The wine was older than generations.

Gorath poured it with the careful reverence of someone who understood that some things gained value through survival alone.

The liquid was dark—not red, but a deep purple that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

"From the vineyards of Mor'thalas," Gorath said, offering Liam a glass carved from volcanic stone. "Before it fell. Before the third great purge. Before demons learned that beauty was a luxury we couldn't afford."

Liam accepted the glass but didn't drink.

His grey eyes studied the Arch-Demon with the patience of something that had learned to read between words.

They were in Gorath's private study, a room that felt more like a museum than a workspace.

Books lined every wall - except they weren't the martial treatises or tactical manuals one might expect from a warlord, but philosophy, poetry, histories written in languages that predated the current age.

Artifacts sat on shelves like sleeping memories.

A painting dominated one wall—a battlefield at sunset, rendered with such skill that Liam could almost hear the dying screams.

"You said this required context," Liam prompted.

"Everything requires context." Gorath settled into a chair that groaned under his weight.

"Especially truth. Especially the kind of truth that makes you wish you'd remained ignorant."

He took a long drink, his burning eyes distant.

"What do you know about Queen Lilith's ascension?"

Liam considered. He'd been briefed—poorly—when he first arrived. "She's the Queen. Sovereign of the Infernal Planes. Ruler of the Nine Houses."

"Titles," Gorath dismissed with a wave. "Words that mean nothing without understanding how they were earned." He leaned forward. "Do you know who ruled before her?"

"Her father, I assume."

"King Azareth Zevra. The Unbroken. The Last True Sovereign." Gorath's voice carried something that might have been respect or even grief.

"A demon who ruled for four centuries. Who commanded absolute loyalty from the Houses. Who kept our empire stable through strength, cunning, and the kind of political genius that made assassination attempts look like suicide."

He paused, studying his wine.

"He was also dying."

The word hung in the air the way smoke would.

"Demons don't age like humans," Gorath continued. "We don't wither. We don't fade. But we can be worn down. Centuries of war, of political maneuvering, of sustaining the weight of an empire built on conquest and sin..." He shook his head. "Even the strongest eventually crack."

"What killed him?"

"Everything. Nothing. The accumulation of four hundred years." Gorath's expression was grim. "His essence was depleting faster than it could regenerate. His body was breaking down at a fundamental level. The healers gave him five years. Maybe less."

Liam waited. There was more. There was always more.

"King Azareth had three children," Gorath said quietly. "Two sons and a daughter. The eldest, Mordren, was everything a heir should be. Strong. Brutal. Commanding. The kind of demon who could walk into a room and make lesser beings kneel through presence alone."

"He didn't become king."

"No." Gorath's smile was bitter. "Mordren died three weeks before Azareth's public announcement of succession. Killed in what was officially declared a training accident."

The implication landed heavy.

"Assassination," Liam said.

"Never proven. Never investigated thoroughly. The Nine Houses expressed their condolences and moved on." Gorath took another drink. "The second son, Kael'thos, disappeared two days later. Just vanished from the palace. His body was never found."

"And Lilith was all that remained."

"Yes." Gorath's burning eyes fixed on Liam. "A daughter who'd spent her life in her brothers' shadows. Who was politically astute but physically weaker. Who commanded respect through intelligence rather than raw power. Who was, by every traditional measure, the least qualified to rule an empire built on strength."

He stood, walking to the painting on the wall.

Up close, Liam could see the details—demons dying, their faces twisted in something like relief. As if death was preferable to continuing.

"King Azareth had a choice," Gorath said softly. "Name Lilith as heir and watch the Houses tear her apart. Or choose a successor from among the Houses themselves and watch the empire collapse into civil war."

"He chose his daughter."

"He chose the lesser catastrophe." Gorath traced a finger along the painting's frame.

"But he knew it wouldn't be enough. Lilith was brilliant—sharper than both her brothers combined—but brilliance doesn't command armies. Doesn't cow demons who've spent centuries building power. Doesn't survive assassination attempts from Houses who see weakness as opportunity."

"So what did he do?"

Gorath turned, and his expression was complicated. Sad and angry and impressed all at once.

"He made a deal. With every major House. Individually. Secretly."

His voice dropped.

"He promised them power, territory, concessions—whatever each House valued most—in exchange for supporting Lilith's ascension. He bankrupted the royal coffers. Ceded control of key resources. Gave away pieces of his own empire to ensure his daughter would inherit something instead of nothing."

Liam absorbed this. Started to understand the shape of what he was hearing.

"The Houses agreed?"

"Oh, they agreed. How could they refuse? They were being offered everything they'd fought for over centuries. And all they had to do was kneel to a weak queen who wouldn't have the strength to take it back."

Gorath's laugh was hollow.

"King Azareth died six months later. Officially from the same essence depletion that had been killing him. Unofficially..." He shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe grief for his dead sons. Maybe shame at what he'd been forced to do. Maybe just exhaustion from four centuries of holding back the tide."

"And Lilith inherited."

"Lilith inherited an empire that had been sold out from under her. An empire where every major House held power they shouldn't have. Where the royal authority had been gutted to ensure succession. Where she wore a crown that everyone knew was hollow."

He returned to his chair, movements heavy.

"She was Sixteen years old. Sixteen, and ruling an empire that wanted her dead. That resented her for surviving when her brothers—stronger, more deserving—had been killed. That saw her as the weak choice. The political compromise. The best of terrible options."

Liam thought about the woman he'd met. The contradiction of beauty and terror. The desperate urgency beneath regal composure.

"She survived," he said.

"She more than survived. She adapted." Gorath's respect was grudging but genuine.

"Lilith couldn't command through strength, so she commanded through fear. Through political maneuvering that made her father look crude. Through alliances and betrayals and calculations so complex that even I couldn't always follow them."

He gestured to his walls of books and artifacts.

"I've studied her for a decade. Watched her navigate impossible situations. Seen her turn disadvantages into weapons. She's survived seventeen assassination attempts that we know of. Probably dozens more that never got close enough to count. She's held together an empire that should have collapsed the moment she took the throne."

"But the Houses still hate her."

"Of course they hate her." Gorath's voice was flat. "She's the living reminder of their greed. Every concession they extorted from a dying king. Every piece of power they claimed while a young woman watched her father give away her inheritance to keep her alive."

He leaned forward.

"House Zarthus controls the western military districts. House Morwen owns the soul-forges and trade routes. House Kraz'gul commands loyalty from half the empire's veteran legions. Every major House gained territory, resources, power they shouldn't have—all purchased with the understanding that Lilith would be too weak to take it back."

"And they've spent ten years resenting her for surviving anyway."

"Exactly." Gorath's smile was sharp.

"They want her gone. Not because she's a bad queen—she's arguably the most effective sovereign we've had in two centuries—but because her existence is humiliating. Because she's proof that their power was bought, not earned. Because as long as she lives, they have to remember that they're vultures who fed on a dying king's corpse."

Silence fell heavy. Liam processed what he was hearing. Started to see Lilith differently.

Not the desperate queen making bad decisions.

But the daughter who'd inherited an empire that was already broken. Who'd spent ten years holding together something that wanted to fly apart.

Who'd survived through intelligence and ruthlessness because strength was never an option.

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