Yesterday, 11:44 PM
Zholdin stood there for a moment before he burst into laughter.
The sound was low and rolling, like gravel under the weight of something massive. It wasn’t joy that carried in his voice. It was triumph. Cold and jagged triumph, as if it had waited years for the right moment to unfurl. He’d felt it. For just a breath of time, he had touched something immense, something coiled deep in the pit of his soul, and he’d bent it to his will.
His eyes gleamed as he looked at Giovanni, still brimming with the afterglow of power. “A god, huh?” he said, voice mocking, sharp with amusement. “If we’re handing out religious titles, I’d rather be called a demon. Suits me better. I don’t like the responsibility that comes with sainthood.”
The men around him were silent, some blinking as if uncertain they’d just seen what they’d seen. Others stared outright, eyes wide with some unfamiliar mix of fear and awe. Limon shifted on his feet, still rubbing the shoulder where he’d nearly taken a jolt of electricity to the chest, and Mikov crossed himself without irony.
Zholdin took a slow step forward, rolling out his shoulders, his body still thrumming with what felt like embers of the inferno he’d held. It had come in a moment of fury not for himself, but for his crew. Maybe that was how it worked. Maybe power only answered when you were pushed to the brink, when something inside you snapped and decided it would rather burn than break.
He turned his head slightly toward Dante, something half-approving, half-snarling on his face. “That’s the second favor, is it? You’re stacking quite a tab, magician.” But he didn’t argue it.
Instead, he looked over his shoulder at his men, who were now watching him with something closer to reverence.
He raised his voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re not bowing to me, boys,” he snapped. “If I start floating or shooting fireballs out my ass, you’re allowed to kick me in the balls. Understood?”
A few nods. A few relieved chuckles. The tension began to bleed out of the air.
Zholdin turned back to Dante, all humor gone now. “I’m not a man who forgets a debt. Two favors. You’ll have them when you call.”
His gaze drifted for a moment to Grym. She hadn’t said a word since the lightning show, but the way she stood, the way she looked at the floor like it had insulted her mother, he knew she was chewing on something lethal. Let her chew.
He rolled his neck and stretched his arms with a grunt. The fire inside was gone for now, snuffed out like a match in the wind. But he remembered it. And if he’d done it once…
He'd do it again.
“Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s get some real food. And someone find me a fucking drink.”
The sound was low and rolling, like gravel under the weight of something massive. It wasn’t joy that carried in his voice. It was triumph. Cold and jagged triumph, as if it had waited years for the right moment to unfurl. He’d felt it. For just a breath of time, he had touched something immense, something coiled deep in the pit of his soul, and he’d bent it to his will.
His eyes gleamed as he looked at Giovanni, still brimming with the afterglow of power. “A god, huh?” he said, voice mocking, sharp with amusement. “If we’re handing out religious titles, I’d rather be called a demon. Suits me better. I don’t like the responsibility that comes with sainthood.”
The men around him were silent, some blinking as if uncertain they’d just seen what they’d seen. Others stared outright, eyes wide with some unfamiliar mix of fear and awe. Limon shifted on his feet, still rubbing the shoulder where he’d nearly taken a jolt of electricity to the chest, and Mikov crossed himself without irony.
Zholdin took a slow step forward, rolling out his shoulders, his body still thrumming with what felt like embers of the inferno he’d held. It had come in a moment of fury not for himself, but for his crew. Maybe that was how it worked. Maybe power only answered when you were pushed to the brink, when something inside you snapped and decided it would rather burn than break.
He turned his head slightly toward Dante, something half-approving, half-snarling on his face. “That’s the second favor, is it? You’re stacking quite a tab, magician.” But he didn’t argue it.
Instead, he looked over his shoulder at his men, who were now watching him with something closer to reverence.
He raised his voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re not bowing to me, boys,” he snapped. “If I start floating or shooting fireballs out my ass, you’re allowed to kick me in the balls. Understood?”
A few nods. A few relieved chuckles. The tension began to bleed out of the air.
Zholdin turned back to Dante, all humor gone now. “I’m not a man who forgets a debt. Two favors. You’ll have them when you call.”
His gaze drifted for a moment to Grym. She hadn’t said a word since the lightning show, but the way she stood, the way she looked at the floor like it had insulted her mother, he knew she was chewing on something lethal. Let her chew.
He rolled his neck and stretched his arms with a grunt. The fire inside was gone for now, snuffed out like a match in the wind. But he remembered it. And if he’d done it once…
He'd do it again.
“Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s get some real food. And someone find me a fucking drink.”
There is nothing false in the words of demons