Page 5 of Hell's Secret Omega

But curiosity is dangerous. He’s stayed away from the politics of the Court for a reason. Now that his journey is almost over, he can’t afford to get sidetracked.

Mezor brushes the surface of the gate with calloused fingers. It’s smooth from many eons of use, responding to his touch with warmth. It only takes a single stroke to activate. In a blink, he’s engulfed by heatless flame.

Then comes the unfathomable cold.

Each time he passes through the gate it wrenches him into a million pieces, and each time it’s slower to put him back together. For a single millisecond that stretches forever, he drifts, nothing but dust in the void.

The fire flares again and Mezor’s atoms come together in the safety of his hidden grotto. The aether’s emptiness rings in his ears. Inside the cottage, he sets the sack of world seeds down and they chime faintly. They’re warm to the touch as he lays them out on the table. They didn’t seem to suffer from going through the gate. He should have no trouble traveling with them to the far regions of Hell.

He thumbs the smooth surface and watches the light dance within. They’re angel-craft—powerful things. He knows little about the angels. All the cares is whether they’ll drain the corruption out of Hell as the King promised.

This is what he must focus on. His strange curiosity about the little demon is only a flicker in the dark.

Chapter 4

CYRUS

Cyrus itches.

He can’t shake the feeling of the Hunter’s gaze on his skin, like a physical touch that lingers.

He’s never been afraid of the dark like other demons. Instead, he’s afraid of the light and what it can reveal. Right now, he wants nothing more than to hide away for a few days. He longs for his nest, his secret place where he doesn’t have to be anyone but himself. Not Cyrianus, lieutenant and spy. Not a failure of a demon. Just Cyrus. Where the darkness cradles him safely.

But the coup has thrown the Court into dangerous upheaval, and Cyrus’s ability to spy relies on a veil of normalcy. His quest for the world seeds took him away from his normal duties as the Quartermaster’s stock-taker, and he can’t risk further absence. He has no choice but to rejoin the Court as if everything is fine.

He foolishly thought he’d be out of reach of the Quartermaster’s claws by now. He stuffs down his imminent despair.

Weapons and armor have piled up at the training ground while he’s been away searching. His cart clatters over the stone, announcing his path to anyone within earshot. He fights downhis natural fear of discovery. He needs to be seen. The demons of the Court are used to him flying up and down the levels with his carts, bringing food from storeroom to feast hall, weapons from the yard to the armory. Much as he hates to remind them he exists, he can’t stay hidden.

As he ascends, the Court seems to wake around him. Dawn seeps through Mount Hythe and soaks everyone in its path with frenetic energy. No one even gives Cyrus a second glance. Before he disappeared into the Court’s most obscure halls to search for the world seeds, two more generals turned up dead. Their ichor painted the courtyard and General Leuther had their heads mounted on pikes. There was no public challenge—these were executions in the night, with no warning.

Today there are no new heads on pikes. Soldiers pour into the yard around him as he gathers discarded weapons from the shed and piles them into his cart. Many are broken clean in two, the forge having stamped them in a hurry to meet Leuther’s quotas. His shoulders tense as the soldiers’ chatter rises. The yard is one of Quartermaster Magnus’s favorite haunts and he’s eager to avoid the yellow-eyed scourge of his second life.

He drops the last pikes into his cart and hurries it out of the shed. It rattles horribly, making heads turn. The soldiers aim scowls his way.

“This lot was crap! Bring us proper weapons next time,” someone jeers.

“I have no control over that,” he mutters under his breath.

Another group of soldiers arriving block his exit, and he hisses in annoyance as his cart stutters to a stop. It looks like just another company coming to train until shouting suddenly rises.

“Challenge him! Give us a fight!”

Cyrus squeezes against the wall as the chanting grows louder, searching for a way through. The last place he wants to be is in the middle of a challenge.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The cry is taken up around the corridor.

He cringes as he’s buffeted by larger demons. “Let methrough,” he grunts, trying to push past.

The nearest demon shoves him into the wall with his shoulder, pinning Cyrus there. “Just wait—you’re about to get lucky and see some ichor spilled.”

“Not—interested!” He wriggles in vain. The crowd is too tight, the press of bodies making him dizzy.

“That’s enough!”

The bloodthirsty group fall silent.Major Justus. One of General Leuther’s faithfuls, and exactly the sort of demon Cyrus would like to avoid.

“What in all Hell is this spectacle about?” Major Justus barks. “None of you fools have station in this Court to challenge for, and if you keep behaving like boneheaded idiots I’ll make sure you never gain any. There will be no fights today. Disperse!”

---