If Zaliyah heard you mention the auction markets, he'd throw a tantrum," Xulthas said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "The poor thing refuses to accept that our ways are different from the inferior humans."
"He'll come around," Thalassa said, looking back at the snow. "This child has better chances of adapting to our values than he does. The child will be a demon of the North."
Zaliyah woke hours later in his own bed, the room bathed in the soft glow of twilight. A gentle knock preceded Iruna.
"Your Highness? The painter is here."
Zaliyah groaned, pulling a pillow over his head. "Tell him I've died of exhaustion. Send him away."
"You've turned down the last five, your highness," Iruna said, stepping to the bedside. looking at him, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling just enough to be noticed. It was the "sad puppy" face-her ultimate weapon.
Zaliyah peeked out from under the pillow. "That's low, Iruna. Truly low."
"It's your first child," she whispered. "Don't you want to show him how beautiful his father was when he was carrying him?"
Zaliyah sighed, defeated. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the furs."
He dressed with meticulous care. He chose light, flowing trousers and a white silk robe that stayed open, exposing the porcelain-white curve of his belly. It looked swollen and tight, the skin glowing with a celestial health.
Above his stomach, a short, petit coat covered his chest, and Iruna spent an hour brushing his hair until it looked like a sheet of fallen starlight.
They moved to the solarium, where the painter, a nervous man with stained fingers-was waiting. When Zaliyah entered, the painter stopped breathing. His eyes darted from the silver hair to the golden earrings , then to the massive, exposed belly. He looked like he had just seen a vision of a forbidden god.
Zaliyah sat on the velvet chaise, leaning back with grace . He rested his cheek against his hand, his elf ears peeking through the silver strands. His expression was one of ethereal detachment, like the women in the old paintings Riosuka had once shown him. No smile, no frown, just a haunting, timeless beauty.
The painter was practically drooling, his brush trembling.
"Paint," Harun commanded.
The man jumped and began to work. But twenty minutes in, Zaliyah shifted. "I'm tired. Stop."
The man waited. Ten minutes later, they started again. "I'm hungry," Zaliyah announced. "Iruna, the cakes."
The third time, Zaliyah simply closed his eyes. "I'm taking a nap. Do not move the light."
The twins looked at each other exhausted by the drama. When Zaliyah finally woke, he seemed struck by a bolt of inspiration. He posed with renewed vigor, his eyes fixed on some distant point only he could see.
When the painter finally finished, he was shaking with excitement. "A masterpiece, Your Highness! Truly!"
Iruna rushed forward to take the canvas, her eyes shining with joy, but before she could hold it, a pale, strong hand snatched it away.
"What is this?" Xulthas's asked.
Zaliyah didn't even look up. "What does it look like, Warlock?"
Xulthas turned the painting around. "A fat pig."
Thalassa, standing in the shadows, let out a muffled giggle. Zaliyah's eyes snapped open, and he struggled to his feet, walking slowly toward Xulthas. He grabbed the painting, staring at it for minutes. To him, it looked fine, but Xulthas's disdain was infectious.
The painter broke into a cold sweat. "If the Commander is dissatisfied, I shall start afresh!"
"There's nothing wrong with it," Zaliyah insisted, clutching the canvas. He couldn't imagine sitting still for another four hours.
"Everything is wrong with it," Xulthas countered, his eyes raking over the canvas. "The light is flat. The anatomy is amateur. You've captured the weight, but none of the... presence."
"Since when do you paint?" Zaliyah asked, arching a silver eyebrow.
"None of your concern."
"Why haven't I seen any of your work, then?"
"Because you are unworthy," Xulthas said simply. He looked at the twins. "Escort this hack out. Pay him handsomely " he turned his gaze towards the painter "find a new profession."
As the twins hurried the terrified painter out, Xulthas turned to Zaliyah. "Sit down. I'll show you what a real painting looks like."
Zaliyah took it as a challenge. He sat back on the couch, posing with the haughty grace of the celestial he is . If Xulthas failed, Zaliyah would never let him hear the end of it.
Xulthas flicked his fingers, and a set of brushes and vials of ink appeared in the air. He didn't use an easel he let the canvas float. As he began to paint, the room went silent.
Xulthas's movements were surgical, but as he worked, something shifted. For the first time, he was forced to truly look at Zaliyah. He saw the way the light caught the moisture on Zaliyah's lips. He saw the way the silver hair draped over the white swell of his belly like a shroud.
He found himself lingering on the sad, purple depth of Zaliyah's eyes. He felt a strange, magnetic pull, a force that seemed to draw his hand toward the canvas with more than just artistic intent. When he painted the scars on Zaliyah's neck, he didn't see them as deformities instead he saw them as an alluring, scary beauty-a mark of a survivor.
His heart hammered against his ribs. It was a heat he didn't recognize, a fever that made his fingers itch to touch the skin he was depicting. He painted the swell of the belly with a poetic delicacy, capturing the way the life inside seemed to push against the confines of the body.
Finally, he stopped.
The painting was haunting. It was a soul laid bare. It was better than anything the master painter could have dreamt of. Even Zaliyah, who had his insults ready, was left breathless.
"Not bad," Zaliyah finally managed, though his voice was small. "I expected nothing less from the Commander."
But Xulthas wasn't listening. He was staring at Zaliyah, his breath shallow. A sudden, confusion roared through him. Why were his hands shaking? Why did he want to know what those pale, celestial lips tasted like?
Without a word, Xulthas turned and stomped out of the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that left the room feeling cold.
Zaliyah rolled his eyes, though his heart was racing. "Apparently," he whispered to the twins, "demon women aren't the only melodramatic beings in the Underworld."