Page 85 of Crown of Storm and Silence
And there, at the head of the table like a spider in the center of his carefully woven web, sits Erlik himself.
Time has been criminally kind to the bastard. If demons aged like mortals, my father would be in his fifties—devastatingly handsome with the kind of perfection that speaks of divine lineage and infernal purpose. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and his jawline was clearly forged in the fires of vanity itself. Dark hair, silver-streaked at the temples, frames a face that belongs on ancient coins commemorating the fall of empires. His eyes are black as the void between stars, and when he moves, shadows don't follow—they dance attendance like devoted courtiers.
He's dressed in midnight silk that costs more than most kingdoms' treasuries, every line tailored to perfection. A thin scar runs from his left temple to his jaw—the only imperfection on an otherwise flawless facade, and somehow it only makes him more terrifying, more predatory. This is what the devil would look like if he cared about fashion and had unlimited resources for personal grooming.
Around the table, various demons and nobles arrange themselves like an audience awaiting the evening's entertainment. I recognize most of them—the usual collection of sycophants, sociopaths, and creatures whose idea of small talk involves comparing methods of creative torture.
"Kaan," he says, rising from his chair with the fluid grace of something that has never experienced a moment of uncertainty in its existence. His voice carries genuine warmth, paternal affection that makes my skin crawl with revulsion. "My dear boy. How wonderful to see you again. Though you look... unwell."
The casual warmth, the way he speaks as if we're old friends meeting for lunch instead of a son confronting the creature who orchestrated his mother's murder, sends rage exploding through my system. The poison in my veins responds eagerly, silver tracery flaring brighter as toxicity mingles with fury.
"Hello, Father," I reply, settling into the chair across from him with theatrical grace. "You look well. Immortal evil apparently has excellent anti-aging properties. Very inspiring. Have you considered writing a beauty guide? 'How to Stay Young Through Systematic Destruction of Everything Pure and Good.'"
His laugh is rich and warm and utterly revolting in its genuineness. "And you look like someone who's been slowly dying of a curse for the better part of two centuries. Very dramatic. Though I have to say, the silver veins are quite fetching—very avant-garde. Death becomes you, my boy. You should consider making it a permanent look."
"Yes, well, Altan's little gift keeps giving," I say, flexing my fingers so the silver veins catch the light. "Though I have to say, his timing was impeccable. Most brothers just give awkward speeches at wedding receptions. He gave me a slow-acting poison designed to drive me insane. Much more memorable."
"Ah, yes, dear Altan," Erlik says with something approaching fondness. "Such creativity in his final moments. Even as you were tearing him apart, he managed to curse your bloodline with his dying breath. Very spiteful, very inspired. I was almost proud."
"I do try to maintain my standards," he continues with mock modesty, gesturing to the assembled demons. "You remember Lord Bael, Lady Lilith, Count Andromalius... though I suppose proper introductions can wait. We have so much to catch up on."
The demons nod politely, their eyes gleaming with the kind of anticipation that suggests they're expecting blood as dessert. Lady Lilith, a stunning succubus with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice, examines her nails with the boredom of someone who's witnessed too many family reunions that ended in creative violence.
"How fucking charming," I observe, noting the way they watch me like predators sizing up potential prey. "Nothing says 'quality family time' like an audience of professional killers and recreational sadists."
Servants begin appearing with the first course—something that might charitably be called soup if you ignore the way it moves and the fact that it seems to be judging my table manners. I prod it with my spoon, watching it recoil as if it were personally offended.
"The chef has outdone himself tonight," Erlik says, taking a delicate spoonful of his own portion. "It's a delicacy from the deeper realms. Only mildly sentient."
"Delicious," I reply, still poking at the substance that's now actively trying to escape my bowl. "Though I have to ask—is it supposed to be filing a formal complaint? Because I'm getting some very legal vibes from my dinner."
"The consciousness fades once you begin eating," he assures me. "Very humane, really."
"Humane," I repeat thoughtfully. "Yes, that's definitely the word I'd use to describe consuming something that's actively composing what appears to be a strongly worded letter about my dining etiquette."
The conversation flows with artificial pleasantries layered over centuries of accumulated hatred. More courses arrive, each more elaborate and disturbing than the last. Something that might be fish if you squint and ignore the extra eyes. Vegetables that whisper when you cut them. A roast that I'm fairly certain is still trying to escape.
"Oh, and I burned down an orphanage last week," Erlik mentions with casual indifference. "Thirty-seven children. Quite efficient, really—one match, multiple screams. It was a pure joy.”
The casual mention of murdered children cuts through my distracted thoughts like a blade. I look up sharply from my writhing dinner. "How efficient of you. Did you keep recordings? I'm sure they'd make lovely dinner music for future gatherings."
"I did, actually," he replies with genuine enthusiasm. "Though I suppose you've been conducting your own little symphonies lately. TheOburincident was quite... creative. I particularly enjoyed the part where you arranged their remains in geometric patterns. Your darkness, Kaan, fills me with unexpected pleasure."
"Pest control," I say, my voice hardening as fury builds in my chest. "Someone had to clean up the vermin. Though I'm curious—which of my courtiers has been sending you reports? I'll have to thank them personally for their... dedication."
The promise in my tone makes it clear that 'thank them' involves forceful applications of shadow magic and probably screaming.
"Oh, my dear boy," Erlik chuckles with genuine amusement. "You think I need spies? The screams were loud enough to hear from here. Very impressive projection—your motherwould have been so proud. She always did appreciate creative expression. Right up until she decided that diplomacy was more entertaining than destruction."
The mention of my mother sends a spike of grief and rage through my chest, but I manage to keep my expression neutral. "How thoughtful of you to remember her so fondly."
"Oh, I remember everything about dear Melisa," he says, his smile turning sharp as broken glass. "Her final performance was particularly memorable. Such conviction in her beliefs, right up until the very end."
The servants clear the current course and bring something that appears to be dessert, assuming dessert is supposed to glow faintly and make soft weeping sounds when you touch it. I ignore it in favor of studying my father's face, searching for tells that might reveal what game he's playing.
"Speaking of performances," Erlik continues with dangerous mildness, "I notice you came alone tonight. How disappointing. I was so looking forward to meeting dear Nesilhan."
Here it comes. I can see the trap being set, can feel the careful maneuvering that's about to pin me exactly where he wants me.
