A Room in Azzagrat

The silence hung a breath too long—then fractured beneath a velvet snarl of laughter, dark and indulgent. "Ahh... Mizora," Graz’zt purred, his voice like hot silk dragged across broken glass. "You do not lack for gall, do you? I adore that."

"You're familiar?"

Graz’zt’s voice turned syrup-smooth, indulgent as memory. “Yes, Mizora and I have... history. She was bold, back then—sharp-tongued, glimmer-eyed, always thinking three sins ahead. We shared a bed once. Her mostly out of ambition, I mostly out of boredom. It was pleasant. Brief. No hatred between us. But she serves Zariel now”

"You served Asmodeus. Until you didn’t."

"Careful," Graz’zt warned. "I carved Azzagrat from the very sinew of the Abyss, drenched it in blood and crowned it in fire—freedom wrenched from the jaws of servitude. I was an archdevil then, with armies at my back and dominion in my wake. Mizora, though—she is but a cambion, a mere half-devil. No legions march at her command. No titles follow her name."

"Then give her one."

The shadows twisted tighter as the voice roared to life, booming in my head and shaking my bones.

"First you ask me to give up the flaming warrior! —Then to aid her in breaking a curse laid by an archdevil!—AND THEN You plot to trick Zariel with her own pet, and now you dare ask ME to shelter this traitorous imp in MY domain!? WHAT DO I GAIN FROM THIS!?"

I swallowed hard. "A clever secretary?"

His silence was deafening.

Then—laughter. Low, rich, rolling with amused disbelief.

"You are mad. Stark raving. But entertaining beyond measure. Fine. I will allow your little plan. Not because I believe it will work—but because it amuses me. And should you fail, I will say I knew nothing. More would believe that than the truth anyway."

I blinked, stunned. "So... that's a yes?"

"Yes, I will entertain your madness. None of it costs me. All the risk is yours. And if it succeeds... perhaps Mizora becomes useful. She will have a place in Azzagrat. A title. An escape. If she wants it."

A pause stretched, long and theatrical. Then Graz’zt’s tone dipped, smoother now, laced with a whisper of indulgence. "But do not mistake tolerance for approval. If this backfires in a blaze of devilish fury, I will not shield you. You dance on blades, my dear warlock. Delightfully sharp ones."

I exhaled slowly, the tension ebbing from my body like a tide.

"That’s all."

"Good. Now go, Blade. Corrupt. Conquer. Continue to amuse me, and you shall find my favour less cruel than it seems."

The voice retreated into the far corners of my thoughts, leaving behind the faint taste of iron and roses. The scent of brimstone lingered in the air, subtle as perfume. The shadows seemed to shrink back slightly, as if retreating from the echo of his presence.

I was alone again—standing in a ruined stone house, shielded from the sun by an old overhang, wind threading through the broken beams, the dawn sky bleeding behind the trees.

Could Mizora even be convinced? Could her allegiance to Zariel be convenience more than conviction? Even if she wants out, would she even dare to try?

The corruption I’d sown was growing, and so were the stakes. One misstep with Mizora, and Zariel would not only come for Karlach, but also for me. For now, a tangle of ambition and reckless hope passed for a plan—fragile, ill-defined, but real enough to chase.

I had received the answers I came for—along with new powers, and even more questions to unravel. For now, I pushed them quietly to the corners of my mind. There was no time to dwell—not with a goblin horde looming and a hag to 'deal' with. I turned from the ruins and began the walk back to camp, the wind at my back and a sense of purpose steadying each step. Whatever came next, I’d be ready—or at least, better prepared than before.