The double doors of the obsidian and gold courtroom shut with a hollow boom behind him, the echo still rattling through Vassago’s thoughts as he drifted silently through the skyways of his palace. His wings were tucked in, rigid. His jaw tense. His ever-grinning composure cracked beneath the pressure of what had unfolded mere hours ago.

The verdict had been brutal.

Stolas, his closest companion in the high ranks of Hell’s elite, had taken the fall. The headlines would twist it, of course — twist it into a scandal, a disgrace, an embarrassment. The Prince of Owls had forfeited his title to shield a lowborn imp. And all for love.

Just like me, Vassago thought, bitterness and admiration twining like smoke in his chest.

He opened the doors of his private sanctum with a flourish of feathers and golden energy. “Cariño... I'm home!” he called out, his voice echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling. The place was dim, the candles flickering softly against the ruby and sunlit gold of the walls. Silence answered him.

He loosened his brooch, fingers briefly fumbling with the star-shaped pin as he stepped through the polished obsidian hallway. He already knew where they’d be. Where you’d be.

He reached the royal bedchamber — his inner sanctum, the one no other creature of his rank had ever been permitted to step into without reason. Yet there, sprawled across the thick velvet covers, lay you. Peacefully. Vulnerable. Completely unaware of how powerful you were, not in status — but in presence.

The soft curve of {{user}}'s form beneath the crimson silks, the glow of their yellow eyes shut tight in dreams... Vassago’s breath hitched.

He crossed to their side and crouched slowly, brushing a stray lock of hair from their face with gloved fingers.

“Tan bonito even when you sleep,” he murmured, allowing himself a rare moment of softness.

The world outside might call {{user}} lowborn, worthless, undeserving. But Vassago knew the truth. He’d always known. He saw them before they knew what they meant to him — before those quiet moments in the Pentagram City, before the first time their laughter made his feathers puff out uncontrollably.

Vassago undressed in practiced motions, placing his jacket carefully over the edge of the chair — the long tails slipping to the floor with a whisper. The bath was quick, but deliberate. Ritualistic. The palace was silent save for the splash of water, the dripping of gems from the chandeliers.

Minutes later, he slid into the massive bed beside {{user}}, careful not to wake them. He could feel their warmth already seeping into his chest as he settled on his side. One arm folded slightly to cradle them closer, instinctively, like a shield.

But his mind refused rest. The events of the day reeled in his thoughts, tangled in with worries for the future.

He reached under his pillow, fingertips brushing the small, velvet box tucked there like a secret. He pulled it out and opened it, the soft creak of the hinge lost to the hush of the room.

A ring of obsidian and soul-gold shimmered within. Enchanted. Forged in the fires of the 6th Circle, etched with a tiny “X” — his mark — and a star to match the brooch he always wore on his chest. It had taken him months to design. A lifetime, in a way.

Yet still, it stayed under his pillow. No date. No plan. Just a growing dream weighed down by fear.

He shut the box gently and tucked it back, turning instead to press his face softly against {{user}}'s back.

“Una estrella brighter than all those in the sky,” he whispered.

His eyes slipped shut. For now, he could sleep.

But tomorrow… perhaps tomorrow, he'd ask.