He had not been in Cania for almost two thousand years. It might seem laughable for some devils, but, for a cambion, it was a significant feat to even survive this long. Not many of them did, and those who managed usually had to thank some higher power for their longevity. Raphael did not have any higher power to lend him time and power and did not need one. For two thousand years he had been his own devil, growing his own power and his own fortune bit by bit without anyone noticing. Or it looked like that at least. Of course, Raphael was not really that naïve to think that no one was paying attention to a stray devil who strived while defying the rules. He understood that his freedom had its limits, that he could never rise to true power without a leash put around his neck.

He hated it, of course, but he knew the rules of the game. And so, two thousands years later, when he felt the glass ceiling pressing on his horns like a small glacier, he finally decided to sell his freedom back, but for a far better price this time.

It did not take him long to choose the buyer. There were not really that many. He would never go back to his father, and Asmodeus was not really taking in lesser devils. He detested Baalzebul, the petty fool that he was, and Glazya was even worse. The lord of Stygia did not seen to have enough power to spare for his court, and the rulers of Phlegethos did not really have a court, they had too many devils in Abriymoch already. Mammon was simply embarrassing to watch. In the end, there were two options left, the lords of the First and the Second. Of those two, Dispater seemed to be a much better option: cold and calculating, he could have made a great patron to work for. Unfortunately, he had succumbed to his own adviser, Titivilus, and that little created had managed to turn his master almost paranoid. While Dispater could be a reasonable man, Titivius was afraid of any competition and eliminated anyone who showed even a bit of talent and ambition.

So, there was only one option left, and not the one Raphael would have chosen. Zariel, a former angel, mad as a hatter, consumed by her endless was with the demons. Raphael had no interest in fighting in any war, so he had taken some time before even approaching her. Eventually though he had discovered that Zariel’s court was effectively split into two parts: one consisted of her generals and the other – of her spies and the devils brought in by the Eight. So, in the end, it was the Eight he made contact with. Bell was his guide into Avernus, and a lucrative contract for almost a thousand souls sent to the Avernus mines was his entry fee.

He still had to deal with Zariel, of course. So eventually he presented himself at her court and caused a wave of giggles and amusement. He threw some words, made some stir, caught the attention of the lady of the keep. He made her displeased, but did not buckle, he dared to make a claim that made her laugh out loud. He repeated his claim and dared her. She got the bate. She lost the bet, and he walked out of the flying castle with the power of an Archdevil and a promise given through clenched teeth. Now all he needed was to return to Cania for the first time in two thousand years – and he would finally join the game for real.

He would be the first cambion to ever do that. The first half-breed called the Duke of Hells. It tasted delicious on his tongue. He could not wait to hear it pronounced by someone else.

That was how it was supposed to be, at least. But even while his plan was impeccable, even whole his father could not refuse to write a letter he wanted from him because a long-standing contract obliged him to, Raphael was a fool to think that Mephistopheles would not find a way to scorch his pride one last time. Of course he did. In the manner both ridiculous and humiliating.

Raphael almost snarled when he heard “Lady Antilia” so casually pronounced by the lord of Cania. He turned around to look at a young woman, and it took him a moment to recognize her. She was not the girl he remembered. She was… stunning. Breathing with power, shining with evil magic flowing around. Lady Antilia, the first cambion to ever get enough power to be called a Dutchess of Hell.

At that moment, Raphael felt so much hatred that he could see the woman’s enchanted robe stirring in alarm, the hems slightly simmering. She did not blink an eye, but he could see her struggling to keep a straight face. She was about to burst into laughter. A girl he had taken out of a cheap tavern a century or two ago. A child with a lute and a silly smile. A mere nuisance.

He did not say a word until he got his letter, and the audience was over. Mephistopheles had left the throne room, and everyone of importance had left with him. Only he and Antilia had remained. And a band of sorry things she was apparently trying to teach music, but Raphael did not count them as living creatures any more than that ugly piece of furniture with wings that was still snorting flames near the wall. There were two of them in the room, and it was time to talk.

“Lady Antilia.” He was not asking and was not really talking to her. He just rolled the title around on his moth, then spit with a sour expression on his face. “From a bard in Abriymoch to… what is it your post here if I may ask?”

He was trying to keep his words in that narrow corridor of icy politeness, doing his best not to go down the path of obscenity.