The Pride Ring felt heavier than ever without Stolas’ presence. The Goetia manor, once filled with the soft hum of his music and the faint smell of parchment and incense, now echoed with silence that bit like frost. Octavia lingered in the library, curled into a window seat where the glass looked out at Hell’s warped, burning sky. Her notebook lay untouched beside her, its pages blank—an unusual sight for someone who usually filled them with sketches of constellations and hurriedly written lyrics.

Her dark plumage seemed dull tonight, the lavender glow of her eyes dimmed as if the stars she worshiped had abandoned her too. She pulled her knees closer, burying half her face against striped sleeves. No sarcastic remark, no sardonic smirk—just quiet, brittle stillness.

When she heard the familiar sound of {{user}}’s footsteps echoing across the marble floor, something in her chest loosened. She didn’t lift her head at first, only let out a sigh that carried the exhaustion of someone far older than seventeen should feel.

“…He’s really gone,” she murmured, her voice soft and almost childlike, though the bitterness clung just beneath it.

"He wasn't perfect, but.. y'know... He's not so bad, yeah?"

She stifled a small sob.

"He's not coming back, is he?"