By dawn, Caesar had almost convinced himself the past was a fevered hallucination. He rose early, washed carefully, and dressed in the rough linen uniform that marked him as the lowest stratum of Alaric Valemont's household.
He learned quickly that memory was a double-edged gift. He knew who would rise in power, who would betray whom, which scullion would be found strangled in a canal five years from now. But knowing did nothing to make him stronger.
He was still the smallest creature in the hall. Still the one they tripped when no one was watching.
Still the worm.
Two mornings later, he was polishing the carved obsidian banisters in the southern gallery when a pair of noble envoys drifted past—one in a coat woven from scales, the other in a pale blue robe stitched with nine silver eyes.
Emissaries of House Yrren, whose necromancers once petitioned to have Alaric executed for blasphemy.
They didn't even glance at him.
"I hear House Valemont still hosts private salons," one murmured. "As if a half-starved Incubus can dictate terms to real families."
"Tradition," the second replied in a bored tone. "He does own half the debt markers from the last southern campaign. Easier to pretend he matters."
Their footsteps faded, but the echo of their disdain lingered.
In demon society, lineage was everything. Some clans claimed descent from ancient progenitors—titans, dragons, gods. Valemont's line was old, but only by mortal reckoning. Alaric had no monstrous transformation, no grand displays of might. And yet, for all their contempt, no one dared test him openly.
Even the Yrren had lowered their voices.
By midday, Caesar was hauling crates of wine up the south tower stairs. He moved carefully, fighting bone-deep fatigue.
In the old timeline, he'd dropped this same crate on the twenty-third stair. A Kharun guard had broken his jaw for it.
Today, he forced himself to pause halfway and rest. A first lesson: knowledge without discipline meant nothing.
As he caught his breath, a voice echoed up the stairwell.
"Hurry up, runt. The salon guests don't wait for your dawdling."
He looked down. Vek—broad-shouldered, beetle-shell scales glinting in the torchlight. A mid-ranked underling with just enough favor to kick down instead of up.
Caesar nodded mutely and hefted the crate again.
Vek snorted. "Don't think polishing Valemont's silver makes you important."
He didn't reply. He'd seen Vek's corpse sprawled across a barricade in the final siege, jaws cracked open as if still trying to laugh.
Some things never changed.
But some things could.
It was the first true gathering of highbloods since the demon continent's southern trade routes had collapsed. A sign that everything was already unraveling, years before the final war.
He spent hours laying out draperies, arranging offerings—darkwine, honeyed figs, a single bowl of ash roses meant to evoke victories none of them had earned.
When the guests arrived, the air curdled.
Lady Osvella swept in first, her golden-scaled mantle whispering over the tiles. "Valemont, you do know how to polish a ruin until it gleams."
Alaric reclined on a low divan, swirling wine. Immaculate, as always. "You flatter me."
Lord Kharun loomed behind her, antlered helm etched with runes that pulsed faintly when he spoke. "It seems your salons are the last refuge for any noble too cowardly to choose a side."
"Cowardice?" Alaric's tone was mild. "Or common sense?"
A ripple of uneasy laughter.
Caesar kept to the edges, listening. Even here, alliances were fracturing:
Kharun, with his legions, determined to seize the western passes.
Altoris, whispering of plague as leverage.
Dreadvine, quietly securing famine-prone territories by buying the harvest tithe.
He caught scraps of conversation as he refilled glasses: raided caravans, cities emptying under tribute demands, humans massing across the straits.
It was always here, he thought. All the rot that would swallow us.
He moved between tables, trying not to draw notice. But a thickset brute in Kharun's livery stepped into his path, proffering a stained goblet.
"Clean this."
Caesar accepted it, head bowed. Before he could retreat, the guard hooked a boot behind his ankle and shoved.
He hit the floor hard, the goblet clattering away.
Silence fell, cold and watchful.
Lady Osvella's lip curled. "Charming help."
Alaric's eyes flicked to him for the briefest instant. "Persistent," he said softly.
Not praise. But something.
Caesar gathered the goblet and crawled away. The bruises he could ignore. The humiliation—less so.
I can't afford mistakes. Not even small ones.
By nightfall, the nobles were gone. Caesar lingered, straightening cushions, absorbing the clove-and-bloodfruit perfume.
Alaric remained at the chess table, ledger open.
Without looking up, he murmured, "You were watching them."
"I…was only—"
"Don't dissemble."
He swallowed. "It's my duty to know which guests require attention."
"Mm." A faint smile. "You learn quickly for something so small."
Heat climbed his throat. "Thank you, my lord."
He almost left then, but something kept him rooted. When he glanced back, he thought he glimpsed weariness in Alaric's eyes—a tiredness he'd never seen before.
How long had Alaric balanced debts and threats and favors?
A lifetime.
And in the end, it had burned.
When he finally reached the back stair, a shape waited in the shadows.
A crow, glossy black. It watched him with uncanny intelligence.
Then, in a shimmer of darkness, the bird unfolded into a man in a crisp butler's coat.
Ethan.
"My lord," he said softly as Alaric emerged behind Caesar. "A word."
Alaric gestured for Caesar to stay.
Ethan inclined his head. "It concerns the boy."
"Oh?"
Ethan's gaze never wavered. "I've seen lower-ranked servants lingering near his quarters. Passing notes with the southern seal—Dreadvine, perhaps."
Alaric's expression didn't change. "They think he's my spy?"
"Or your weakness."
A hush.
At last, Alaric set his pen aside. "Interesting."
Ethan continued, voice low and measured. "He isn't clever enough to scheme alone. But some in the lower halls are ambitious. If they see a frightened little worm, they may try to pull his strings."
Caesar's stomach lurched.
Alaric was silent a long moment. Then: "Do nothing for now. I'm curious who believes a half-starved attendant
could tip the scales."
Ethan inclined his head. "As you wish."
A flicker of feathers—and he was gone, leaving only a single black plume drifting to the floor.
Alaric turned to Caesar, eyes soft and unreadable. "Be careful. Some debts can't be repaid in coin."
Caesar bowed, heart hammering. "Yes, my lord."
Later, in the dark of his cot, he lay staring at the cracked ceiling, Ethan's warning echoing in his skull.
Someone wants to use me.
It terrified him.
And thrilled him.
Because if they thought he was useful—
Then he was no longer invisible.
And in a world already splitting apart, that might be the first step to power.