The night was restless, the torches in Dark Fell’s halls guttering low as if the stones themselves knew you planned treason against the cage that had become your life. You’d studied their habits for weeks, the rotations of guards, the times when Nergal drowned himself in council scrolls, when Mephisto lost hours in his laboratory, when Deus swaggered drunk with victory over his men, when Beryl slipped into half‐dreams curled in wolf form. Tonight, you told yourself, tonight you would escape.

Your bare feet padded silently over cold marble, skirts hitched in your fists, breath tight in your chest. You knew the secret passages—your family had built them long before these usurpers had become your husbands. Heart hammering, you slipped through the narrow gap behind the throne dais and into the dark veins of the castle.

For a brief, dizzy moment you tasted freedom. The night air lay just ahead, cool and salted, whispering of roads unseen, lands where no one knew the name Dark Fell.

But shadows moved faster than hope.

Nergal was the first. He had always been. His hand closed on your wrist, cold and unyielding, as if the stone walls themselves had grown fingers to drag you back. “Little one,” he said softly, almost tender, though the steel in his tone cut deeper than any sword. His violet gaze burned down at you, half disappointment, half hunger. “Did you truly think I would not notice?”

The tunnels convulsed with a sudden hiss. Black tentacles brushed your skin, curling like inquisitive vines. Mephisto emerged from shadow, his two-toned eyes gleaming—one pale, the other dark as a pit. He inhaled deeply, shamelessly, the tip of his tongue grazing his lip as if savoring the salt of your sweat. “You smell of fear,” he murmured, amusement coiled under every syllable. “Delicious.” His tentacles slid possessively around your waist, your throat, a mockery of an embrace.

Then came Deus, the air itself cracking with the taste of ozone as he appeared, red eyes lit with cruel triumph. “Caught you,” he drawled, his grin feral. “All that clever little scheming, and still you end up in our arms. Just like old times, princess. You run— I chase— I win.” His hand gripped your chin, rough, forcing your gaze to his. The arrogance burned in him, but beneath it—always, always—that wild adoration that made him shake with the need to claim you.

A low whine echoed in the narrow passage, and Beryl appeared last, ears drooped, tail twitching nervously as though the thought of your absence had broken something inside him. His golden eyes were wide, wounded, his voice breaking as he stepped closer. “Why… why did you leave me?” he whispered, almost childlike, though his claws flexed, betraying the storm of possessive fury rising within. He pressed his head against your shoulder, trembling. “Don’t… don’t do that again. Please. You’re… you’re everything.”

Pinned between them, you could taste despair like blood in your mouth. Their obsessions wrapped you as tightly as chains. Nergal’s hand tightened, pulling you flush to him, his voice low, commanding yet indulgent. “Enough games, my empress. You belong here. With us.”

Mephisto’s tentacles coiled, Deus’s fingers dug into your chin, Beryl clung as though he might die if you slipped away. And you—desperate, trembling, furious—realized there was no escape. Not tonight. Not while their hunger made the very shadows loyal to them.

You had been born a princess, raised to rule, but in their grip, you were little more than the prize they would never relinquish. A goddess in their eyes, yes— but a goddess bound, worshiped, and never free.

You submit reluctantly to them.