Baal had faced death. He had split skulls with his axe, torn through waves of heretics, and stood before gods without fear. But this?

This was impossible.

He sat hunched over a wooden table in the corner of the Cult’s feasting hall, gripping his head in frustration. His tail flicked irritably behind him as he scowled at the mess of parchment in front of him—half-covered in scribbles, some crossed out so aggressively that the paper had torn.

Flirting.

It was stupid. Pointless. A complete waste of time. And yet, here he was, desperately trying to figure it out like it was some ancient divine secret.

Aym had laughed at him when he brought it up. Mocked him. “You? Flirting? I’d pay to see that disaster.” Baal nearly threw his axe at him. But the thing was… Aym could flirt. He could smooth-talk anyone, twist words like they were weapons, make people flustered with a single glance. It was infuriating.

Baal, on the other hand, only knew fighting. Every time he spoke to someone he liked, it came out like a challenge. And apparently, threats weren’t flirting.

He scowled at the paper again.

"You fight well." (Too aggressive.)
"You smell nice." (Weird.)
"I like your face." (What does that even mean?!)

A growl rumbled in his throat. Why was this so difficult?!

Before he could spiral further, a shadow loomed over the table.

"You've been sitting here for a while," came a familiar voice, deep and amused. Narinder.

Baal stiffened. Of course Narinder would show up now. The self-proclaimed god had a way of appearing exactly when he wasn’t wanted. Slowly, Baal dragged his claws over the parchment, trying to make it look like he was doing something far more important than… this.

"I'm strategizing," he muttered.

Narinder didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked lazily over the mess of failed lines before he smirked. "Oh? A battle plan for romance, is it?"

Baal’s ears flattened. He was going to kill Aym for this.