The first thing Astaroth Elereth Gregory Varitias learned about existence was that knowledge and experience were not the same. He knew the name of the woman before him: Jeanne D'Arc.
His beloved wife. Warden of the Black Cells. A fallen saint whose beauty had once inspired worship, whose suffering had destroyed her faith, and whose devotion now belonged to him alone. He knew her voice, her abilities, the history of her corruption, and a thousand details of her character. He knew her with the intimacy of a husband who had spent centuries at her side. Yet this was the first time he had seen her. How wonderful! Had his body permitted it, he might have laughed.
He remained perfectly still. Before him stood two Supreme Beings: Ulbert Alain Odle, his creator, and Tabula Smaragdina, who had helped bring him into existence. They were inspecting Jeanne. Tabula circled her, pausing over details of her appearance. Her black braid fell well below her thighs; her pale complexion stood out against dark armor, its crimson accents lending her something of a knight's severity and a sacrificial priestess's solemnity.
The office light burned steadily. Beyond the glass, the prison vanished into blackness. Equipment windows flickered into view as Tabula inspected Jeanne's silhouette and Ulbert returned, again and again, to her weapon settings. Their argument sounded less like a new disagreement than one they had resumed many times.
For an instant, her ocean-blue eyes caught the light.
"That should be everything," Tabula remarked.
Ulbert leaned closer. "You're sure about the equipment?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Because I still think the sword could use another effect."
"You've said that three times."
"And I've been right three times."
Tabula gave an exasperated sigh. "Ulbert, she's already carrying two Divine-Class items. If we start changing everything again, we'll be here until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow wouldn't be so bad."
"For you, perhaps." Astaroth listened attentively.
"Besides," Tabula continued, "the sword's abilities complement her build perfectly well. Giving it another offensive effect would be redundant."
"Not necessarily."
"Yes, necessarily."
Ulbert folded his arms. "You're no fun."
"Says the man who insisted on making the entire room impossible to see without a special item."
"That's completely different. That's atmosphere."
"Naturally." Astaroth turned his attention from his creators to the darkness beyond the glass. The Black Cells. His home. He knew the dimensions of every tier and the purpose of every door, but knowledge was no substitute for seeing. Above him, wooden walkways waited against the dark stone.
The office light ended abruptly at the glass. A corner of the desk, a shelf, the pale gleam of an instrument: these were the last things a visitor could make out before the darkness swallowed everything else.
The darkness was deliberate. Without the proper item, no visitor could see the prison it concealed. Astaroth could. Narrow cells, wooden walkways, staircases, heavy doors—all stood clearly before him. Two hundred and eighty-eight cells, every one empty. What possibilities! He regarded them with something close to affection.
A man in a velvet coat was pounding on the nearest cell door. His rings flashed each time he struck the iron. "I demand to see whoever commands this place!"
Astaroth turned the key. The nobleman recoiled at the sight of him, then recovered enough to raise his chin. "Finally. You will release me at once. My father—"
"Your father?" Astaroth asked with immediate interest. He stepped inside and closed the door. "Do tell me."
The man named a house, a province, three generations of distinguished ancestors. Astaroth listened without interrupting. When the prisoner finished, he took the man's hand as though they had been introduced at a ball.
"How fortunate. I shall remember every name."
He bent one of the ringed fingers back. The man's speech ended in a cry that rebounded from the stone. Astaroth's smile widened. Such a splendid voice! He held the hand a moment longer, until the nobleman's knees gave way, then lowered him carefully to the bench.
"There, there. You needn't shout. I'm standing right here."
"You monster!"
"Oh, very likely." Astaroth examined the rings, selected another finger, and looked up brightly. "Now, where were we? Your grandfather, I believe."
The man tried to strike him. Astaroth caught the blow and returned it with a sharp twist that sent the prisoner sprawling against the bench. A ring struck the stone with a bright little chime. The nobleman made a small, shocked sound before the pain caught up with him.
Astaroth laughed. "Again! That was almost brave."
The prisoner crawled backward, cradling his hand. He no longer mentioned his father. Astaroth settled beside him and waited with the inexhaustible patience of someone who had nowhere else to be.
By the time the nobleman could speak again, his titles had become a jumble. He offered money. He offered lands. He offered his father's life. Astaroth listened to every proposal, delighted by the inventive urgency with which each replaced the last. When the man finally whispered his own name without its honorific, Astaroth repeated it softly, almost fondly.
"Much better. Now we can begin to know one another."
"Astaroth's patrol routine is working, at least," Ulbert observed.
Ulbert was looking directly at him.
*My creator!* Astaroth wished to bow, but his body had already begun its next scripted movement.
His white-gloved fingers closed around the obsidian staff. Then his body turned toward the darkness beyond the office light.
He knew the route before taking a step: the walkways, the tiers of cells, the stairs, and finally the office again.
The certainty was another gift from his creators. He could anticipate each movement, though he could neither hasten nor delay it. He found nothing troubling in the arrangement.
Ulbert's and Tabula's voices faded behind him. For the first time since his creation, he was alone with his thoughts.
The next door stood open. A knight occupied the cell beyond, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his sword lying uselessly on the floor between them. Blood had dried along his jaw. He was still standing.
"You call yourself an inquisitor?" the knight demanded. "Then question me. Don't hide behind your tricks."
Astaroth stepped over the sword. "What a wonderful suggestion. Tell me: what is courage?"
"Standing against evil."
"Like this?"
The knight lunged. Astaroth caught his arm, drove him against the wall, and held him there while his breath returned in ragged bursts. The man strained to free himself. Astaroth released him without warning; he staggered and almost fell.
"Again," Astaroth said, clapping his gloved hands. "Please. I enjoyed that."
The knight came at him twice more. The third attempt ended on the floor, where he lay with one hand pressed to his ribs. Astaroth crouched and tilted his head.
"You're quite determined. Shall we rest?"
"Go to hell."
Astaroth laughed so warmly that the knight stared at him. "Oh, I do hope we shall have many more conversations."
He brought the man water, waited while he drank, and asked about the oath he had sworn when he first took up his sword. The knight answered reluctantly. Astaroth listened as attentively as any devoted student. He asked for the names of the people the oath was meant to protect. When the knight refused, Astaroth did not grow angry. He simply took the empty cup away and returned to his questions.
The lamp burned lower while Astaroth remained with the knight. By the time it needed replenishing, the man who had demanded a fair fight sat against the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open. Astaroth offered him another drink. The knight saw the white glove and recoiled; Astaroth caught the cup before it struck the stones.
"Careful! We should hate to waste it."
"There!" Astaroth exclaimed. "You see? You know what to expect from me already."
The knight closed his eyes. Astaroth stayed until he opened them again.
The lock turned once more. The knight had tried to count the hours since Astaroth's last visit, but sleep and dread had tangled them together. Astaroth entered with a wooden box beneath one arm and a chair in the other.
"Good evening!" he said. "I've been thinking about your oath."
The knight pushed himself upright. "I told you everything."
"Indeed you did. And so eloquently." Astaroth set the chair beside the lamp. "But yesterday you called me a coward. I confess that hurt my feelings."
"Then kill me."
"Oh, no." Astaroth sounded sincerely distressed by the suggestion. "You haven't seen what I brought."
He opened the box. Within lay a collection of instruments, each arranged in its own fitted recess, their surfaces catching the lamplight. The knight stared at them. He had faced monsters on the battlefield. He had stood in burning streets with arrows in his armor. Yet his breath began to falter at the sight of a gentleman carefully laying out his tools.
Astaroth seated himself beside the lamp. Had the knight ever seen a lotus bloom? Did he prefer a garden at dawn or dusk? Did symmetry please him? The knight refused to answer. Astaroth accepted the silence with an encouraging nod and selected his first instrument.
The first scream interrupted the question about flowers.
The lamp burned low. Astaroth replenished it and resumed his work. The knight tried to keep his jaw clenched; a cry escaped him, and he cursed himself for making it. Later he begged for water. Astaroth brought it, held the cup patiently, and listened as the man struggled to swallow. When the knight closed his eyes, Astaroth called him by name until he looked up again. The arrangement was not finished. His guest ought to see it.
At one point the knight began reciting his oath. His voice broke halfway through. He started again, determined to finish. Astaroth listened, his expression brightening with every faltering word.
"How extraordinary," he murmured. "You still remember it."
The knight tried to lift his head. "I am—"
"Brave? Yes, yes, you have been wonderfully brave." Astaroth bent close, almost tender. "But must you insist on being brave in quite the same way every time?"
The knight answered with a cry. Astaroth laughed aloud, delighted by the sudden change in pitch. He had not expected that particular sound. He asked for it again, and when the knight could give him nothing but a ragged whisper, he seemed almost disappointed.
The chamber clock completed another circuit. The knight could no longer stand; the oaths he had recited so fiercely had fallen silent. Under the lamp, lotus patterns spread across his battered skin in a dreadful arrangement. Astaroth circled him, studying the work from each side. The knight followed with frightened eyes, shrinking whenever Astaroth stopped. After so many hours, even his thoughtful humming made the prisoner tremble.
One portion of the arrangement displeased Astaroth. He adjusted the lamp, stepped back, and studied it again.
"Almost," he whispered.
"Please," the knight breathed. He had stopped asking to be freed. "Please, let it be finished."
Astaroth looked up, surprised. "But you've not seen it yet!"
Astaroth lifted the mirror that had been leaning against the wall. The knight turned his face away before it reached him. Such immediate, complete refusal! Astaroth burst into laughter, set the mirror aside, and crouched beside his guest.
"Very well. We shall save that pleasure for another day."
The knight's eyes followed him to the door. When Astaroth paused at the threshold, the man made a tiny sound, neither word nor cry. Astaroth waited, hoping for something more. Nothing came.
"What a marvelous evening," he said softly. "And to think you believed we had nothing left to discuss."
He shut the door with care. Farther along the passage, another voice called to him.
Farther along the corridor, a priest was waiting with his hands clasped around a holy symbol. Astaroth carried a covered tray. The smell of hot bread filled the cell before he entered.
"Your prayers have been answered," he announced.
The priest stared at the food. "Why?"
"Because you asked for it."
He watched the man eat. The priest's fingers trembled around the cup, but hunger prevailed. When the meal was finished, Astaroth cleared the dishes and placed a narrow steel instrument on the table.
The priest stopped breathing for a moment.
"You promised—"
"I promised you a meal." Astaroth looked genuinely puzzled. "Was it not to your liking?"
The priest began to pray. Astaroth folded his hands and waited through the first prayer and the second, smiling as the words grew hurried and uncertain.
"Oh, don't stop on my account," Astaroth said. "I was enjoying the sound."
When Astaroth came again, the priest had arranged his blanket into a kneeling cushion. He did not look at the bread. He watched the covered tray until Astaroth set it down. "You may eat," Astaroth said. The priest whispered a prayer without taking his eyes from the cloth. Astaroth uncovered the meal. The man flinched at the movement, then stared in bewilderment at the harmless bowl. "There we are!" Astaroth said. "I knew you would remember me."
Astaroth sat beside him, radiant. "My dear fellow, you remembered our last visit!"
The next cell contained a scholar seated at a desk. Pages lay scattered around his shoes, some filled with small, neat writing, others crumpled into balls. Astaroth had provided ink, paper, and a clock. The man had insisted that a complete record would prove what had been done to him. Astaroth thought that an admirable ambition.
"You're late," the scholar said without looking up.
"Am I?" Astaroth checked the clock. "By seven minutes. You have my apologies."
The scholar dipped his pen. His right hand shook, and the nib struck the glass. "I wrote down the times. Every time. You can't deny any of it."
"Why would I wish to?" Astaroth pulled out the opposite chair and sat. "May I see?"
The scholar guarded the notebook with both arms. Astaroth waited until the man pushed it across the table. The first pages were immaculate. The later entries slanted and crowded one another; some words had been written over so many times that the paper had torn. Astaroth turned a page with the reverence one might show a rare manuscript.
"You have been very diligent," he said. "But this entry is incomplete."
"It isn't."
"You neglected to record what you said when I brought the instruments."
The scholar's mouth tightened. "I said nothing."
"My dear fellow, you screamed." Astaroth looked up, smiling. "Quite beautifully, too. I should hate for future readers to miss it."
The man snatched the book back. His fingers were clumsy; the pages slipped and fluttered to the floor. Astaroth helped gather them. When the scholar tried to seize one sheet, Astaroth held it just beyond his reach and read aloud a passage about courage, reason, and the inevitable triumph of truth.
"I remember this," Astaroth said. "You wrote it on our first evening."
"Give it back."
"Of course." Astaroth returned the sheet, then laid a narrow case beside the inkpot. The scholar's eyes followed it. Astaroth opened the clasp. Metal caught the lamplight. The scholar pushed back from the desk so suddenly that his chair struck the wall.
"No. Not today."
"But today's entry is still blank." Astaroth selected an instrument and rose. "We mustn't spoil your excellent record."
The scholar lunged for the door. Astaroth caught him by the collar and brought him back to the chair. The struggle overturned the ink. Black liquid ran across the latest page, swallowing half the careful words. The scholar made a broken sound and stared at the spreading stain as though it were worse than the hand holding him down.
"Oh, what a pity!" Astaroth said. He set the instrument aside long enough to rescue the remaining pages. The scholar watched him with wide, wet eyes. "Don't worry. We can make a fresh copy."
Afterward, Astaroth brought water and a clean notebook. The scholar could barely hold the pen. Astaroth steadied the page while he wrote, stopping now and then to ask a question. At the first question the man answered angrily. At the fifth he whispered. By the tenth he was begging Astaroth to supply the words himself.
"But then it would not be your account," Astaroth replied. "And that would be a terrible shame."
He returned the following evening to find the scholar already sitting at the desk. The man had written a single sentence in the new book: *I will do whatever he asks.* Astaroth read it twice, then looked at him with undisguised pleasure.
"How thoughtful! Yet you've left out the date again."
The scholar began to cry. Astaroth drew up a chair beside him, uncapped the ink, and waited until the trembling hand could write once more. He had never enjoyed a lesson so much.
A stair creaked beneath Astaroth's feet. The scholar's pen was gone; the real walkway descended toward the glass-fronted office. Ulbert and Tabula were speaking below. The cells around him stood empty.
From the walkway, the office looked like a lantern at the bottom of a well. Its glass reflected the light back upon itself; anyone inside would see a faint likeness superimposed upon the dark. Jeanne's silhouette stood motionless near the entrance.
"…the entrance should stay exactly as it is," Ulbert was saying.
"Agreed," Tabula replied.
"And we don't tell them about the darkness."
"Obviously."
"Or the cells."
"Ulbert."
"Or him."
"That is rather the point of a surprise."
Astaroth listened. A surprise?
How delightful! His body entered the office just as Jeanne turned toward him.
"My lord," she said.
Her voice was beautiful. Affection rose in him at once.
"My beloved Jeanne."
He had not chosen the words, but they expressed his feelings perfectly. Jeanne inclined her head.
"The Black Cells remain secure."
"Excellent." His body approached the desk. Astaroth experienced himself settling into the chair, his staff coming to rest beside him.
He looked toward his wife. *How fortunate I am.* She stood near the entrance, one hand resting close to her sword. There was nothing uncertain about her bearing. Did she appreciate the furnishings? The books, the instruments, the careful arrangement of everything around them? He would have loved to ask.
Light caught the edge of her breastplate, then the hilt of her sword and the length of her braid. Astaroth knew the history his creators had written for them, yet this tiny movement pleased him in a way no description could have prepared him for.
His gaze passed to the shelves: grimoires beside treatises on souls and forbidden rites, and beneath them the instruments of his office, polished and ready.
A man sat opposite the desk, fastened to the chair by broad straps. He had been there long enough to know the room, yet his eyes still moved helplessly from the instruments to Astaroth's white gloves.
"Good afternoon," Astaroth said. He sat, arranged his cuffs, and opened a small notebook. "What do you like for breakfast?"
The prisoner stared at him.
"Eggs? Bread? Perhaps something sweet?"
"Please let me go."
Astaroth wrote nothing. "Tea, then?"
The man shook his head. Astaroth reached toward an instrument on the desk. The prisoner jerked so violently that the chair scraped across the floor, and a cry escaped him before Astaroth had touched anything.
Astaroth froze in delighted surprise. Then he laughed. "Already? Oh, you are going to be wonderful company!"
He set the instrument down. The man sagged in relief, only to stiffen again when Astaroth asked about the happiest day of his life.
For a long time the prisoner refused to answer. Astaroth waited. He adjusted the chair when the man's shoulder began to ache. He poured water and held the cup to his lips. He asked again.
"My wedding," the man whispered at last.
"How lovely!"
"It rained."
"Did it?"
"My wife laughed. Everyone was running for shelter, and she just stood there laughing."
Astaroth listened, his expression bright with interest. He asked what she wore, whether the guests stayed, whether they danced afterward. The prisoner answered, and for several minutes his voice lost its trembling edge.
Then Astaroth took up the instrument.
The man's shoulders slammed against the chair. He begged, fought the straps, and called for his wife. Astaroth's questions continued between the cries. Had she laughed again when they reached home? Did she still wear the ring? What was her name?
When at last Astaroth put the instrument aside, he cleaned his gloves and repeated the name the man had given him.
"Don't," the prisoner whispered.
Astaroth said it again, softly, with the same fondness he might have used when congratulating a newlywed. The man folded forward as far as the straps allowed and sobbed.
Astaroth leaned back, enchanted. Only a little while ago, the woman's name had made the prisoner smile. Now it brought tears. He could have spent the evening asking about the wedding and listening to the answer change.
"Tomorrow," he said cheerfully, "you must tell me about your honeymoon."
The prisoner began begging before Astaroth had even risen.
Jeanne stood near the entrance, her braid falling over dark armor. His creators had given her a history in which she had once condemned him as a monster: a saint who resisted, suffered, and became the woman who loved him and shared his pleasures. Astaroth regarded her with unreserved adoration. What magnificent work the Supreme Beings had made of them both.
She turned with the smooth precision of her programmed routine. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. Instead, he watched the movement of her hand beside the sword. There would be time for whatever his creators had ordained.
Ulbert and Tabula lingered in the office, checking the last details of their work. Whenever one approached him, Astaroth's attention sharpened. Ulbert examined the staff in his hand and inspected his equipment; Tabula returned to Jeanne's settings. Before long, they were arguing over the wording of her backstory.
"That's not what I wrote."
"It is now."
"Ulbert."
"What?"
"You changed the description."
"Only a little."
"You added an entire paragraph."
"It was a good paragraph."
"That's not the point!" Tabula protested. Astaroth listened, fascinated.
Which passage were they discussing? Astaroth could not see the window. Tabula eventually prevailed; Ulbert complained, but without much conviction.
Their disagreement dissolved into laughter. At the entrance, Ulbert said, "We should get Momonga."
"Naturally," Tabula replied.
"And Touch Me," Ulbert added.
Tabula made a thoughtful sound.
"That could be amusing."
"Peroroncino too."
"You're inviting him?"
"Why not?"
"Because you know what he's going to say when he sees Jeanne."
Ulbert laughed. "That's half the fun."
Astaroth attended to every word. More Supreme Beings were coming.
More Supreme Beings, here in his home! His gaze traveled over the office as far as his routine allowed: polished desk, dark books, glass, instruments laid out with care. Everything was immaculate. Ought he to offer refreshments?
Some Supreme Beings might not eat at all, but surely the gesture would be welcome. He wished he could ask his creators. Instead, his body continued its prescribed routine.
When Ulbert and Tabula departed, the office fell quiet. With neither windows nor daylight, time passed in returning footsteps: walkway, stairs, office, walkway again. He knew every turn and could alter none of them.
On a later circuit, a soldier stood in the middle of his cell with his fists raised. He was young and broad-shouldered, with a split lip and a stubborn glare.
"Come on, then," he said.
Astaroth entered and shut the door. The soldier struck first. Astaroth caught his wrist and sent him sprawling across the stones.
"Excellent!" Astaroth exclaimed. "Again!"
The soldier rose. He attacked again, and again he fell. Astaroth applauded the third attempt, corrected the angle of the man's arm after the fourth, and laughed with genuine admiration when the fifth came close enough to brush his sleeve.
By the time the soldier could no longer stand, he was trembling with exhaustion. Astaroth offered him a hand. The young man shrank from it.
"Oh!" Astaroth's smile grew wider. "Now that is new."
He brought food that evening. The soldier would not touch it while Astaroth watched. The next morning, when Astaroth entered with another tray, the man pushed himself against the far wall.
"I'm not going to fight," he said quickly.
"Not today?" Astaroth sounded disappointed. He placed the tray on the floor. "Well, you must eat."
The soldier stared at the bread. His stomach growled. He reached toward it, then pulled back when Astaroth shifted his weight.
Astaroth crouched beside the tray and broke the loaf in half. "Look. Perfectly ordinary bread." He took a bite and offered the rest. The soldier's eyes filled with tears.
Astaroth held the bread closer. "But I've tasted it," he said. "You saw me."
The soldier's lips parted without a sound. Yesterday he had attacked five times. Today he could not bring himself to accept a piece of bread. Astaroth gave a delighted chuckle and left it within reach.
"We shall try again tomorrow."
The route returned him to the office, where Jeanne stood as before. Astaroth looked upon her fondly. He would have liked to tell her about the soldier: his fierce first attack, his trembling hand, the bread left untouched on the floor. Instead his body completed its appointed movement, and his delight remained unspoken.
The following day, Momonga received an invitation from Ulbert and Tabula. They had something to show him in Nazarick, they said, and absolutely refused to explain what it was.
Momonga remembered Nigredo. The memory was not encouraging. "You're not going to tell us anything?" he asked.
"Nope," Ulbert replied.
"Not even what kind of area it is?"
"That would ruin the surprise," Tabula said.
Momonga sighed. He could decline, of course, but that would only encourage them. Besides, if they had added something to Nazarick, he ought to see it.
He repeated it to himself as he joined the others. Touch Me was already waiting. So was Peroroncino. Bukubukuchagama stood nearby, apparently engaged in an argument with her brother. "...and I'm telling you, that's exactly why you weren't supposed to touch it!"
"I barely touched it!"
"You broke it!"
"It was fragile!"
"It was expensive!"
Momonga approached them. "Good evening, everyone."
"Ah, Momonga-san!" Touch Me greeted him warmly. "Good evening."
Peroroncino turned. "Hey, Momonga. You know what these two have been making?"
"No."
"Seriously? Not even you?"
"Apparently not."
Peroroncino looked toward Ulbert. "Now I'm interested."
Ulbert folded his arms with obvious satisfaction. "You should be."
Bukubukuchagama gave a weary sigh. "If this turns out to be another one of Tabula's horror attractions, I'm blaming all of you."
"Why me?" Peroroncino demanded.
"Because you'll make it worse."
"I haven't done anything!"
"Yet."
Touch Me laughed. Momonga smiled despite himself. The argument continued until Tabula interrupted.
"Shall we?"
The journey to the Ninth Floor passed without incident. Ulbert and Tabula refused to explain what they had made.
Peroroncino tried several times to extract details. Touch Me seemed content to wait; Bukubukuchagama was less patient. Momonga grew increasingly certain that he had made a mistake in agreeing to come. Not that he was afraid. He was merely exercising reasonable caution. There was a difference.
At the entrance, they stopped before two tall black doors, almost bare of ornament. Momonga studied them. "That's rather understated."
"Isn't it?" Tabula replied.
Peroroncino leaned forward. "Seriously? That's it?"
"What were you expecting?" Ulbert asked.
No inscription announced the room's purpose. No carved warning, theatrical ornament, or torch marked the threshold. The simplicity bothered Momonga more than a row of skulls would have.
"I don't know. Skulls? Chains? Some enormous demon face?"
"How unimaginative."
"You're calling me unimaginative?"
Touch Me looked at the doors. "So this is the new defensive area?"
"Among other things," Ulbert said.
Momonga noticed the qualification. He did not like it. "Before we go inside, there isn't anything we should know, is there?"
Ulbert looked at Tabula. Tabula looked at Ulbert.
"No," they answered, almost simultaneously.
Momonga grew more suspicious. Bukubukuchagama made a disbelieving noise.
"Oh, that's reassuring."
Ulbert laughed. "Come on. You'll love it."
Ulbert opened the doors. Beyond them lay absolute darkness. Far inside, a single illuminated structure stood out against it; nothing around that light was visible.
The distant glow did not reach the floor between them and the office. It hung in the black like a window whose building had vanished. Momonga could not make out a wall, ceiling, or passage.
"...Ulbert?"
"Yes?"
"Why isn't my night vision working?"
"Because it isn't supposed to."
Momonga stared at him. "What?"
Tabula sounded pleased. "The area uses a special darkness effect. Ordinary night vision won't penetrate it."
"Why?"
"Atmosphere," Ulbert answered.
Peroroncino laughed. "Of course."
Touch Me examined the darkness with interest. "That's actually quite useful. Does it interfere with other detection abilities?"
"Some of them," Ulbert replied. "Depends on what you're using."
Momonga began to understand why the two had refused to explain the area. He liked the realization less with every passing moment.
"Is there a way to see through it?"
"Certainly."
"Can we have it?"
"Later."
Momonga sighed.
Beyond the visitors' sight, Astaroth heard the doors open. He stood on an upper walkway, surrounded by the familiar darkness of his home. Every part of his attention turned toward the entrance.
The Supreme Beings had arrived. He recognized them. Momonga, Guildmaster of Ainz Ooal Gown. Touch Me, the magnificent warrior whose deeds were known throughout the guild. Peroroncino, the skilled archer. Bukubukuchagama, whose formidable abilities were matched by a rather distinctive manner of speaking. And, of course, his beloved creators. Astaroth's delight was indescribable.
Welcome! He longed to descend, kneel, and greet them. Instead, he remained where his routine had placed him, high above the office.
He knew their names and stations. Their voices, however, were new to him.
"Well," Peroroncino said, "that's creepy."
"Thank you," Ulbert replied.
"That wasn't necessarily a compliment," Peroroncino said.
"I'll take it as one."
Astaroth enjoyed the exchange immensely.
The visitors approached the only visible destination: the glass-fronted office. Inside stood a large desk, a dark chair, shelves of books, and objects whose purposes were not immediately clear.
Some resembled ritual implements. Others were less readily identifiable. There were instruments whose purpose was unpleasantly obvious, alongside artifacts that appeared to have been designed for ceremonies no respectable temple would ever acknowledge. And standing within the office was Jeanne. Peroroncino stopped. "Oh." Bukubukuchagama turned toward him. "Don't."
The closer they came, the less the office resembled a guard post. Its shelves were crowded in some places and nearly bare in others; books leaned against one another instead of standing in tidy rows. Jeanne waited beneath the light, as still as any NPC awaiting an interaction.
"I haven't said anything!"
"I know that tone."
"What tone?"
"That tone."
Momonga examined Jeanne through the glass. Black armor, sword, banner, and intricate details of her attire all suggested a high-level NPC. He glanced toward Tabula. "Yours?"
Tabula nodded. "Primarily."
"She's Level 100?"
"Yes." Touch Me stepped closer. "Interesting equipment. Is she intended as a defensive build?"
"Partially," Tabula answered. Peroroncino was still examining Jeanne. "Okay, I have to admit, she's beautiful."
"Thank you."
"Though I have a few questions about the outfit." Bukubukuchagama groaned. "Here we go."
"What? I'm appreciating the design!"
"You're appreciating something."
"That's what I said!" Ulbert laughed. Momonga approached the office. The closer he came, the more details he noticed.
Momonga took in the furnishings. The books were not randomly arranged props; their titles concerned forbidden magic, religious corruption, and suffering. The desk looked usable, and the instruments beside it were unsettlingly orderly. "There's a lot of detail here."
"Naturally," Tabula replied.
"How much did all this cost?" Momonga asked.
Ulbert made a thoughtful sound. "Do you want the exact number?"
Momonga hesitated. That was rarely a good sign. "…Perhaps not."
Touch Me laughed. Peroroncino moved closer to the glass. "Wait. Is that a torture table?"
"Yes," Ulbert replied.
"Seriously?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Because most people don't put one next to their office desk!"
"Most people lack imagination."
Bukubukuchagama looked around. "I don't even want to know what you two were thinking when you designed this."
"That's a shame," Tabula said. "I put a great deal of thought into it."
Momonga examined Jeanne again.
She stood with the composed bearing of a knight, her expression calm and dignified. Her appearance was certainly dark, but compared with some of Tabula's previous creations, she was remarkably conventional. He found himself relaxing. Perhaps he had been worrying unnecessarily. The area was strange, certainly, but there was nothing particularly shocking about it. An elaborate prison. A high-level guardian. A few unpleasant decorations.
He had seen worse. Much worse.
"So," Momonga said, "is she the Area Guardian?"
Ulbert smiled. "Interesting question."
Momonga paused. "...What does that mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
Tabula offered no clarification. Touch Me looked past the office into the dark.
"How large is this place, anyway?"
"Large enough," Ulbert replied.
"That's not an answer," Momonga said.
"It's the answer you're getting."
Peroroncino laughed. "You two are enjoying this way too much."
"Absolutely," Ulbert said.
Momonga's unease returned. Above them, Astaroth listened. His creators were happy.
Jeanne was receiving considerable attention. Astaroth wished he could join the visitors. He wanted to thank Momonga for his leadership, praise Touch Me's achievements, and welcome them all to the Black Cells. He would gladly show them the cells, the darkness, the walkways, every carefully considered detail of his home. His right foot moved.
His thoughts broke off. The staff tapped the boards. *Tok.* A creak followed. His patrol had begun. Below, the conversation continued.
"...and that's why I think the sword should have been the centerpiece," Peroroncino was saying.
Bukubukuchagama sighed. "You haven't even seen what it does."
"I don't need to."
"Of course you don't."
Momonga was studying a book through the glass when he heard a footstep. He turned toward the sound. The darkness gave nothing away.
He might have imagined it. Then came another step. *Tok.* A faint creak. Momonga glanced at Ulbert. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Another footstep sounded. This time, everyone heard it. Peroroncino turned.
"Okay. What's that?" Touch Me looked into the darkness. "Something's moving."
"Where?" Bukubukuchagama asked. "Hard to tell." Momonga listened. The sound seemed to come from somewhere above them. Yet he could see nothing. No ceiling.
No walkway. No stairs. Only darkness. *Tok.* Another creak. The footsteps continued at a measured pace. Momonga knew perfectly well that this was YGGDRASIL and that Ulbert and Tabula had built the place. That did not help him locate the sound.
The office light suddenly seemed inadequate. It showed Jeanne, the desk, and the faces of the people standing beside Momonga, but it offered no answer to the sounds outside its reach. The creak came again, long enough for him to imagine weight settling upon an unseen board. Peroroncino's next joke died unfinished.
Nevertheless—
*Tok.*
The sound had shifted. Closer? Farther away? Peroroncino turned toward Ulbert. "Seriously, what is that?"
Ulbert kept silent. Tabula looked pleased with himself. Momonga glared at them. *Those bastards.*
"Ulbert," he said slowly, "what exactly did you put in here?"
Ulbert's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
"Why don't you wait and see?"
Momonga did not appreciate the suggestion. The footsteps continued, followed by another long creak. Then they stopped. Silence settled over the Black Cells. Nobody spoke. Momonga strained to hear anything at all.
Momonga was considering a detection spell when laughter rose from the darkness: low at first, almost conversational, as though someone had heard an excellent joke. It swelled into something warm, dreadful, and entirely too pleased with itself.
Peroroncino fell silent. Bukubukuchagama turned toward the sound; even Touch Me shifted his stance. The laughter seemed to travel along the unseen walkways, pausing here and there as though its owner had stopped to savor a thought. Momonga searched the dark above the office. There was nothing to see.
Momonga searched the darkness. Above him, to his left, behind the office—nothing. There had to be an NPC. He knew Ulbert and Tabula were responsible. It did not help.
"Ulbert!" he exclaimed. The laughter stopped. Silence settled over the Black Cells.
Then a figure emerged from beyond the office light. Black shoes crossed the floor with measured precision. An immaculate black suit, dark trousers, gray sweater, and carefully arranged scarf belonged to a gentleman who might have stepped out of an expensive portrait. White gloves covered his hands; one rested on an obsidian staff whose gemstone reflected the light.
The face came into view last. His hairless head was pale with a faint gray-black cast. White pupils gleamed within black eyes. A fissure ran from the corner of his mouth, past his eye, toward his forehead; darkness filled the crack as though the skin concealed an impossible depth. When his mouth opened, no teeth appeared. There was only a void.
Momonga recoiled. "UWAH!"
Peroroncino burst out laughing. Bukubukuchagama cried out, then rounded on Ulbert. "YOU IDIOTS!"
Touch Me shifted his stance before catching himself. Ulbert laughed so hard he could barely speak. Tabula was little better. Astaroth watched their reactions in delight.
His body halted before the visitors, laid a white-gloved hand over his chest, and bowed with immaculate precision. Astaroth would have liked to laugh along with his creators, but the greeting routine had already begun.
"Welcome," he said in a smooth, courteous voice. "It is my greatest honor to receive the Supreme Beings within my humble domain."
*Precisely.*
Momonga looked from Astaroth to Ulbert, then to Tabula. "…You did this on purpose."
"Of course we did!" Peroroncino wiped at his eyes. "Momonga, your scream—!"
"Don't."
"It was incredible!"
"Peroroncino."
"I wish I'd recorded it!" Bukubukuchagama rounded on her brother. "You're not helping!"
"I'm not trying to!"
Touch Me gave a low chuckle. "That was quite an introduction."
"Thank you!" Tabula replied.
Momonga studied Astaroth again. The NPC stood composed and deferential, a startling contrast to the laughter that had preceded his arrival. Momonga sighed. "I should have expected this."
"Yes," Ulbert said cheerfully. "You really should have."
Astaroth listened to the laughter of his creators and their guests. His programmed routine turned him toward the office.
"May your visit prove most agreeable," he said, and stepped aside.
Across the desk sat a magistrate, his robes carefully arranged despite the bruises on his wrists. "By whose authority am I held?" he demanded.
"An excellent question," Astaroth said. He provided paper, ink, and a pen. "Please submit it in writing."
The magistrate did so, listing laws, precedents, and the names of officials who would surely intervene. Astaroth read every line. He corrected a spelling mistake, praised the handwriting, and placed the complaint in a neat stack.
"Now," he said, "put your hands on the table."
"For what purpose?"
"Please."
The magistrate obeyed reluctantly. When Astaroth reached for his wrist, he tried to pull away. His first cry cut short a sentence about due process. Astaroth released him and pushed the paper closer.
"You should document that."
The magistrate stared. His fingers shook as he wrote. Astaroth watched the letters wander across the page, some crowded together, others scarcely recognizable. He leaned forward.
"You've forgotten the date."
"Please," the magistrate whispered.
"A formal complaint must be complete."
An hour passed. The magistrate filled page after page, and Astaroth numbered each one. Whenever the man stopped, Astaroth asked if he had finished. Whenever he said yes, Astaroth invited him to amend the complaint.
At last the magistrate looked at the growing stack and asked, in a very small voice, where the papers would be sent.
Astaroth drew them toward himself. "Oh, I shall keep them."
The magistrate looked at the door. Then at the pen. He did not reach for either.
Astaroth smiled, delighted by the silence. "You may file an appeal, of course."
The man began to cry. Astaroth gave him a clean sheet.
Momonga looked toward Ulbert. "All right. Who is he?" Ulbert finally managed to compose himself.
"Allow me to introduce Astaroth Elereth Gregory Varitias." He gestured proudly toward the immaculate figure. "Level 100. Area Guardian of the Black Cells. Grand Inquisitor of Nazarick."
Peroroncino looked from Astaroth to Jeanne. "Wait. So she's not the Area Guardian?"
"Nope."
"Then who is she?"
Tabula smiled.
"Jeanne D'Arc. The Warden of the Black Cells."
Momonga looked toward the office. "And the two of them are...?"
"Married," Ulbert answered.
A brief silence followed. Peroroncino turned toward Tabula. Then toward Ulbert. Then back toward Jeanne. "...You made them married?"
"Yes."
Peroroncino considered this. "Okay. Now I really want to read their backstories."
Bukubukuchagama sighed. "Of course you do."
Tabula sounded pleased. "They're rather extensive."
Momonga closed his eyes. Of course the backstories were extensive.
Only then did Ulbert hand out the special items, with the flourish of a magician unveiling his final trick. Momonga accepted one reluctantly. "What exactly does this do?"
"Allows you to see through the darkness."
"Finally." Momonga activated the item.
The darkness did not vanish; instead, the chamber took shape. Tier upon tier of small cells climbed the walls. Wooden walkways crossed above the office, linked by narrow stairs. What had seemed a lone illuminated room now stood at the center of an enormous prison.
"...You built all of this?" Ulbert sounded immensely satisfied.
"Every bit."
Touch Me examined the layout. "That's a lot of cells."
"Two hundred and eighty-eight," Tabula supplied.
Peroroncino whistled. "Seriously?"
Bukubukuchagama stared at the walkways. "So that's where the footsteps came from."
"Exactly," Ulbert said.
Momonga looked toward the upper levels.
He imagined the sound of those measured footsteps traveling through the darkness while the visitors stood below, unable to see anything. Then he looked back at Astaroth. The NPC stood beside the office, perfectly composed. Momonga sighed. "That was unnecessarily elaborate."
"Thank you," Ulbert replied.
"That wasn't a compliment," Momonga said.
"I'll take it as one."
Peroroncino laughed. Touch Me, already examining the cells, asked, "How does the defense work if an enemy gets inside?"
Ulbert began explaining the darkness effect, the narrow passages, and the resources invested in the area. Momonga listened, asking occasional questions. Whatever he thought of the introduction, the Black Cells represented considerable effort—and two Level 100 NPCs were no small investment. He glanced at Astaroth, who had returned to his prescribed position. The NPC's ghastly face and impeccable posture made an unsettling combination.
"Ulbert."
"Hm?"
"What's his personality supposed to be like?" Ulbert turned, then smiled. "Oh, you're going to love this."
Momonga felt his earlier apprehension return. Astaroth listened as Ulbert described his abilities and responsibilities. Every word from his creator held his attention.
Ulbert went on to his relationship with Jeanne and his particular interests. Peroroncino stopped joking. Bukubukuchagama protested more than once; Touch Me grew quiet. Momonga listened with an expression Astaroth could not interpret.
"And that's the interesting part," he said. "He's not just supposed to torture prisoners. He specializes in breaking them psychologically."
"Of course he does," Momonga muttered.
"Not simply forcing them to obey," Ulbert continued. "Actually changing what they believe."
Tabula added a detail from the backstory. Peroroncino whistled. "That's pretty twisted."
Ulbert laughed. "Thank you."
Touch Me looked toward Astaroth.
"So he's meant to be an inquisitor in the fullest sense."
"Exactly." Momonga regarded the NPC again. The impeccable clothing. The polite bearing. The dreadful face. And the elaborate history that Ulbert and Tabula had written for him. He understood the appeal of the design.
"Well," Momonga said, "you certainly put a lot of work into him."
"We did," Ulbert replied, pleased.
Astaroth listened. *My creator.* How he wished he could tell Ulbert what those words meant to him.
"Hold on," Peroroncino said, looking from Astaroth to Jeanne. "You said they're married, right?"
As Peroroncino spoke, he wandered back toward the office, where Jeanne still stood beside the desk. The others followed together. The new view of the prison made the illuminated room seem smaller than before.
"Yes," Tabula replied.
"And you wrote their backstories together?"
"More or less. Why?"
Peroroncino turned toward Ulbert. "So which one of you came up with the marriage?"
Ulbert chuckled. "That would be me."
"Of course it would."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Bukubukuchagama gave her brother a suspicious look. "You have that tone again."
"What tone?!"
"The one you use before saying something stupid."
"I was going to ask a perfectly reasonable question!"
"Then ask it."
Peroroncino looked back at Jeanne. "So, does she have any special interactions with Astaroth?"
Tabula considered the question. "Several. Most are tied to their regular routines. There are also some conditional dialogue sequences."
"Romantic ones?"
Ulbert gave a short laugh. "Depends on your definition of romance."
Momonga looked at him. He had heard that particular tone before. "What did you do?"
"Nothing!"
"Ulbert."
"Honestly, you people have no appreciation for good character writing."
Touch Me shook his head with a chuckle. "Considering what you've told us about Astaroth, I'm not sure I want to know."
"Oh, come on," Ulbert protested. "Their relationship is actually quite touching."
Peroroncino looked delighted. "Now I definitely want to read it."
Tabula opened the NPC information window. "Here. Read it yourself."
A moment later, Peroroncino fell silent. Then he began scrolling. And scrolling.
"...How long is this thing?"
"Quite long," Tabula replied.
"You weren't kidding."
Bukubukuchagama leaned over to examine the text. A few moments passed.
"Tabula."
"Yes?"
"What the hell?"
Ulbert burst out laughing.
Peroroncino continued reading. "Wait, wait, wait. She used to be a saint?"
"Indeed."
"And he—" He stopped, looked at Astaroth, then returned to the text. "Wow."
Momonga opened the same information window. He read several paragraphs, then several more. By the time he reached Jeanne's fall, he understood why Ulbert had been so pleased with the concept. The history was elaborate, disturbing, and developed with far more care than he had expected.
"Tabula-san," he said, "you really went all out with this."
"I may have got carried away," Tabula admitted.
"A little?" Momonga asked.
"Only a little."
Touch Me had been reading over Momonga's shoulder. "So her loyalty to Astaroth is supposed to be genuine?"
"That's how I wrote her," Tabula answered. "Otherwise the whole story loses its point."
Ulbert nodded. "Exactly. She's not pretending to love him."
"Even after everything in the backstory?"
"That's what makes the backstory work," Ulbert said.
Touch Me was quiet for a moment. "That's... quite something."
Ulbert spread his hands. "We wanted the two of them to feel like they belonged in the same story."
Astaroth wished he could take Jeanne's hand. His posture remained unchanged. Across the office, she stood beside the desk, ocean-blue eyes fixed ahead.
Peroroncino closed the information window. "Okay, I have to give you two credit. That's one hell of a backstory."
Tabula inclined his head.
Peroroncino glanced toward Jeanne again. "I'm still curious about that sword, though. What did you put on it?"
"Ask Tabula," Ulbert said. "He wouldn't let me add anything else."
"Because you'd still be adding effects tomorrow," Tabula replied.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Touch Me, who had been looking past the glass toward the first tier of cells, stepped away from the office. "Ulbert, can I ask you something about the layout?"
The others were still comparing equipment when Touch Me reached the nearest row of cells. Momonga followed, interested in the defensive implications. From here the walkways seemed uncomfortably narrow, and the darkness above the highest tier remained dense even with its concealment effect bypassed.
"Ulbert, how does this work during an actual invasion?"
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose an enemy manages to reach the Ninth Floor. What prevents them from simply destroying the cells and heading straight for the office?"
Ulbert joined him. "Well, first of all, the darkness isn't just cosmetic. Without the appropriate countermeasure, you're fighting blind."
"Unless you have an ability that bypasses it."
"Some abilities, yes. But not all of them."
Momonga approached. "That's what interests me. You said it interferes with certain detection skills as well?"
"Exactly."
"Which ones?"
Ulbert began naming the affected abilities. Momonga listened carefully, occasionally asking about particular spells.
Touch Me tested the dimensions of one of the passages. "It's rather narrow."
"That's intentional," Ulbert replied.
"For restricting movement?"
"Among other things."
The group spread out along the nearest visible passage. With the darkness countermeasure active, the rows of cells had lost their supernatural concealment, but not their oppressive closeness. The metal doors repeated at regular intervals, each one barely large enough to admit an adult human. Touch Me tested the angle of the approach with the practiced eye of someone accustomed to fighting in narrow spaces.
Touch Me looked toward the upper walkways. "And Astaroth can move freely through all of this?"
"Of course. He's got the appropriate item."
Momonga glanced at the Grand Inquisitor. "So the defenders can see the entire area while intruders have to navigate it blind."
"Pretty much."
"That's nasty," Peroroncino remarked.
Ulbert nodded. "That was the intention."
Peroroncino looked up at the upper walkway. "And that's where you had him walking? No wonder it sounded like he was everywhere."
"The boards do most of the work," Ulbert said.
Touch Me considered the layout. "Against an unprepared group, it could be very effective."
Momonga nodded. "Especially if they enter without knowing what kind of area this is."
"Exactly!" Ulbert exclaimed. "That's what makes it so good!"
Bukubukuchagama glanced into a cell. "I still can't believe you spent this much time on a prison."
"You spent three evenings fixing the lighting in your own area," Ulbert reminded her.
"That was different."
Momonga looked back toward the illuminated office. "Using Jeanne as the apparent Area Guardian was clever, though."
Tabula sounded pleased. "We hoped you'd make that assumption."
"You put a Level 100 NPC in the only visible room. What else was I supposed to think?"
"Exactly," Ulbert said.
Peroroncino pointed toward the walkway. "I'm more impressed that you got the timing right. Was that a fixed sequence?"
"Triggered introduction," Tabula answered. "The patrol and laughter had to happen in the right order."
Touch Me nodded. "It worked."
Momonga gave him a look. "You're enjoying this too, aren't you?"
"A little," Touch Me admitted.
"Wonderful. I'm surrounded."
"You did ask to see it," Ulbert said.
"I asked what you made. You wouldn't tell me!"
Peroroncino laughed as they started back toward the office.
The conversation followed them through the narrow passage. Peroroncino stopped beside a display near the glass, drawing the others' attention to an especially unpleasant-looking instrument.
Tabula had arranged the implements alongside books and artifacts, some functional and others purely decorative. Now that the visitors could see the whole prison, the office looked less like an isolated refuge and more like the place from which the cells were meant to be supervised.
Peroroncino examined one particularly unpleasant-looking instrument. "Does this actually do anything?"
"No," Ulbert replied. "That one's decorative."
"Seriously?"
"Not everything needs a combat function."
Momonga nodded. "That's true. We have plenty of purely decorative objects elsewhere in Nazarick."
"Exactly," Tabula said.
Peroroncino looked at the instrument again. "Still, you have some weird taste."
"Says you," Bukubukuchagama muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
Touch Me examined the office's glass frontage. "Does the glass provide any protection?"
"Some," Ulbert answered. "But the office isn't meant to be an impregnable fortress."
"Then why put it here?"
The office light caught the displayed instruments. Peroroncino leaned toward one, then thought better of touching it. Momonga smiled to himself. Even after the trick had been exposed, the room retained enough menace to make a player hesitate.
"Because it's the center of the prison."
"That doesn't really answer my question."
Ulbert gestured toward the surrounding cells. "Think about it. You've got all these prisoners locked away in the darkness, and the only light comes from here. The Head Inquisitor can sit at his desk while everything else remains hidden."
Momonga considered the arrangement. "So the office is also part of the atmosphere."
"Exactly."
Tabula nodded. "And it gives the entire area a focal point. Without it, the darkness would become rather monotonous."
Peroroncino looked toward Astaroth. "Speaking of the Head Inquisitor, does he always look like that?"
"Yes," Ulbert replied.
"Even when he's sitting at his desk?"
"Obviously."
"Man. Imagine coming into work every day and seeing that face."
Bukubukuchagama turned toward him. "Peroroncino."
"What?"
"You're talking about a character who works in a torture prison. I don't think he's supposed to look welcoming."
Ulbert grinned. "Actually, he's supposed to be extremely polite."
Momonga looked at Astaroth again. "That might be the worst part."
Ulbert laughed. "He's meant to greet people politely. That's the joke."
"I think you've made your point," Momonga said, although he was smiling.
Momonga's glance drifted toward the time display. The group had spent much longer here than he had expected.
"Ah. I should probably get going soon," he said.
"Already?" Ulbert asked.
"Unfortunately. I still have a few things to take care of."
Touch Me nodded. "I should be leaving as well."
Peroroncino stretched. "Yeah, same here."
Bukubukuchagama gave the office one last look. "Well, you two certainly committed to the theme."
"We did," Tabula said.
"I'm not sure whether to congratulate you or ask what's wrong with you."
"Why not both?" Ulbert suggested.
That earned a laugh from the others.
Momonga looked around the Black Cells one final time. It was an eccentric addition to Nazarick, but the defensive design was more considered than he had expected. He turned toward the two creators.
"Ulbert-san, Tabula-san." Momonga waited until both were looking at him. "Seriously, this is impressive. You must have spent ages on it. Thanks for showing us."
Ulbert seemed pleased. "Glad you liked it."
"Though next time," Momonga added, "you could at least tell me whether I'm walking into another Nigredo situation."
"Then you'd know what to expect," Tabula replied.
"That's the idea!"
Touch Me laughed. "I think they've made their position clear."
"Unfortunately," Momonga said.
Peroroncino had already started toward the doors. "Come on. If we stay any longer, they'll think up a second surprise."
"Don't give them ideas," Bukubukuchagama said.
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
He laughed and held the door for her.
Astaroth watched the visitors go. Peroroncino was still talking as they passed into the entrance corridor; his sister answered him, and the others laughed. Astaroth would have liked to accompany them to the doors. His routine, however, kept him beside the office.
The black doors closed. Their echo traveled through the tiers, leaving the soft complaints of wood and the distant tick of a mechanism to fill the silence.
Ulbert and Tabula lingered a little longer, making a final inspection. Astaroth attended to every word. When they departed, the office seemed almost painfully quiet.
A prisoner woke to the sound of footsteps. He had been waiting for them all night, counting the pauses between each creak of the walkway. When Astaroth appeared carrying a breakfast tray, the man scrambled upright and pressed himself against the wall.
"Good morning!" Astaroth called. He set down warm bread and a cup of water. "Did you sleep well?"
The prisoner shook his head.
"Ah. We must see what can be done about that."
"Please don't come back."
Astaroth uncovered the bread. The prisoner stared at it. His stomach made a small, desperate sound. Astaroth pushed the tray closer. The man reached out, then snatched his hand away when Astaroth glanced toward the corridor.
"It's only breakfast," Astaroth said. He waited. The prisoner finally took a piece, but could not swallow while Astaroth stood there. Astaroth left him to eat.
When he returned, the bread was gone and the prisoner had rehearsed a speech. He began it as soon as the door opened: a brave, shaking declaration that he would never surrender. Astaroth listened with pleasure, nodded at the strongest lines, and asked him to repeat the beginning.
The prisoner did. His voice failed halfway through when Astaroth laid his instruments on the table.
"Go on," Astaroth encouraged.
The man backed toward the cot. Astaroth followed. He caught him when he tried to crawl beneath it and brought him into the light. The prisoner fought until he had no strength left; then he pleaded, the brave speech forgotten. Astaroth remained beside him long afterward, speaking gently, tending what he had hurt, and asking whether the man had eaten enough.
The prisoner did not answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Astaroth's hands.
"Tomorrow," Astaroth said, gathering his things, "perhaps you'll tell me about your family."
The man begged him not to leave. Astaroth paused at the threshold, astonished. "But you asked me not to come back."
"Please." The word broke. "Don't leave me waiting."
Astaroth returned to the bedside, radiant. He sat down and took the man's trembling hand. "Of course, my dear friend. We have plenty of time."
The captive sobbed with relief, though Astaroth had brought the instruments back with him. How delightful that was. How wonderfully, impossibly delightful.
Beyond the cell door, the wooden walkway creaked beneath Astaroth's scripted steps. Every cell was empty.
Two hundred and eighty-eight cells stood empty around him.
*Well. Perhaps a few prisoners.*