Selene was still muttering something about stains and noble incompetence when Kael flipped the paper and read the full article.
His blood turned cold — or hotter, depending on which sin was currently active.
DEVIL IN VEILSPIRE: MYSTERIOUS FIGURE SLAYS NORTHERN DUKE'S SON ADAM — KINGDOM IN PANIC
Kael's jaw twitched.
"Eyewitnesses claim the figure emerged mid-battle, cloaked in shadows, bearing no sigil.
He aided our elite students — only to turn on them.
His blade was cruel, his movements monstrous."
"Wore a red mask, carved like a devil's grin.
His cloak was black, edges burning as if it hungered."
'Hungered? What am I, fashionably possessed?'
Selene finally looked up.
"What is it?"
Kael didn't respond — too busy flipping the page.
"Some survivors say he devoured the heart of an undead beast mid-battle."
"Others swear the dead around him rose and bowed."
'Okay, that part I did not do.'
Selene's expression darkened as she read over his shoulder.
"A spirit? A cursed knight? A foreign god's champion?"
Kael sighed.
"Honestly, I'd prefer 'Misunderstood local crypt enthusiast.'"
She gave him a flat look.
"Kael… it's everywhere." Selene's voice was tight.
"People are losing their minds.
The taverns, the markets — they're calling him
'The Devil of Veilspire.'"
She paused.
Then her eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"Wait… how does this Devil know your name?"
Kael froze. Just a fraction too long.
His eyes darted to the side like they were trying to flee the conversation without him.
"Uh… I think… he asked me?
Inside the temple. Yeah.
Real chatty guy. Polite even.
I told him my name and he… shoved me aside.
Didn't think I was worth the kill, I guess."
Selene blinked. Slowly.
Kael added,
"Which, frankly, I found insulting."
She stared at him — the kind of look that said she was mentally throwing a dagger.
Or three.
Her silence stretched longer than comfort allowed.
Then — finally — she looked away, muttering, "Fine…"
But the tone of her voice suggested the internal file marked Kael's Bullshit had just gained several new pages.
Kael exhaled, slow and heavy, as Selene turned her attention to blotting the tea-stained floor like it had personally offended her.
She didn't ask again — but the air between them had shifted.
The kind of quiet where someone's clearly plotting to circle back later.
Kael turned back to the paper, scanning the rest with tired eyes — and then, he paused.
"Oh no… oh, come on," he muttered, face crumpling.
Selene glanced up, unimpressed.
"What is it now? Did the Devil also steal your breakfast?"
"They think he's a bastard prince," Kael said, deadpan.
"Or a royal spy.
Or a half-demon warlock raised by wolves.
One guy swears he rides a flaming horse and speaks in riddles while eating souls."
Selene blinked.
"...Does he?"
Kael slowly lowered the paper and looked at her like she'd just stabbed him with a butter knife.
"No! But honestly, if they print one more theory, even I'm going to start wondering."
Selene watched him, lips pursed.
Then, after a beat:
"You seem awfully invested in this Devil."
Kael froze.
The atmosphere tensed like a noose tightening politely.
"Umm… we could say... friends?" he offered weakly, eyes not quite meeting hers.
Selene stared.
Hard.
Then — with a little shake of her head and a sigh that carried all the weight of "Not my problem but still my problem" — she nodded.
"Alright. Friends."
But her tone said liar, and her eyes said I'm writing this down for later.
Kael smiled thinly and went back to pretending the newspaper wasn't about him.
###
Soon after, Kael left the estate in his favorite black carriage — sleek, silent, and just ominous enough to make pedestrians reconsider their life choices.
He didn't bring Selene.
No need to drag her along for something this dull.
Just a quick errand to offload some magical scrolls and, hopefully, not get accused of being a supernatural war criminal.
He had eleven in total.
Planned to sell eight.
Two were for himself — chaos and survival — and one he'd quietly set aside for Selene.
As the carriage rolled into the inner city, Kael leaned out the window, elbow propped lazily on the edge.
Bad idea.
Immediately, the street noise hit him like a bucket of drama.
"He vanished into smoke—just like that!"
"My cousin swore he saw the mask up close. Said the eyes were glowing red!"
"No man could move like that. Maybe he's not even a man…"
Kael facepalmed with a groan.
"What the hell…"
He recalled that day—when he had limped home bloodied and broken.
His father had questioned him about the Veilspire incident, voice grave.
Kael had answered carefully, eyes lowered.
"He was not of our world.
If we chase him… we may find more than we wish."
It was supposed to end the discussion.
Instead, it became a prophecy.
The nobles licked it up like spilled wine.
The peasants quoted it in whispers.
Someone even painted it on a tavern wall — next to a poorly drawn devil face with flaming hair.
Now? Kael just wanted to pawn off some scrolls and not be accused of eating souls on the side.
But no.
Instead, he was the Devil of Veilspire.
And somewhere back home, that cursed mask was still sitting in his vault… waiting patiently.
Kael noticed the carriage had turned into a narrow, quiet alley — the kind where shady deals, stabbings, and bad life choices all happened before breakfast.
Perfect.
"Stop!" he barked.
The driver panicked and yanked the reins.
The driver, clearly flustered, scrambled down and flung open the door.
Only to find Kael lying dramatically on the floor, clutching his leg like it had personally betrayed him.
"I have a headache… in my leg," Kael groaned, face contorted in theatrical pain.
The driver blinked.
"Sir… in your what?"
"I think it's spreading," Kael whispered ominously.
The driver started to back away, muttering something about fetching a doctor or an exorcist — but that was as far as he got.
With a single, swift motion, Kael sprang up and slammed his fist into the back of the man's head.
The driver crumpled to the cobblestones, unconscious and mildly offended by physics.
Kael dusted off his sleeves, stepping over the body.
"Sorry, old man.
I can't exactly sell stolen spell scrolls in White Market, right?
Better find a... less honest buyer."
He looked around the alley — damp, reeking of bad decisions, but mercifully empty — and nodded to himself.
"Time to look the part."
He ruffled his hair into a disheveled mess, shrugged off his noble coat, and smeared a little dirt on his shirt with the precision of a man applying expensive cologne.
Then he caught his reflection in the polished lantern casing near the carriage:
A little bruised, a little grimy — enough to pass for someone morally flexible.
He smirked.
"Beautiful."
Carefully, he wrapped a coarse cloak around his mouth and nose, concealing his features further.
Without hurry, he stepped down from the carriage and melted into the bustling streets, his movements measured and quiet, becoming just another face in the crowd.