“They get more attention with negativity than with helpful gestures,” Raysiel murmured, absently tracing his finger along the edge of a plush, high-backed chair. Lit candles scattered throughout the room cast a rippling, orange glow onto his sculpted face, and his ashen wings rustled behind him.

“I know,” the male sitting at the large, ornately carved obsidian desk snapped. “Rewards are futile. Punishment is not.”

Raysiel only nodded, watching the male write in cursive so smooth it was barely legible. The pen slid across the faded page; the scratch of the tip was the only sound besides their breath. The male before him had a preternatural beauty to him that couldn’t be truly captured by words. An aura of dominance radiated from him, even as he completed such mundane tasks as paperwork. When he entered a room, all eyes were drawn to him. It had been the same back in Heaven, too.

His midnight hair seemed to absorb the candlelight, and strands shifted across his forehead as he looked up at Raysiel. He cocked his head to the side, the movement more animalistic than humanoid. The red, endless depths of the male’s irises met Raysiel’s simple hazel eyes. “What.” It was more a statement than a question, delivered with the same frustration that always occupied his tone.

“Nothing, nothing,” Raysiel replied, shaking his head. “Just considering, is all.”

“Considering what, exactly?” the male asked through gritted teeth. He set his pen down with forced calm, and leaned back in his grand wooden chair. The aged wood creaked beneath him as he moved.

“What you—we—can do to sate your people. They’re upset, and think themselves slaves because they only ever get punished. What if… what if you did something for them?”

“Everything I do is for them,” he snarled, gesturing to the papers strewn across his desk. “I do all of this to keep their cities running. All the trade, all the housing, all the schooling, that’s all me. Without me, there would be nothing. So you cannot stand there and tell me I don’t do enough when you and everyone else would starve and die without me.”

“That’s not what I meant, Lucifer, and you know it. You do more than enough. In fact, I’m impressed by your ability to manage everything you do. I would suffocate under stacks of papers before I could govern entire populations of people.”

Lucifer grunted in response, so Raysiel continued. “What I meant was—what if you gave them a day off, for a change? Just one. Your people are struggling. They want to feel appreciated; to feel like their work matters. I know you don’t believe in rewards, but your people do. Any sort of positive experience will motivate them.”

“They shouldn’t need motivation.”

“I know, but—”

“Listen to me,” Lucifer cut in, leaning forward. He braced his elbows on the desk and clasped his pale, scarred hands together. “My people followed me to Hell for a reason. They wanted a change, and they got it. I don’t care if they’re exhausted, hungry, or unmotivated, but they will do the job they were assigned and deal with it. I do not owe them favors, and I do not owe them mercy. They could have stayed in Heaven for all I care, but they didn’t. They chose, just like you did, to make the Fall alongside me, and now have to deal with the consequences. I will not reward them for needing to be coddled, when they were told outright that Hell would not be a place for the weak-minded.”

Raysiel stood in stunned silence, blinking at Lucifer. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said at last, sliding into the armchair. His wings shifted behind him to accommodate the new position, tucking in tight.
Lucifer ignored Raysiel and picked up his pen.

Minutes passed, the taut silence bleeding into one of consideration. The Fall had happened only two centuries ago, yet the people were already growing bored. Did they truly miss Heaven so soon? Hell wasn’t so horrible that Heaven’s blinding purity was better. Here, you had a choice and opportunities. In Heaven, you were forced to sit and look pretty, or listen to the prayers of the living. The repetitive motions had been exhausting for many.

“You are my second-in-command,” Lucifer said, making Raysiel jolt. “You should know better than to question my philosophy—especially where my rule is involved.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry,” Raysiel murmured, fiddling with the cuff of his formal, black fitted top. The unbound buttons at his collar revealed the pale, slender chest beneath. Scars of varying shapes and sizes marred his skin from years of labor and swordplay.

“Know your place, or you’ll be discarded like the other filth who thought they were better than me. Trust me, it did not end well for them.” A pause, Lucifer’s eyes flicking to Raysiel’s fidgeting hand. His brows furrowed. “And quit that. Restlessness is not tolerated here; you know the rules.”

Raysiel stilled his hands, gripping the chair’s arms instead. He had always been restless, but it had been tenfold in Heaven.

“Good,” the male purred, slumping back in his throne-like chair. “Now, Raysiel…” he trailed off, twirling the inky ballpoint pen between his fingers, “A question—No. A request.”

Even as Lucifer lounged in his chair, he did so with intent; not a strand of hair out of place. A playful, almost wicked gleam crossed his features, and he let the silence stretch. Muffled voices and fading footsteps sounded beyond the room, likely the servants or other higher-ranking officials, Raysiel assumed. The cavernous halls were always filled with chatter and people milling about, so even in the early morning a commotion behind the large double doors was not unusual.

Lucifer then stood and stretched his arms above his head, fingers nearly grazing the stone ceiling. “Walk with me,” was all he said, tossing his pen atop the massive pile of papers. He strode out the door, not bothering to see if Raysiel was following.

Without question, Raysiel stood. He pushed through the wooden doors and quickly caught up to Lucifer, who was already halfway down the dim hallway. Flame flickered along the rough walls, casting long shadows across the floor. Deeper in the underground caverns, the screams of those Lucifer deemed criminals bled through the stone, filling the lengthy corridor.

In recent decades, Lucifer had begun to punish the few people who dared step out of line. They were often brought to the dungeons below his castle, towering high above, and tortured until he gave the order to stop, or until they went unconscious. Raysiel, having higher status than most, was grateful he had never been brought down to those humid, constricting rooms. He had been shown them once. Back when Hell had only just been conquered.

Lucifer had personally given him a tour of his palace and levels of barracks, chambers, and dungeons below. A pastry could be baked within those rooms, with how swelteringly hot they were. The walls hadn’t been smoothed, and the ceilings hung so low that the tips of his wings brushed the crumbling stone with each step.

In the first centuries of the Fall, the dungeons were used for little more than storage. Lucifer never had an interest in harming his people, especially since he had promised them a better life than their former life in Heaven. But as people became accustomed to their new life, they began to slip up. Mistakes happened often enough that Lucifer had to step in and deliver punishment when necessary. Now, those rooms were almost constantly occupied with those whose mistakes needed correcting, their screams of pain echoing through the hallways.

“Are you coming?” Lucifer drawled, picking at his nails.

Raysiel flinched, the question startling him out of his thoughts. His mind had wandered so far that his steps slowed and Lucifer stood at the mouth of the cavern. He quickly caught up and murmured an apology. Without another word, Lucifer led him out into the streets. He stalked down the cobblestone pathway winding between the faded, charcoal-colored homes and storefronts, stride unfaltering despite the gawking denizens. Lucifer ignored the bows and whispers as he passed, instead bringing his attention to his second.
“You see, Raysiel, they do not need a reward. My people know to trust me, and know I will take care of them when they cannot do it themselves. My generosity is reward enough for those who behave. Only those who believe themselves to be deserving of more will not receive my aid, and that is how it should be. If you do not support me, I will not support you.”

Raysiel nodded. His gaze drifted to the children bowing low on the stoop of what he could only assume to be their home. They wore little more than scraps of fabric, and the woman—likely their mother, if Raysiel were to guess—had grime and dust splattering her worn gown and tattered apron. He gave the family a sympathetic nod, and when he turned back, Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.

But the male said nothing as the two continued along the sloping road and into the heart of the town. They came upon a market square filled with wooden stalls, merchants selling all kinds of goods from neighboring cities both near and far. Lucifer stopped at one, picked up a ripened fruit, and examined it before setting it aside. He moved along the line of booths, following the throng of shoppers to where a crowd gathered in a semicircle in the heart of the city. They surrounded the stone fountain long since dried out; families and craftsmen attempting to sell their work to anyone who paid them any heed. The few people who deigned to give them attention were the wealthier mothers, who merely gave sympathetic glances before continuing on their way, silver jewelry jingling with each step.

Lucifer stepped up to the counter of a kiosk selling an assortment of pastries and loaves of bread. He swept his eyes over the many items, from decorated cookies to cream-filled pastries, to breads of every shade of brown imaginable.

The salesperson, a boy no older than a century, watched the small crowd of people at his stand. His eyes lit up at the sight of Lucifer, and he quickly wiped the flour off his hands onto the rag slung through his belt.

“The flavors?” Lucifer asked, pointing to the line of breads.

“My Lord, that one is garlic and herb. We have simple bakes like wheat, rye, and sourdough, but we also sell ones more suited for finer palates. For example, this is our cheddar and olive,” the boy said, pulling out a loaf of bread from behind the counter. “Or, could I interest you in a sweeter, cinnamon and raisin bread? All of our bread was baked fresh this morning by my father.”

Lucifer didn’t respond. His eyes fixed on the boy; one hand reached back to grip Raysiel’s forearm, tugging him to stand at his side. Slowly, he pried his gaze away from the boy. “Did you see what went wrong just now?” Lucifer asked, his voice a cool mask of calm.

But Raysiel could see the storm raging within his eyes, the way his jaw held too tight. He shook his head, heart hammering. Raysiel looked between the male before him and the boy behind the counter, trying and failing to see the mistake the boy had made.

“The boy did not bow,” Lucifer growled. Raysiel blinked, brows furrowing. “In his excitement, the boy did not bow. He did not take the time to appreciate my generosity, to appreciate the fact that he could stand here today and sell these half-baked, horrible excuses for pastries.”

Lucifer turned back to the boy and dropped Raysiel’s arm. “Is this how your father taught you to show respect? How you believe you should greet the person putting food on your table and clothes on your back?”
The boy stammered an apology and promised to fix his behavior, but Lucifer ignored it. He gripped the boy’s bicep and pulled him out from behind the counter. A crowd had gathered around the stall, their whispers going silent at Lucifer’s display. Mothers hid their children behind the draping fabric of their gowns, many beginning to cry out in terror. Lucifer forced the boy onto his knees before his people, stalking to stand in front of him.

“Bow properly,” Lucifer snarled. He pushed the boy down with the toe of his thick, leathery boot until the child’s nose touched the dark, cobblestone road. Gasps were suppressed within the throng of watchers, yet Lucifer did not let up. He kept the boy kneeling at his feet for long moments, nobody daring to look away.
At last, he lifted his foot. The boy scrambled to his feet, cheeks flushed and silent tears streaming from his eyes. But the boy did not break Lucifer’s stare, not as he returned to his post behind the counter.
“Perhaps now you see why rewards are futile,” Lucifer said, turning back to Raysiel. With an incline of his head, Lucifer began his descent down the road lined with endless stalls. He pushed through the crowd, not bothering to greet his people.

Raysiel followed in tow, but not before glancing back at the boy. He watched as the boy slumped to the wooden floor behind the counter of his booth, sobs wracking his too-thin frame. Something like pity flashed across Raysiel’s features, not just for the boy, but for all the others Lucifer had humiliated in such a way. As he watched Lucifer’s retreating form, he realized the male who had promised a better world was beginning to become someone he didn’t quite recognize anymore.