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adinfernumadinfinitum · 20 days ago

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Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

How Raphael is the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3…

…or how I give him more importance than I should.

DISCLAIMER:

In this ‘dissertation,’ I present my take on things based on Dungeons and Dragons 5e lore from the Forgotten Realms universe, along with fandom theories and headcanons where they suit me. This is NOT an in-depth analysis of anything, so I won’t be reciting specific quotes, etc.

I repeat, this is just MY take on things. If a similar theory already exists, feel free to reach out, and I’ll gladly tag the material!

Oh, and there are a lot of spoilers about, well, everything, so read at your own risk ⚠️

I thank the lovely @bitethedevil for allowing me to tag their posts, making it easier on me so I don’t have to write everything out! I also want to take this moment to appreciate their work and contributions to this fandom! ☺️

Introduction

Baldur’s Gate 3 is a brilliant, complex, multi-layered game filled with multiple villains, heroic figures, and a plot that weaves players in seamlessly. That’s why we love this game—at least, that’s why I do—the gripping storyline and its faceted characters.

The game is set in the Forgotten Realms with DnD lore and rules, while still adding and maintaining its own unique features and twists.

But what if we entirely take a look at it from DnD lore perspective?

Section 1: Raphael as the core character in Baldur’s Gate 3

Fans of the Emperor might argue with me here, but oh man, have you seen how many pies Raphael has his fingers in?

This narcissistic little shit of a cambion plotted his grand design to take the Crown of Karsus for over 2,000 years, planning everything with terrifying precision and putting in a staggering amount of effort—all to manipulate Tav or Durge into giving him the crown.

To understand just how far back his scheming goes, we have to start with the fall of Netheril. As Raphael himself tells us, this is where it all began, and when his father seized the crown, it became impossible for Raphael to obtain it himself.

Baator—the Nine Layers of Hell—has its own system and rules. The plane is aligned as lawful evil, and by its laws, anyone who breaks them is punished; in other words, theft is a crime (don’t try this at home edition).

Am I going to explain the system and rules of the Nine Hells? Hell no, or I’ll be sitting here until next Halloween. Sorry, maybe in a separate post sometime (or not) 😭

So Raphael had to get creative if he wanted to get his greedy claws on the crown.

You can read about how much Raphael’s involvement is actually found in the game Baldur’s Gate 3 here.

What’s relevant for this ‘dissertation’ are the following points, which all show how he orchestrates the plot:

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

Raphael even plots to capture Orpheus. Not personally, of course, but with the knowledge that it could benefit him and would even serve its purpose in the future. This is a crucial detail.

However, I don’t believe Raphael would craft or have someone craft an item like the Astral Prism, as well as the bindings of Orpheus (the mask, chains, and binding crystals) and the Orphic Hammer. It’s more likely these objects already existed in the Hells, with Raphael profiting by dealing with them.

Sadly there is no official information on that, I really find that interesting.

As for why the Orphic Hammer is called Orphic Hammer - why is Orpheus called Orpheus? He’s a liberator for his people, having inherited the power of Mother Gith, who freed the Gith from mind flayer enslavement. The character of Orpheus draws heavily from Orpheus in Greek mythology, a symbol of liberation, love, and the attempt to rescue a soul from the bonds of death. The term “Orphic” reflects this sense of breaking free from constraints or seeking transformation (of course, it has other meanings, too, but this one feels like what the developers were aiming for).

So the hammer’s name has both symbolic depth and a bit of pun, as it’s intended to free the character Orpheus from his chains.

ANYWAY

2. Raphael, Moonrise Towers, and the Gauntlet of Shar —

The amount of interwoven contracts Raphael has made in the Shadow Cursed Lands is suspicious, and each and every one of them is too , an important point.

Isn’t it just a bit too convenient that Ketheric’s misery plays right into Raphael’s hands? The Shadow-Cursed Lands—Reithwin, once ruled by Ketheric, formerly full of Selunite worshippers but ruined by schemes of the Dark Lady who turned a grieving worshipper of her sister into a Shar follower and leader of an army of Dark Justiciars—is a whole breeding ground for contracts and a stage for Raphael’s play.

Hold on, I’m not implying that I believe Raphael had a hand in Shar’s mischief here, but I do think Raphael handpicked Ketheric, a grieving and obsessed madman (a truly tragic character, honestly), to be an unwitting pawn in his schemes, without directly involving himself. To do this, he contracted with desperate beings like the Architect, Yurgir, and the last Dark Justiciar.

To understand why Raphael would even need Ketheric, we have to look a step further.

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

Raphael buying Gortash from his parents was a calculated move and the final piece in the Netherbrain plot scheme.

I believe Raphael specifically chose Enver Gortash, a boy with potential, for his plans to get the Crown of Karsus.

Look, Gortash is anything but dumb; in fact, he’s the exact opposite. He learned the ropes in Hell, literally imprisoned in Raphael’s House of Hope. All jokes aside about pot-scrubbing duty and overhearing Raphael and Haarlep getting it on, Gortash is a quick learner.

Raphael just had to watch as Gortash escaped the House of Hope with vital information about the crown. With this, Raphael set up an ambitious, cunning man with the drive to steal the crown.

And this is where Ketheric returns to the picture. Ketheric, the chosen of Myrkul; Gortash, the chosen of Bane; and Durge, the chosen of Bhaal.

As for how Raphael might have gotten his hands on Durge? I’ll leave that as the theory’s plot hole.

I could fill it with headcanons—like Gortash and Durge knowing each other even before Gortash was sold—but that feels a bit far-fetched.

Actually, all of this is a bit far-fetched, but hey, it’s my silly little theory.

But hey again, we’re slowly coming to a conclusion how Raphael is the mastermind behind BG3, do you see my vision?

All Raphael needed was patience. The chosen ones, Gortash and Durge, set the stage by planning the Netherbrain coup and, in stealing the crown, executed Raphael’s plan. All they needed was the third chosen, Ketheric, to carry out the rest of the plot: building the Absolute’s army, etc., the rest we know...

So, what was left? Just someone desperate enough to make a deal with Raphael and actually hand over the Crown of Karsus. And how would he pull that off?

✨The Tadpole Gang��

Every single one of them fits the bill. Especially if the player chooses Durge.

The next question is: how could he manipulate the group if they were under the Absolute’s influence? Well, that’s where the Emperor comes onto the stage.

Because, hear me out one more time: isn’t it convenient that the Emperor, of all people, finds the Astral Prism? A figure obsessed with freedom and manipulation, ambitious and clever, who would serve perfectly as a kind of protection shield from the Elder Brain’s influence for the gang? And to that even a disposable figure as it is a mind flayer who would not be trusted in the end.

(Naturally, in the game the player is the ultimate executional force, making any kind of higher plan or scheme either perfect or useless)

Nevertheless, this is as far as I will dive into this specific pond.

I just think it adds up nicely.

But Björni, if you have a Section 1, what about a Section 2? you might ask. Well, here it comes…

… how this ‘dissertation’ is actually about Mephistopheles being the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

DnD’s lore about fiends—and, specifically, cambions—teaches us that they’re doomed to fail from birth. While they may think they’re in control of their schemes, they’re actually playing into the hands of their fiendish parent.

Ever wondered why Mephistopheles would even bother devouring Raphael if we defeat him? Sure, cambion sons are nourishing (yum yum), but given Mephistopheles’ personality, I’d guess he does it to humiliate his son, even in death, for being a failure—a failure to retrieve the crown for his father.

But wait, Mephistopheles already had the crown—why would he bother plotting all of this just to get it back? Isn’t that a bit over-the-top, Björni?

Bear with me: it’s not officially written anywhere, but it’s more or less canon based on what we know of the Archdevils Asmodeus and Mephistopheles.

Asmodeus rules the Hells, while Mephistopheles, as the Archduke of the 8th layer, Cania, is arguably the second most powerful being in Baator. Mephistopheles has never stopped dreaming of overthrowing Asmodeus, even after repeatedly failing miserably. But if he openly tried to use the crown against Asmodeus, it would be a direct affront, and Asmodeus would have shut it down from the start.

Mephistopheles has other children besides Raphael, and Raphael isn’t exactly useless, he’s actually the complete opposite. Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to discard such a puppet (call him son)—unless Raphael had done something atrocious. And for someone as mighty as Mephistopheles, controlling his little cambion son would be child’s play. So, then why does Raphael hate his father so much, and why is Raphael ‘residing’ in Avernus?

As we know, Avernus is the armpit of Baator, a plane for exiles and outcasts.

I think Mephistopheles intentionally filled his relationship with Raphael with hatred, so Raphael’s ambition to overthrow his father would ignite and one day serve him. When Mephistopheles got the Crown of Karsus, unable to wield it himself, he set the stage for his son’s scheme—by casting Raphael aside, Mephistopheles set him on the path to steal the crown, with Mephistopheles only indirectly involved in overthrowing Asmodeus. Raphael would do the dirty work—taking over the other layers—before ultimately facing his father, who could then just snatch the crown from him. And yes, I do believe Mephistopheles is arrogant enough to think he’d still be more powerful than his son, even with a god-like artifact. He has that bloated of an ego.

BUT (Nr. 36,252), what about Asmodeus? Wouldn’t he step in and crush the plan?

Here’s the thing: Asmodeus generally doesn’t mind if his archdukes fight for control of their layers, as long as it doesn’t threaten his supreme authority or destabilize Hell’s hierarchy. In fact, he encourages a bit of rivalry and ambition among his archdevils, as infighting serves his purposes.

And can you imagine THE Asmodeus being worried about an over-ambitious cambion?

However, this leads to the TRUE instigator and the true subject of this ‘dissertation’…

… how Asmodeus is actually the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

Joke’s on you—it’s been about Asmodeus all along, because even if he’d lose (not that he ever would—he’s just that powerful), he’d claim at the last minute that it was his plan all along. Losing trusted allies? What a bunch of traitors—perfect excuse to clean house. Losing Baator? Finally, he was sick of the job.

All jokes aside, Asmodeus being the cunning bastard he is, would likely pull off everything mentioned above.

To understand why he’d even bother, let’s take a quick (really quick, this is already getting too long) dive into his background and shenanigans in DnD.

Throughout DnD’s development from 1e to 5e, Asmodeus has gone through quite the evolution, eventually becoming a Greater Deity, the Embodiment of Evil, and one of the mightiest beings in existence, rivaled only by Ao.

While 5e keeps things vague to allow player interpretation, Asmodeus has consistently been the most powerful entity in the Hells—a schemer, strategist, and supreme manipulator.

(Here’s the only quote I’ll reference:) “[…] His sinister machinations could take centuries, if not millennia, to come to fruition, and his master plans extended across the entire multiverse. His labyrinthine, insidious intrigues could seem inexplicable to most outside observers, for Asmodeus let even his own servants stew in fear of his next move. With all the planes as his board, the Lord of Lies maneuvered the forces of evil like chess pieces in his grand designs, slowly and subtly manipulating everyone from deities to, when needed, lowly mortals.”

He’s described as being a thousand steps ahead of everyone. And while most of his plans serve greater purposes beyond even godly comprehension, some things he does just because—just for fun.

CONCLUSION

Of course Asmodeus knew Mephistopheles had the crown. Of course he knew Mephistopheles would never use it openly against him. And of course he knew Mephistopheles would keep scheming to use it indirectly, bringing his cambion son Raphael into the game.

Why would Asmodeus let all this happen, and why am I saying he’s the real mastermind?

Like already mentioned, Asmodeus often (indirectly) encourages and manipulates his archdukes to scheme and fight among themselves as a means to reinforce his dominance, foster survival of the fittest, and test loyalty within the infernal hierarchy. However, he maintains strict boundaries, and any conflict that risks his supreme authority, disrupts Hell’s role in the multiverse, or leads to excessive chaos would be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed. In Asmodeus’s mind, such rivalries are a useful tool—as long as they remain safely under his control.

In my view, the Crown of Karsus was never a real threat to him; this whole plot served his entertainment, tested loyalties, or helped him gauge his chess pieces.

And that’s how Asmodeus is the real mastermind behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

Why I even bothered with all this shit? It’s one of the key plot points in my longfic, Ah, You Devil!

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pengychan · 5 days ago

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 35

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Have some exposition, ice magic, and a bunch of archdevils hitting each other with the hellish equivalent of "AS PER MY LAST EMAIL" with the Big Boss on CC. ***

“Something is not right.”

“It’s a change of regime in Avernus. Not the first, if you recall, and it should not concern you any more than previous ones did. Bel has no interest in Dis. There is no reason--”

“No.”

Dispater, Lord of the Second, was not called the Iron Duke for nothing. His touch was indeed cold as iron; it could turn anything it touched to lifeless metal, and one more touch could corrode it into rust. Had he chosen to use such power now, without warning, Mephistopheles would have found himself an arm short at the very least; but he did not - he had no reason to - and only held onto his wrist, unyielding as the walls of his Iron City.

“Listen to me, brother. Something is not right.”

That gave Mephistopheles pause. Not so much the frantic concern - the Lord of the Second had long since slipped from righteous caution to utter paranoia - but the moniker he hadn’t heard in a very, very long time.

They were not truly brothers, of course; not the two of them nor Asmodeus, although it never kept Glasya from calling him ‘uncle’ with that peculiar note of something that was always in her voice, never falling into mockery but not too far from it either. The kind of teasing that only Asmodeus’ daughter, archduchess of Malbolge and princess of the Hells, could afford to use with whomever she pleased.

They shared no sire nor mother; none of them had been born. They were created, alongside countless celestials, to serve the gods’ purpose long before mortals existed. But they’d referred to one another as brothers on the battlefields of the Abyss, and in the early days of their rule over Baator - when it had been the three of them at the forefront, leading those willing to follow away from Mount Celestia. Their homeonce, where they were now tolerated rather than welcomed. It was rare for that word to leave their lips, as of late.

But when it did, Mephistopheles knew he should pay attention, and so he did. As the other archdevils continued on through the corridors of Malsheem, towards the grand hall for the great occasions - towering Bel about to be anointed archduke once more, Belial and Fierna side by side as always; Mammon and Glasya not so much looking at one another, a dripping wet and half-frozen avatar of Levistus, and of course Baalzebul, a loathsome half-smile on his lips - Mephisto did pause, and linger behind with Dispater to exchange words in private.

“... Very well. What precisely is wrong, then?”

A light scoff, as though the question was insulting. “I never said I can tell you what precisely is wrong,” Dispater informed him. “But I can tell you, something is not right.”

Mephistopheles was not above admitting his temperament could flare up as quickly as hellfire and burn just as hot; however, he considered himself a creature of great-self restraint. The fact he did not bring his staff down on Dispater’s skull right there and then was, he felt, testament to that.

“I see. Well. I do thank you for the enlightening conversation. If that will be all--”

“Your runaway son was seen in Avernus, was he not?” Dispater cut him off. “He aided Bel in taking the throne from Zariel. He was his steward, once. And surely, Gabriel had help--”

“Raphael.”

An impatient gesture of his hand. Until not too long ago, Dispater would not have allowed himself such a show of nervousness, would not have shown such clear anxiety. Careful, calculating Dispater, ever-vigilant and always collected, keeping all the cards to his chest; that had changed since the Reckoning, when his vigilance had turned to paranoia and the self-control slipped.

Of all the changes that had come with the Reckoning, that was the one Mephistopheles regretted the most. He and Dispater may argue, they may send spies to claw secrets from one another’s grasp, but the Lord of the Second had always been as reliable an ally as there could be in the Hells, with an analytical mind Mephistopheles had always appreciated. Now, he hardly ever left the Iron Tower unless called upon by Asmodeus himself; even the everyday rule of his layer was left to his nuncio Titivilus, the only being Dispater seemed willing to let in his tower. The Iron Duke, slowly letting himself turn to rust.

“Whatever his name may be,” Dispater was saying. “I know he escaped. And I know he cannot have done it on his own.”

“It seems I have not rooted out the last of your spies in Mephistar.”

“You’re welcome to try and see if you succeed, but frankly no spying is required at this point. The story is the talk of the Hells. As if the fact he was seen in Avernus, aiding the new Lord of the First. Do you truly need me to tell you who I think aided his escape?”

It was a possibility Mephistopheles had considered, truth be told. For some reason, Bel seemed to have always liked his whelp, and his subsequent role in the fallen archduke’s rise back to power was suspicious to say the very least. Bel may look a brute, but his brilliance and strategic prowess were beyond reproach. Still… “I do not doubt he may have had the cunning to aid the whelp’s escape from my grasp,” he conceded. “What I highly doubt he had was the means, however, or even a reason. Raphael served him for a long time, that is true, but half of him - the human one at that? It seems hardly worth risking my enmity.”

“Bel clearly enlisted his help.”

“That does not mean he had a hand in his escape. Do you have any proof of his involvement, or are you simply suspicious of him?” Mephistopheles asked, knowing full well what the answer was. Dispater was worried about any change of regime so close to his own layer, and was eager to convince Mephistopheles to side with him against a perceived threat.

If he’d known for a fact that Bel was the one who helped Raphael slip out of his grasp - if he had proof - he’d tell him as much. Eagerly. But of course Dispater had no such proof, and only scoffed. “You don’t see Bel as a threat, do you? Of course not. Easy for you to dismiss him, no doubt, with six layers between you.”

“It is not his spies I routinely root out of my court. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you had a hand in my son’s escape yourself. You’d be better positioned to do so than most.”

The look that gained him was deeply offended. “And what reason would I have to do so? Your whelp is dangerous, brother. It was foolish of him to keep any part of him alive. Creating a hammer capable of breaking infernal chains, and handing it out to mortals! He ought to have been put to death there and then, for that foolishness alone!”

Ah, of course. Of the many fears Dispater held, that was probably among the worst - anything capable of breaking the bonds of the prisoners held in Mentiri, the great prison of Dis and indeed of all Baator. “Are your defenses nor formidable? Is the labyrinth not impregnable? What hope would some mortals with a hammer have against your mighty walls of iron?”

Dispater’s expression turned, if possible, even gloomier. “You mock me,” he said. “But you have yet to succeed in your efforts to locate him.”

And not one word from Antilia.

Mephistopheles scowled, chasing away the thought. “It is a mere matter of time--”

“Lord of the Second, Lord of the Eighth,” a gravelly voice caused him to cut off and turn. By the great doors leading to the grand hall of Malsheem, a huge pit fiend - Baalberith, was it not? - bowed. “The Lord Below has called for your presence, so that the meeting may begin.”

Well then. Mephistopheles supposed he had wasted enough time entertaining Dispater’s paranoia; it was time to get that affair over with, so that he may speak to Baalzebul personally, and see through his lies should he be foolish enough to attempt speaking any. Frankly, part of him rather wished he’d be foolish enough to try.

Seeing him trapped in the form of a slug once more would amuse him greatly indeed.

***

“This is all very moving. Truly. But I fear the duty falls on me to inform you we cannot linger much longer.”

Adonides’ voice was what finally caused Raphael to lift his head from Dalah’s shoulder and glance up, a scowl on his face. He was not necessarily wrong, Haarlep had to admit, but that did not really matter: anything Adonides may say was likely to be met with annoyance at the very least. A shame, they thought, that two such handsome devils could not put their differences aside and be happy bedfellows. “I despise you,” Raphael informed him.

The Steward of Cania smiled. “Rest assured, seeing your face does not fill me with joy either. Or any other part of you. I have seen you unclothed far more often than I’d ever have liked, and I’d appreciate it if you could put a remedy to that before we discuss our next move.”

“Don’t listen to him, my little brat. He’s just jealous,” Haarlep sing-sang, and stepped forward, holding down a hand to Dalah. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, not truly wanting to let go of her son, but in the end she did, and took Haarlep’s hand to stand. Raphael waited for her to be a few steps away before he closed his eyes, breathed in, and stood in a burst of flames. Once they died out he was wearing a familiar attire; he did always favor that doublet.

“No offense to the frankly perplexing number of blazers you have stashed in that bag of yours, Durge,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “But they never quite met my taste.”

“Ah.” The dragonborn stared for a moment before recoiling a little, and cleared their throat. Clearly, they had not quite known what to expect from Raphael - all of him, again. Haarlep supposed that the fact he had used their name, rather than likening them to a rodent, was at least an encouraging sign. They chuckled. “None taken. I’ll admit, it’s not my style either.”

“I did like the ruffles. I mean, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them, but I liked how stupid they made you look,” Astarion spoke, gaining himself a hum from Raphael.

“And here I was, about to offer an apology for taking out your arm,” he said. He did not smile, but he did not seem particularly insulted either. A frown creased his brow as he looked around, but he seemed more disoriented than angered.

“How are you feeling?” Halsin asked, a healing spell probably at the ready.

Raphael’s frown deepened only a moment. “Much too tall. And much too short.”

Not surprising, that. Until only minutes earlier, he’d simultaneously been significantly shorter and decidedly taller than he was now; it followed that he now felt both too tall and too short, despite being precisely the same height he’d been for the best part of a couple of millennia.

He’d probably feel slightly off-kilter for a while, but he was taking his newly regained wholeness remarkably well. Of course, Haarlep still did not know how much of what was gained may have been lost in turn. They rather hoped they’d find out before Raphael left.

“Do you think this will end, once you’re no longer human?”

They would do their duty regardless of the answer, but it would be… nice to know, at least.

Adonides cleared his throat. “I do hope that is not all. Are you not feeling more powerful, too?”

Raphael looked down at himself. He did not speak for several moments; it was as though he was listening for something none of them could hear. “There is potential. I can tell as much. Whether I can turn it to power I can wield would depend on how long I have to explore it.”

Adonides hummed. “Well, the bad news is that you’ll only have as much time as Haarlep can buy you with their rouse. The good one is that you’ll have guidance to uncover the extent of what you can do with it. But we must go before we’re caught here.”

Raphael entirely ignored the last sentence, and turned to Haarlep, truly looking at them for the first time. Haarlep had always taken pride in the fact they could read Raphael like an open book, and now… now, to their utter relief, they found that they still could. He did not like the idea of leaving them in the vault any more than they had earlier; it was clear in the way he pressed his lips together, in that twitch in his jaw and the wrinkle over the bridge of his nose.

“I’d really rather you left with us. If Mephistopheles comes down here, he’ll know. ”

“He would, yes.”

“He’d destroy you. And I know him well enough to tell you he would not make it quick.”

“Oh, my lips are sealed by oath no matter how much he may torture me. If that’s the concern.” Haarlep grinned. In turn, Raphael did not smile. Not even a twitch of his lips.

“... It’s not the only concern.”

Well. That was… an answer of sorts, perhaps. Haarlep’s grin did not fade. “He rarely comes here, and what choice do we have?” Haarlep shrugged. “You need time if you’re to have a chance. If he realizes you got in the vault and are whole again, he’ll pull all stops to find and kill you. He’s trying hard enough as is - it’s best to let the sleeping hellhounds lie. And besides,” they added, tilting their head to their right, “your mother is bound to Mephistar by your sire’s will. She cannot leave. Think of it as tasking me to keep an eye out for her, too.”

Raphael had looked as though he wanted to protest more, but that last argument made him falter. He looked over at his mother, and she nodded before picking something up from the ground - the lyre and locket - and walking up to him. “They’re right. If we can’t keep you safe long enough for you to be ready, all this will have been for nothing.” She pushed both objects in his hands. “Rahirek would want you to keep these, I think. He raised you, didn’t he?”

Raphael nodded, putting the locket back at his neck, the lyre at his back. “... He did.”

Dalah let out a long breath, a distant cast to her gaze. “He was a good man. A better man than I deserved.”

“I believe he’d disagree. You died and went to the Hells for his sake.”

A bitter laugh. “Only when my first plan of selling Mephistopheles the souls of my servants for his safety fell through. My poor husband never knew that part, but I was no innocent victim. I’d have put the fort to the torch with everyone in it for his life alone. I was simply no match for Mephisto. I was desperate, cruel, and a fool. He was only one of those things.” She paused for a moment, and reached up to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch, and she smiled faintly. “... What should I call you?” she asked, and he opened his eyes to meet hers.

“I have been Raphael too long to go back. But you may call me however you like.”

“It wouldn’t displease you?” she asked, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

His lips twitched in a smile. “No. It is a fine name you picked. It feels good to hear it.”

“Israfel.” There was an embrace, brief but tight; she initiated it and then she broke it, stepping back. It was as though she had to tear herself away. “Adonides is right. You should go. Mephisto may return any moment, and we have yet to ensure nothing here seems amiss,” she added, gesturing to the room around them - the hole in the ice floor, the deep scratches left by claws, more than a few arrows and handaxes sticking from a wall or the ceiling.

Raphael seemed to hesitate, and Haarlep grinned. “Leave it to us. No one will notice a thing. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once you return in triumph and all that. Until then, hold onto this for me. I wouldn’t want it ruined.” Raphael felt them press something small against their palm - that small golden ring with the light blue stones. “Do I also get a hu--”

They did get pulled into an embrace, brief and fierce. Raphael spoke in a snarl in their ear. “I’ll be back for both of you. If you get yourself killed before then, I’ll find a way to bring you back.”

“Aww--”

“And kill you again,” he cut them off, his grip clenching on the ring.

“Ah.” Haarlep made a face. “Well then, likewise. If you get yourself killed, I’ll bring you back to kick you in the groin. Very hard.”

There was a scoff, almost a chuckle, and the brief press or Raphael’s face against their neck. “The answer is no, it seems,” he murmured before pulling back, and it was everything Haarlep needed to hear.

For now.

***

The meeting was, all things considered, a simple enough matter.

Asmodeus sat at the head of the long table, on a chair more decorated than the rest but still rather understated, holding his rod. The Lord of the Ruby Rod, some called him, for neither him nor any of his avatars went anywhere without it. There was no amount of souls Mephistopheles - or any other archdevil, for that matter - wouldn’t have given to get their hands on it, although Mephisto suspected most of his peers did not share the same scholarly interest in it that he did.

That day, however, none of them had spared it more than a passing glance. All attention was on Lord Bel, and for good reason. A layer changing hands was a rare enough occurrence; that it would return to the same archdevil who’d ruled it before was unprecedented.

Most archdevils would look at Avernus with interest, several with some distrust. Dispater may or may not confine himself to a single room in the bowels of his Iron Tower, for a time, and Belial seemed to be deeply unamused by the sultry looks Fierna was aiming in Bel’s general direction, although Bel himself seemed not to take notice.

As Asmoseus finished speaking - a brief enough speech, to confirm Bel as the Archduke of Avernus anew - and then it was Bel’s turn, with an even shorter speech from someone whose considerable intellectual prowess was generally better suited for battle plans than it was for pretty speeches.

Mephistopheles did not truly listen to much of it either way.

At first, he’d been somewhat relieved to see that Asmodeus was alone at the head of the long table. A long time ago, when Bensozia was still alive, she’d sit by his side as the Queen of the Hells. Not quite his equal, none could be, but close. Since her demise, that spot at Asmodeus’ right had remained empty, and it was empty now, with their daughter sitting further down the table as the archduchess of Malbolge.

The Lord of the Ninth and the Lord of the Eighth, both without a consort. But we each have a daughter, and Antilia never gave me any of the grief Glasya gave her sire. Perhaps I should have acknowledged her long ago.

And he would as soon as she returned, her mission complete. Mephistopheles would entertain no other scenario and so he did not, turning back to where Asmodeus sat alone.

Mephisto had not truly expected to see Baalphegor sitting there when he’d walked in, but the thought had been on his mind ever since she had left. Surely she did return to Nessus, being Asmodeus’ best diplomat and all, but it seemed he would not have to suffer the indignity of seeing her by the Lord Below’s side. So far, Asmodeus had asked for no explanation as to why he’d broken off their union; it had been somewhat surprising - surely he did wonder? - but also a reprieve.

It was a shame that she could be at his court no longer; it had been a beneficial union for the longest time, as she was an asset whenever diplomacy was required. She knew how and when to speak, when to keep quiet, and most of all what to say; how to soothe his worst moods when frustration boiled over and he lost control in admittedly unsightly ways.

Baalphegor had her own goals, her own dalliances and - he was rather certain of that, although he had no proof - offspring of her own, somewhere. Mephistopheles had never intruded in any of it; she was, after all, a succubus. And save from the curious habit of taking on the mothers of his halfbreed offspring as her own personal attendants, she had never given him any grief either.

It truly was a shame that she would not cease trying to look into what else had been stolen from his vaults alongside the Crown of Karsus. The audacity of the accursed mortals who had dared steal from him had cost him more than just a powerful artifact; it had cost him a good asset. A consort whose company had-- never displeased him.

Mephistopheles scowled at the thought, and the scowl did not abate when his gaze turned to Baalzebul. The Lord of the Seventh was listening to Bel’s speech, a half-smile on his lips as always, ever since he’d quite regrettably regained his old form and left behind that of an oozing slug. He had not looked in Mephistopheles’ direction once, but the Lord of the Eighth would leave him no choice soon enough.

… But not immediately, it seemed, for Belial approached him as soon as the meeting proper was over and they were all allowed to stand, mingle, eat and drink from the trays servants were now bringing in. Mephisto had no intention to appear desperate by interrupting; he would have to wait, but no matter. Baalzebul never passed up the chance to eat and drink in Nessus; there would be chances to speak with him soon, or as they headed back to Cania - a necessity, if he was to continue on to Maladomini. Until then--

Mephisto’s thoughts were interrupted by that grip of iron, again. He turned to see Dispater looking at him from beneath the metal helmet he never seemed to take off. Not even inside his Iron Tower, it seemed, if the few spies of Mephisto who’d been able to slip unnoticed into the heart of Dis had reported. Most of those spies were now prisoners in Mentiri, of course.

“Something is not right,” he repeated. “Laugh all you wish, but I feel it in my bones.”

“I shall make a note of it. Are you not staying for the refreshments?”

A grimace, because of course he was not; he never did stay away from Dis and his tower any longer than he had to. Most of all, he never ate or drank anything he did not have his own servants taste first… as though that would make any difference, for an archdevil immune to any and all poison.

“I am returning to my kingdom. Perhaps you should too. Remain vigilant, brother.”

Mephistopheles stared a moment, and finally nodded. Dispater was paranoid, but odd things had been happening - his son somehow tricking him and reappearing in Avernus to take its ruler out of the picture was indeed a disconcerting event, and vigilance never hurt. In the end, he nodded. “I shall. You as well, Dispater,” he said. He watched his retreating back for a few moments before a rumbling voice spoke, not far from him.

“A little nervous, is he not? Makes him the ideal neighbor, though. Most of the time you forget he is even there.”

Mephistopheles turned, an eyebrow arched. “You may forget of Dispater’s presence at your peril, Lord Bel. He was here to shape Baator with myself and Asmodeus, long before your soul awoke in the Hells as a lemure.”

A laugh, not at all bothered. Bel was smiling down at him through sharp teeth, standing larger than even Duke Hutijin. “Ah, I jest, of course. I do look forward to working with him - his insight when it comes to securing strongholds against demonic forces is second to none, although most of the time I dealt with his consort.”

“Titivilus is not his consort.”

“No? Could have fooled me.”

Another glance to see that Baalzebul was still speaking with Belial, and Mephistopheles turned back to Lord Bel. May as well, until the Lord of the Seventh was at liberty to talk. “I have heard a curious tale pertaining to the fall of Zariel. A group of mortals having a hand in it, and among them the human half of an offspring of mine that should have died months ago, down my gullet. Would you happen to know anything about it?”

To his credit, Bel had the good grace not to insult him with a bold-faced lie. “Ah, yes. Raphael was indeed among the mortals who took out Zariel. One among them had beef with her, I believe - a tiefling. Impressive warrior. The former Lord of the First had bought her off and replaced her heart with an infernal engine. An upgrade if you ask me, but mortals tend to take poorly to such things, so she was out for revenge. Raphael assisted her.”

“Word is that those were the same mortals who took him down, in his own House. What reason would Raphael have to help?”

A shrug. “Not a clue, I am afraid. Mortals tend to do odd things, and that part of him is mortal.”

“That part of him was meant to die in Mephistar months ago. How he escaped that fate is something I am still trying to establish. But you could have spared me some annoyance if you’d seized him then and sent him to Cania.”

Bel stared at him a moment and tilted his head, crowned with huge, thick horns. There was a deep scar crossing the bridge of his nose, yet another across the right eyebrow. “Yes, I could have. But I was under no obligation, and the kid-- your son had done me a favor. I saw no reason to seize him.”

Mephistopheles scoffed. “You always did like the fool,” he said, and it was a fact. Bel had made him Steward of Avernus, and it was no great secret that they had remained on good terms after Bel was deposed as Lord of the First. “Although I struggle to see why.”

A chuckle. “Oh, come now. Do not insult my intelligence or yours. You don’t struggle at all to see why I made him Steward of Avernus. I am the one at a loss here, to understand how come you always despised him so.”

A grimace. “He had all the fatal flaws that come with his mortal blood, made worse by his fiendish nature. Foolish and needy, more trouble than he was worth. His meddling cost me thousands of souls, if you must know. And that’s without considering his attempt at getting his hands on an artifact which was stolen from my--”

“An attempt any devil worth their salt would have made, let us be honest. There is no one in this room at present who would not have attempted the same.” Bel met his gaze. “But even before all that you were never, shall we say, overly thrilled about his continued existence. That is what puzzles me. Mortal flaws and all he was capable, clever, and powerful. I’d venture to say he was more like you than any other of your offspring ever--”

“Precisely.”

The word left Mephistopheles as a hiss, with little thought behind it - partly because he’d spotted Belial moving away from Baalzebul to discuss something with Glasya, and he was in a hurry to end the conversation to start the one he truly had been looking forward to. And so end it did, turning his back to the Lord of the First, walking up to the Lord of the Seventh with long strides and a sneer on his face.

And entirely missing the long, quiet look that Bel gave to his retreating back.

***

Raphael recognized Gelineth the instant he looked around, once Adonides teleported them out of Mephistar in the usual gust of icy wind. The mountain itself was unremarkable, as were its glaciers… but they were not standing on the mountain. Rather, they stood on one of several huge shelves of ice clinging to the side of the mountain like massive fungi; he could feel the hum of magic in that ice, clearly enough that it seemed to reverberate in his chest.

Raphael held few clear memories of what had been done to him - to the part of him Mephistopheles kept to turn into his puppet - prior to being tasked with guarding the vaults; he mostly remembered pain, something coursing through his body that hurt worse than a bolt of lighting. Clearly, he’d been infused with some manner of power; he had never felt as attuned to arcane magic as he was now. He felt it lie dormant somewhere in his chest, waiting to be used.

It was a curious sensation after feeling such emptiness for so long, and twofold.

Wind howled around the mountain, snow and ice hurtling through the air, but not there - not on those shelves, repelled by the same magic which had conjured that place into being.

“... All right, where are we?” Ravengard spoke, and Raphael glanced over at Adonides.

“Nebulat,” he spoke. “The retreat of disgruntled ice devils, who have come to Mount Gelineth to sulk after Mephistar became much too warm for their liking and they were replaced by pit fiends at my sire’s court.”

Adonides snorted, turning to look back at him. With the dark blue skin and long black hair, he was more reminiscent of his father’s Cold Lord visage than Raphael had ever been, despite being of his blood; it was a rather stark reminder of the fact he was the only high-ranking devil left in Mephistar who was indeed native to Cania.

“They have been doing far more than sulking, as you’ll soon find out. You’d best be grateful, and learn from them. It will be thanks to them that you may stand a sliver of a chance against the Lord of the Eighth. They’ll help you turn that potential you mentioned into true power.”

“I take it that they have given up on their hope to regain Mephistopheles’ favor, and have resorted to working to end his reign?”

Adonides did not confirm as much, but did not deny either; that was a clear enough answer in itself. “Follow me inside. Tuncheth will want to meet you, and he’ll explain where we stand in more detail than I could. I have to return soon, before my absence is noted.”

Upon the icy shelf, there was indeed only one way to go save from down onto the shelf below: ahead, through a covered courtyard - columns of clear ice holding up a ceiling of blue, glowing ice - and then into the entrance of what may be described, with some optimism, as a small icy palace. A pair of gelugons stood guard at either side of the entrance, spears in hand, but both lowered their weapons and bowed when they recognized Adonides.

“Duke Adonides. Lord Raphael.” A brief glance at the mortals following them; the guard did not add ‘and whomever you may be’, but it was abundantly clear from the brief clack of the mandibles that was precisely what she was thinking. Gelugons dwelt nearly exclusively in Cania or in Stygia, far from the surface; they encountered mortals far more rarely than devils which populated more superficial layers. They were at least clever enough to see they were with Adonides, and not for them to torment. “Whole and well, I see. Tuncheth awaits you.”

“And we shan’t keep him waiting any longer. Did he pace enough to create a path in the ice?”

The clack of mandibles sounded almost like a laugh. “I suspect he’s getting there. Do come in. You should not be seen outside unless necessary, Lord Raphael.”

I hold no such title, Raphael thought, but did not speak as much aloud. No reason to eschew honorifics when bestowed, after all. He only nodded and followed Adonides inside, through the entrance. He did not need to duck beneath it, but he instinctively did. It gained him a strange look from one of the guards, and a laugh from Karlach.

“Hah! Feeling tall at the moment?”

“... Quite. I had to duck beneath nearly every doorway in the vaults.”

“You hold all the memories from that half of you, too?” Durge asked. Raphael nodded.

“Some are not too clear. Ascension does not allow for as lucid a mind as I generally like to keep. But yes, I do remember patrolling Mephistopheles’ vaults as vividly as I recall traversing Avernus with you. I must admit, it was not quite as eventful.”

“Right. So, you recall everything about that, too.”

I recall you bedding me if that’s what you’re wondering, Raphael thought, but held his tongue, all too aware of the fact Adonides was well within earshot and would likely not think too highly of the notion.

Raphael had suffered enough snide remarks from him to last him the next few centuries.

“Yes,” was all he said in the end, and left it at that. They would not have had the chance to continue the conversation either way: as they entered a hall with high ceilings - most of the palace, Raphael suspected, was carved inside the mountain itself - their host was impossible to miss. Gelugons’ height almost rivaled that of pit fiends the likes of Lord Bel or Duke Hutijin, but Tuncheth was particularly tall even for his kind, with a formidable carapace and massive, deadly looking spikes across his back. He was, indeed, pacing back and forth, mandibles clacking in obvious worry even as insectoid composite eyes stared blankly ahead.

“... If I didn’t know any better, Tuncheth, I may suspect you didn’t have full confidence the mission would be successful.”

There was a sound of claws skittering on ice, and Tuncheth turned to the door. Emotions were always hard to read on a gelugon, but relief was plain in the way he relaxed the mandible, and exhaled. “The Lord Below be praised, I was starting to fear the worst.”

“We had a slight complication. Mephistopheles was a step ahead of us, and had commanded the ascended fiend to destroy its human half. It was able to defy that order, however,” Adonides spoke, and tilted his head towards Raphael. “Here he stands, whole again. I need to return to Mephistar before the Lord of Hellfire does, to ensure everything looks normal. Surely you can fill you in?”

Raphael knew little of Tuncheth - the ice devils living at the very outskirts of his father’s kingdom did not precisely hold his interest - but he recalled hearing, if vaguely, how easily irritated he was. He certainly sounded irritated now, as he scoffed.

“Have you told him nothing at all of what we hold here?”

Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I have done more than my fair share, I’d say. I leave that honor to you,” he said, and glanced over at Raphael. “... I do wish you good luck. For Cania if nothing else,” he added, and that was it. He turned and left without further ceremony, heading back outside and then, Raphael supposed, to Mephistar. He was still scowling at his retreating back when Tuncheth cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Nebulat, child of Mephisto. And to your companions as well. I heard they have traversed Avernus with you, before aiding you in Mephistar - fearsome warriors, I was told.”

Raphael nodded. “They did. And they are,” he said. No use in denying the obvious… and frankly, the more fearsome their reputation grew, the fewer devils would be inclined to mock him for falling under their blows in the first place.

Introductions were quick enough; even so, Tuncheth soon grew impatient. It was clear that his true interest lay in Raphael. He nodded his head at each of his companions, and welcomed them to Nebulat, before turning his attention on Raphael once more. “You resisted the compulsion to obey your father. It must have taken great power of will to defy him.”

“It’s more that his mom told him--” Astarion began, only to trail off with a wince when Ravengard pressed a heel down on his foot, hard. Tuncheth either did not hear him, or was rather good at pretending as much.

“That is auspicious. The task before you requires nothing less than an iron will.”

Ah, yes. The task before him. What an elegant way to put it. It made defeating the second most powerful archdevil in the Hells - second to one who was, in fact, a minor god - sound like something within the realms of possibility.

“I have gathered that you expect me to kill Mephistopheles,” Raphael said, crossing his arms. “What escapes me is how, precisely, you expect me of all who dwell in Baator to achieve it.”

The gelugon tilted his head. A twitch of the antennae gave away his annoyance before he spoke. “I asked myself the same, in truth. I would not have chosen you. A halfbreed and a creature of fire to boot, like your sire. I did not believe you had a single shred of a chance.”

“I am picking up a past tense. Do I have to assume you changed your mind?”

“Hmph. Whether I’m proven wrong remains to be seen, but you are now more powerful than you ever were, and you can achieve and maintain an ascended state with no need to consume souls. According to Adonides, the amount of arcane power your sired poured into your fiendish half beggars belief. And it is still there, to use against him.”

That was true; both halves of him had grown in strength and power before reuniting. Still…

“Do you truly think it would be enough for me to best the Lord of the Eighth?”

A snort. “I don’t know. But the Lord Below said it should be you, if you proved yourself capable enough. He must have his reasons. It is not for me, not you, to question him.”

“Say that you had to try and guess. Why me?”

An irritable twitch. “I can only think of one answer. One thing only Mephistopheles and yourself hold, over every other devil of Baator - complete mastery over that wretched hellfire.”

“Other archdevils, and powerful dukes, can use it. Even mortals, if my father bestows--”

“They can use it, yes. They are not its masters. They do not command it the way Mephistopheles does. None developed the immunity to it that Mephistopheles has. None but you. No other - none of the lofty minds trained at the School of Hellfire, none of the countless other bastards your father sired - can boast anything close to mastery over that monstrosity.”

“The obsession with hellfire has become a madness in your father,” Adonides had told Raphael only days earlier. That ice devils were disgruntled by their Lord’s obsession with hellfire was no news; neither was the fact that every day, mountains of ice crumbled and glaciers collapsed. The archmage of the Hells put his experiments above everything, as part of his compulsive search for power through knowledge.

It had him turn his layer into an immense testing ground rather than a kingdom… and when something went wrong, it went indeed very wrong. There was fear, whispered through the corners of few brave mouths, that sooner or later the entire layer would collapse on Nessus.

But until then, the gelugons had mostly blamed the pit fiends who’d replaced them at court, or those like Quagrem who kept researching hellfire on his father’s behalf. They’d been seeking to push them out of favor, regain their ruler’s attention to distract him from that obsession. Raphael briefly wondered whether turning against Mephistopheles in the end had been their decision after centuries of failures, or if they were following the course Asmodeus had set.

Pieces on a lanceboard, every one of them. And Raphael rather preferred being the player.

“... Hellfire cannot be what you expect me to use against Mephistopheles. As you said yourself, he is immune to it. And Adonides said something on how you may be able to help turn my newfound potential into power. So what am I here to learn, precisely?”

Tuncheth clacked his mandible; it did not look like a smile, but it probably was the closest he could get to. “Wizards under my command found another way to turn the very essence of Baator into raw power. Ice magic, powerful enough to counter hellfire. We hoped it would turn your sire from his reckless experiments with hellfire, but he dismissed it. It seems only right, then, that he should feel its bite.”

“... What kind of magic are you speaking of?” Raphael asked. Tuncheth turned, and tilted his head towards the back of the room. There was something Raphael had never seen before: a wall of clear blue ice, with something flickering within. It looked like just flames from a distance, but of course it was not; Raphael would recognize hellfire at a glance, always.

And yet, it was entirely encased in ice; the ice did not melt, and did not let through any of that devastating heat. Hellfire was not destroyed - nothing could - but it was contained. Raphael reached out to touch it, and the cold spread through his hand, up his arm, to his very core; he had resistance to cold, but not immunity, and it tore a sharp gasp from him before he pulled away. He held up his hand, flexed his fingers; he could see frostbite was already beginning to develop on his skin.

Behind him, Tuncheth laughed. “It cares not for resistance, and it can wound even those immune to most glacial cold Cania has to offer,” he said, and walked up to him. “Even your sire won't remain unscathed. And most of all, as you can see, hellfire itself cannot melt it. Your father laughed, when we told him what we were doing - said it was purely theoretical. But as you can plainly see, it is a theory no more. The greatest wizards among us have made it a reality. We call it… the Plume.”

The name was announced with quite a bit of pathos that felt frankly unfitting for such an underwhelming name. That may need further work… but the magic itself was powerful, Raphael could tell, drawing power from the very essence of the layer. He stared at the frostbites a few moments before he cast a healing spell, and watched them disappear. His gaze fell again on the hellfire within the ice. “So this is what Adonides said you’d teach me.”

“Yes. Only then will you stand a chance - as I am certain you’re aware.”

Raphael was not entirely sure he’d stand a chance at all even with that kind of magic at his disposal, but pointing out as much as a moot point. What did it matter? He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles, because his mother and his-- I didn’t tell them, did I, but they know, surely they know -- incubus were in Mephistar, in the vaults to buy him time, and it was only a matter of time before the ruse was uncovered. He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because there was nowhere on the Planes where he’d be safe as long as his sire lived.

And of course, he had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because the Lord Below had commanded him to. That too was non-negotiable.

“... Very well. I suppose I am as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Another clack of the mandibles. “Good. There is much work to do, but you and your companions and your companions will be our esteemed guests until you’re ready. We’ll start teaching you all about the Plume soon, but you may rest for now. No one knows you’re here, except for Duke Adonides and Duchess Baalphegor.”

“And the Lord Below, I presume,” Raphael said, gaining himself a scoff.

“Goes without saying,” Tuncheth replied, and gestured for two guards to escort them away.

As they were taken into the depths of Nebulat, into their quarters, Raphael felt a scaly hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “... So. How are you?”

Raphael scoffed, but did not shake Durge’s hand off. “I am expected to kill my sire. I doubt I shall be able to do so, and failing means my death and that of everybody I’ve grown to hold dear against my better judgment. Most of all, to my shame , I find I do not wish to kill him.”

“Not too good, then.”

“Your insight shall never cease to amaze me,” Raphael muttered, but he found he could force no venom into his voice; at least for now, he chose to blame tiredness for that. He reached up for that hand as they walked, and let it take a hold of his fingers.

Even now, they felt cold.

***

“Lord of the Seventh.”

“Lord of the Eighth.”

There was enough venom in those words to poison every living thing in Toril twice over; but as always, the mutual hatred was hidden behind smiles. Or, before he was returned to his old form, behind the inexpressive face of an oozing slug in Baalzebul’s case.

Disgusting as the sight had been, Mephistopheles rather hoped his old enemy would be foolish enough to lie to him, if only to see him humiliated yet again. Still, he doubted Baalzebul would be that careless… which meant he'd have the truth.

“There is a matter I’ve been looking to discuss with you, if you may spare the time.”

“By all means.”

“Some of my envoys in the Material Plane have found something quite interesting at a diabolist’s place of business in Baldur’s Gate. A portal, opening to Maladomini. A short distance away from Malagard, in fact,” Mephistopheles said, choosing to withhold the fact the diabolist in question was a servant of Mammon; frankly, it was plain to see that Mammon himself had nothing to do with the entire sorry matter, weak imbecile that he was. Much like her patron, the diabolist had been driven by greed; nothing more and nothing less.

Mephistopheles had considered demanding Mammon let him interrogate her, but so shortly after her death her soul was likely still in the Shelves of Despond; it would be some time before it was processed and sent to Minauros. By then, the matter would be resolved.

Baalzebul’s eyebrows went up, and those black composite eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment. “Did it now? It is quite concerning. By Asmodeus’ decree, no portal should ever be opened below Avernus. I trust that the diabolist has been dealt with?”

“She has indeed, but not by my hand. She was found dead, most likely at the hand of the one we suspect used to portal to come into your layer. Raphael.”

“Ah, I see. Your missing son. Well, half of him if tales are true.”

Tales that Antilia told you of, with my permission. You think yourself so clever, and yet you’ve had my best spy at your court for centuries.

He knew better than letting any such thoughts show. “Precisely. I have reason to believe he is heading to Cania, with the foolish notion of reclaimed that which I took. As my arcane magic ensures no portals may be opened in the eighth layer no matter how skilled the diabolist--”

A chuckle, loathsome as ever. “Taking measures after the theft? Counter-intuitive, is it not?”

Meetings in Nessus had strict rules against attacking a fellow archdevil if not in self-defense; this unfortunately meant that burning that smile off with hellfire was no option. But it did not matter: for all his jabs, Baalzebul was unable to do the one thing he needed to do now - lie.

“That is not relevant, is it?” A smile, sharp. “Cania is closed to any and all portals; it follows that anyone planning to reach it would need to travel through the layer immediately above.”

“I see. And you believe Raphael may be this someone.”

“Is it not?”

“I would not know. It may very well be.”

“Has he not turned to you for help crossing over to Cania?”

Baalzebul shook his head. Mephistopheles expected him to try and get out of the question with vague words, twisting the truth without breaking it. He had been prepared for it… but not for the answer that came, straightforward as it could be. “No,” he said. “I have not met him.”

Mephistopheles stared for a moment - but it was just that moment. He smiled. “Perhaps he has met someone else at your court, or somebody else in Maladomini who may aid him.”

“As far as I am aware, Raphael has never met anyone at court. Nor was I aware he may have set foot in Maladomini until now. If he did come to my layer to continue on to Cania, or for any other reason, I do not know.” There was no hesitation in Baalzebul’s voice and, most notably, no sign of Asmodeus’ curse taking hold. The loathsome face looking back at him was unchanged, and to Mephisto’s surprise it could only mean one thing - he was not lying.

No, it cannot be. He is lying, he must be. Surely he does not speak true - does he?

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps very aware and internally gloating, Baalzebul nodded. “I do thank you for making me aware of the weakness in my layer’s defenses, Lord Mephistopheles. I shall give orders for the portal to be found and closed. As for your fugitive son, I am afraid I have no knowledge which may be useful to you. Will that be all?”

Mephisto glared, but said nothing. Asking anything concerning Antilia would destroy her cover and put her in danger, so he did not. A few words, courteous on the surface, and he walked away - composed as always, even as his mind reeled.

He’d thought he knew his son well enough to be able to predict his next move, but it seemed he had been wrong yet again. Seeking help from his father’s sworn enemy was the only move that would make sense, and the portal found in Baldur’s Gate did lead to Maladomini. Now, Baalzebul’s words suggested a different scenario. For reasons he could not imagine, Raphael had not turned to Baalzebul for help. Had he perhaps guessed that his sire would think of it, and question the one archdevil who may not lie? The more he thought of it, the more it made sense; perhaps his son had more cunning than he was willing to concede.

And if Raphael had pressed forward towards Cania on his own, across the treacherous lands of Maladomini without seeking assistance from the Lord of the Seventh in Malagard… then it would explain Antilia’s silence from her post: she simply had no news to relay.

None of it seemed too absurd, sure enough. Perfectly feasible. And yet…

Mephistopheles turned, and saw Asmodeus looking out of one of the great windows overlooking Malsheem, a cup of wine in his hand. He stepped past Mammon, who was deep into some conversation with Lady Fierna, and walked up to the Lord Below.

“Brother. A word.”

The cup paused halfway to Asmodeus’ lips. Those same lips curled slowly in a smile, and he spoke without turning. He wore deep red robes that day, as he did most times he had guests; with the four great curving horns on his head, he cut a fearsome figure.

“Something must be greatly upsetting you, Lord of the Eighth. It has been eons since you called me such.”

“Does it displease you?”

“Never.” A drink from that cup, and he set it down on the tray of a waiting servant before turning. The glowing red eyes met Mephisto’s pale blue ones; he’d chosen to wear the visage of the Cold Lord that day. “What is it, then, that you wish us to discuss?”

“I have reason to suspect that the Lord of the Seventh may be lying with impunity.”

Asmodeus tilted his head. He did not answer him right away, nor did he dismiss his concern; he seemed to be considering the notion. “And what makes you think so?”

“I have asked for answers on matters concerning one of my offspring. He has indeed given answers, but I have reason enough to think they may not necessarily be the truth.”

“No proof, then.”

“My instinct has seldom let me down. You know as much.”

“Seldom is not never,” was the response, but again it was no dismissal, and Mephistopheles glanced back. Baalzebul was leaving the meeting alongside the avatar of Levistus, chatting amiably with the half-frozen, sulking Lord of the Fifth. Soon, the two of them were the only ones left in the hall.

“Is it truly impossible for him to have found a way to dispel the curse you placed on him?”

Asmodeus hummed. “Few things are impossible, but a great many are unlikely. Should I find that Baalzebul has slipped from my control, his punishment will be severe.” He looked into the ruby atop his rod, and murmured something; the ruby seemed to shimmer. The Lord of the Hells looked back at Mephistopheles. “He has not. The hold remains tight as ever. Baalzebul cannot lie to a fellow devil without severe and rather noticeable consequences.”

That was a relief to know, even with needling doubt still in the back of his mind. Perhaps he’d been concerning himself over nothing, after all. Raphael had known that he’d be expected to turn to Baalzebul, and so he had not. He would die trying to cross, fall into his trap near Nargus, or be torn to pieces by his own fiend half if he ever managed to make it to his vaults.

He would fall, with or without Antilia’s involvement. Nothing he did would change his fate.

“I see. Thank you, Lord Asmodeus. I shall take my leave now,” he said, and bowed, turning to leave. Still, before he did, he found himself stilling. There was something of a distant cast to Asmodeus’ eyes as he looked out of the window. Mephisto recalled only ever seeing something like it once, after Bensozia’s demise. He paused. “... Is everything well, my king?”

Asmodeus turned, and smiled. That distant case to his gaze, however, remained.

“Yes, brother,” he replied. “Everything will be well.”

***

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