Lucifer sat at the head of the grand meeting hall, his presence commanding, though he barely moved. His brothers, the Judges, and the Council members filled the long chamber, their hushed murmurs swirling like a restless storm. Lady Seraphina stood to the side, her posture composed, though her piercing gaze took in every detail. She was there as an observer—her father, after all, was one of the Council's most senior members.
"My Lord… you don't understand," one of the Council members said, his voice edged with frustration. He unrolled a thick scroll, his clawed fingers gripping the parchment tightly. "These humans are getting out of hand. There's no such thing as an increase in labor. They are lazy beings! Ignorant, all of them!"
The hall buzzed with murmurs of agreement.
"This shows," the demon continued, tapping at the scroll, "that for the past three months, productivity in the mortal realm has declined drastically. They demand more compensation, yet they give less in return. If we allow this to continue, we invite chaos."
Lucifer leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the armrest. His golden eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept across the chamber. "And your solution?" His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something lethal, something that made even the eldest of demons hesitate.
Another council member, an older demon with deep crimson skin, cleared his throat. "Punishment, my Lord. Fear has always kept them in line. If they no longer tremble, then we must remind them why they once did."
The murmurs rose again, this time with agreement.
Then, a voice cut through the noise.
"Blind punishment breeds rebellion."
All eyes turned to Lady Seraphina. She met Lucifer's gaze without wavering, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps the problem does not lie solely with the humans, but with how we govern them. If they resist, we must ask why. If they falter, we must understand what weakens them."
A flicker of amusement—perhaps interest—crossed Lucifer's face. "And what would you have us do, Lady Seraphina?"
The hall fell silent, all awaiting her answer.
"Instead of crushing them under punishment," she said smoothly, "why not give them an incentive? Increase their access."
A few council members turned to her, frowning.
Lucifer tilted his head slightly. "Explain."
"Let them expand their trade," she continued. "Allow merchants and farmers to distribute their goods to other kingdoms and smaller cities instead of restricting them to palace-controlled routes. If they have more reach, their productivity will rise." She paused before adding, "A well-fed worker is a loyal one. A well-paid merchant does not rebel."
Silence followed.
Then, a deep chuckle rumbled from Lord Azrael. "She's right." He leaned forward, his crimson eyes gleaming. "If they earn more, they will work harder. And if they prosper, so does the kingdom." He turned to Lucifer. "Give them a stake in their own success, my Lord. It will ensure they remain obedient without the need for force."
A murmur of consideration ran through the council—until one of the Judges stood.
"This is dangerous." His voice was heavy with disapproval. "You are giving too much power to the merchants and farmers. If they are allowed to take their production directly to the markets, to distribute goods beyond our control, they will gain unplanned power."
Another Judge nodded in agreement. "Trade and supply have always been the palace's duty. If the lower classes are permitted to handle it themselves, what need will they have for our authority? Today, they ask for access. Tomorrow, they may demand independence."
A tense silence filled the chamber.
All eyes turned to Lucifer.
Lucifer remained silent for a long moment, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. The weight of expectation settled over the hall, each faction waiting for him to take a side.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"We will not hand over full control," he said, his voice smooth yet absolute. "However, we will allow two thousand farmers and merchants to trade beyond our borders—under strict supervision."
Murmurs spread through the chamber, a mix of relief and resistance.
Lucifer continued, "The Palace Regulators will oversee all operations. Only those who pass thorough investigation will be permitted to distribute their goods. This ensures that trade expands—but remains within our control." His golden eyes flickered toward the Judges. "The palace will still hold authority."
Lady Seraphina straightened. "My Lord, that is hardly different from what we—"
Lucifer's gaze snapped to her. "Enough." His voice was quiet, but it carried a finality that silenced the room.
Seraphina clenched her jaw but said nothing more.
From his seat, her father—one of the senior council members—glanced at her briefly before looking away, as if he had already accepted the outcome.
Lucifer leaned back, his decision made. "Let it be done."
_ _
"Ouch!" Evelyn cried out as Marianne dabbed at the fresh wound on her arm.
Marianne's hands trembled with anger as she worked. "I can't believe they did this to you," she hissed, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She cupped Evelyn's face gently. "We don't have to live like this. I have an idea—we can run away."
Evelyn's breath hitched. "No, Marianne." She shook her head. "Run where? To what? We were born as maids, and we will die as maids."
"No! I refuse!" Marianne's voice broke as she pulled away, pacing the dimly lit servant's quarters. "I'm tired, Evelyn! Every day we break our backs, we barely eat, and for the smallest mistake, we're beaten—like animals!" Her fists clenched. "Why? Why is life so unfair?"
Evelyn took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself as she reached for Marianne's hands. "We shouldn't dream too high," she whispered. "We don't even know where we come from… We have no past, no names beyond what they gave us. Lucifer has been our god, our ruler, our only certainty. There is nowhere else for us."
Marianne's lips trembled, but she didn't argue. A deep, aching silence filled the space between them before Evelyn pulled her into a tight embrace.
They clung to each other, their quiet sobs the only sound in the cold, unforgiving night.