Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #3: The House of Regret]

Log Date: 9/24/12763

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret: Guest Parlor

Present, 11:14am SGT

When the door clicks open, my head jerks up. There, standing in the doorway on the other side of the parlor room, is Danya. Dressed in her black and red pinstripe suit, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, posture stiff and stern as usual.

“Lord Syntaritov is ready to see you now, Ms. Jaskolka.” she says, turning to gesture one arm out into the hall. “If you will follow me.”

My heart jumps; I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. I stand up from the padded chair at one of the round tables in the elegant, empty room I’d been waiting in. Brushing down the black slacks I’m wearing, I straighten out the creases in the black, collared, button-down shirt that makes up part of my uniform. I’ve curled and styled my hair, touched up my face a little, and when I check in the mirror, I look good, all prim and proper. It’s a version of myself I don’t recognize, and haven’t seen before — I’ve never thought of myself as much of a lady. I’m used to wearing jeans and a hoodie, not this formal stuff. But I look good in it.

Hopefully Raikaron will think the same.

Event Log: Rewind: five days earlier

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret

9/19/12763, time indeterminate

When I woke up, it was because everything hurt.

I’d gasped, remembering the pain of dozens of coilgun spikes embedded in my body, the fire of hell coursing through my veins, the fury of the damned burning through me. I’d reached to my throat, my chest, fingers hooked and curled, ready to dig into my skin and rip it open.

Then as quickly as it came, it went away again, leaving just a ghost of the feeling.

But I still lay there, panting, trying to catch my breath. It was only when I started to feel my heart slow down that I really noticed my surroundings.

I was laying in a king-sized bed on soft sheets, the headboard piled high with pillows, and a quilt thrown over me. Around me was a luxurious bedroom, the walls painted with reds and darker reds. Gold-trimmed curtains were drawn across one wall; the room was furnished with antique furniture, much of it glossy and dark. Hinged doors against the far wall opened up into what looked like a closet and a bathroom.

I didn’t know where the hell I was, or how I’d gotten there.

“It’s good to see you’re finally awake.”

The voice startled me, and I immediately sat bolt-upright, looking around the room in a panic. It took me a second to see it, but eventually, I spotted the tall, thin brunette that had taken Raikaron’s orders at the restaurant. She was sitting in a chair beside my bed, on the side opposite the curtains. A phone was in her hand, and she looked like she was in the midst of lazily scrolling through it.

“Where am I?” I’d whispered, clutching the quilt about myself when I realized that I was still wearing my tattered, bloody, burnt clothes that I’d had in the alley.

“You are in Sjelefengsel, in the House of Regret.” Danya had answered with a certain sort of crisp brusqueness. “Upon arriving in Sjelefengsel, you made it partway through the city, exited your demon form, and promptly collapsed from exhaustion. Lord Syntaritov had to carry you the rest of the way to the estate.”

About half of what she’d said went right past me. “I’m… where? Shelly-what?”

“Sjelefengsel.” Danya had said, locking her phone screen and tucking it away as she’d stood up to face me properly. “Also known as Hell.”

I’d looked around at that point. “This is… hell?” I had asked slowly. Aside from the crimson color palette, it hadn’t looked very much like hell to me.

“Were you expecting magma pits and legions of spade-tailed demons?” Danya had asked with a raised eyebrow.

I’d clutched the quilt tighter about myself as I’d looked back to her. The sarcasm in her voice hadn’t really invited a reply, so I didn’t say anything, not wanting to piss her off.

“You were, weren’t you.” she’d said, shaking her head. “They always do.” Walking around my bed, she’d moved to the curtain-covered wall, speaking as she went. “We do have torture fields, but you will find that Hell is more metropolitan than the common mortal portrayal. The punishment of the wicked is a vast industry that requires a massive workforce and sustains countless related industries and businesses. Demons need something to do when they’re off the clock from torturing sinners, so the pleasure and leisure industries have a strong foothold here. A vast logistics operation is needed for processing new arrivals, setting torture sentences, and general recordkeeping. The courts are also a hiring hotspot, since they need manpower to handle the constant flow of sentence appeals and clemency requests, and also because they handle the assignment of torture sentences. Legal representation is also in high demand, for those that can afford it. There is also a need for entrepreneurs that can invent and produce the next great torture method to be implemented in the punishment system. Infrastructure and construction are big industries because of the population and housing issues, though we employ the damned to do most of the building and hard labor, since most contract demons don’t want to get into that line of work.”

She’d parted the curtains at that point, showing a glass wall with a balcony outside. Through that window, I could see a vast valley between a couple mountain ranges in the distance, with the outline of a city skyline punctuating the dark grey sky, and hundreds of thousands of yellow lights glowing from those buildings in the far, far distance. Pulling the curtains to the end of their rods to give me the full view, Danya had turned to me at that point, folding her arms.

“So you see, little demon, that Hell is much more complex than nine circles and a few magma pits here and there.”

It was so much to take in that I didn’t really have the ability to process it. All I could do was keep staring at that distant skyline, and try to get my head around the idea that hell is actually a city. With jobs and an economy and housing problems and probably politics. And it wasn’t until I realized what Danya had called me that I was able to drag my eyes from the view through my window. “Are you… talking to me?” I’d asked hesitantly.

Danya had arched an eyebrow, something that would become a familiar disdainful expression in time. “I don’t see anyone else in this room.”

“But I’m not… I’m not a demon…” I’d protested faintly.

“You signed a contract with the Lord of Regret. It is bound in your soul, and it shows in your very skin.” Danya had said, nodding downwards. I’d followed her gaze down to my wrists, pulling back the tattered cuff of my jacket sleeve. There on my wrists were black wraparound tattoos, mimicking the intricate pattern of the orange manacles that had first bound me after I’d signed the contract in the alley beyond my apartment complex. When I looked up again, it was to see Danya tugging the collar of her buttoned shirt down slightly so that I could see the black tattoo of a thorny collar burned into her neck, while the manacle tattoos around her wrist were clearly visible from where her cuff had pulled down slightly. “All who serve in this House are bound to the Lord of Regret. When you sign away your soul in a contract, you become a demon, a servant of one of the Lords of hell. You are just the latest addition to our Lord’s collection, little demon.”

I could feel my voice stick in my throat, a rising sense of panic clawing up within me as my hands went to my neck. Looking around, I threw the quilt off and scrambled off the bed, staggering to the mirror on the far wall. Though all my wounds had healed, my clothes were tattered and stained, my hair matted with blood at the tips. And there, around my neck, was an elegant black tattoo that mimicked a collar woven of thorny vines, much like the one imprinted on Danya’s skin.

I’d let out a strangled little sound, scratching at the mark like I could rub it away, but it did nothing but redden the skin that wasn’t blackened by the mark. My voice cracked with a wordless sound, and I started rubbing at the marks on my wrists as if I could smear them off or wash them away. A wail started to morph from my mouth as I realized the marks would not go away, and Danya came over to grab my wrists and hold them still before I could start clawing at the manacle tattoos.

“That’s enough.” she’d said sternly. “I already told you the contract was blazoned on your soul. Removing the exterior marks will not get rid of it. You signed a contract, and you are now a servant of the House of Regret; you may not like it, but this is the cost of saving your life and evading justice.”

I’d tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t; a long, broken wail fought its way free from me as I’d collapsed to my knees, tears welling up in my eyes as my hands hung limp from where Danya was holding my wrists. “I never wanted this!” I had sobbed as Danya let go of my wrists, so I could fold my arms in against my chest to cling to the tatters of my old clothes. “Please, let me go… I just want to go back to my old life…”

“That is not my choice to make.” Danya had said. There was a certain frosty edge to her voice; a barely restrained impatience that seemed to imply that this was not her first time introducing a new demon to hell. “If you wish to go back, you will need to take that up with your Lord. But what I will say right now is that even on the unlikely chance that he chooses to release you from your contract a mere day after you’ve signed it, what you will return to will not be your old life. You will return to a world where you will be hunted and thrown in prison until you rot and die, and if you survive your sentence, you will leave prison withered and frail, decades removed from the world you knew, with no skills, no future, and a society turned against you. Is that really what you want to go back to?”

“I’m imprisoned now!” I’d shouted at her, shoving my hands at her so she could see my manacle tattoos. “I’d rather die than be a slave to some smug asshole in a vest and a tie!”

“Would you really?” Danya had asked, arching one of her narrow, austere eyebrows.

I had felt myself falter at that point, trying to hold her skeptical gaze, but ultimately unable to. I’d pulled my hands back to my chest, tilting my head down and trying to hold in my sobs, not wanting to admit that I’d rather live in captivity than die free. Ashamed that I didn’t have the reckless courage to do the latter.

“These transitions are never easy.” Danya had stated over the muffled sound of my crying. “There are very few people that are in Sjelefengsel of their own accord; very few people that enjoy the employ of hell because they desire it. Most people in here have either been sent here for their mortal crimes; born here to those that are native to the realm; or been pulled here by the contracts they have made with those that reside here. You are just one of many uncounted souls that is here against their will, myself included. None of us have a say in our residency here. I would advise that you become accustomed to that truth, since it is a fact of your life now.”

“Why do you have to be so cruel?” I’d hiccuped between gasped breaths, wiping away my tears with dirty hands. “I didn’t ask for any of this…”

“Cruel?” Danya had repeated, stepping around me. “You are bound in service to one of the most merciful of Sjelefengsel’s Lords. There are many demons under contract that would abase themselves and grovel for the chance to exchange places with you. Consider yourself lucky that you did not catch the eye of the Lord of Envy, or the Lord of Wrath, or the Lord of Rage. With your situation, all three of them would’ve easily had their way with you.”

“He manipulated me into a position where I had no choice but to sign that contract!” I snap at her as she turns on the lights in the bathroom.

“Lord Syntaritov manipulated your emotions and thoughts, that much is unquestionable.” Danya agrees, walking past me again on her way to the closet. “But he had nothing to do with your actions. That much I know is true; he is a creature of elegance and finesse, and had he forced you to kill that girl, it would’ve been done with a certain artistic flair, not beating her into a bloody pulp with a barbed-wire bat. That decision, and those actions, little demon, were entirely yours and no one else’s.”

I’d hunched my shoulders, shrinking at the words and the truth in them. It hurt to hear it, to be reminded that despite Raikaron’s involvement, the choices I had made were my own choices — my stubbornness, my insistence on owning my crime and putting my unique stamp on it, had left no doubt as to who took the initiative for the murder that night.

Danya, meanwhile, finished turning on the lights in the closet, and turned to face me again. “I know you are distressed. But raging against your circumstances accomplishes nothing when the reason you got here was through your own actions. You are a citizen of Sjelefengsel now, a servant of the House of Regret, an avenger for Lord Syntaritov. Moreover, you are alive, with some modicum of freedom you would not have had, if you had you remained on Coreolis. If you cannot be grateful for the mercy that was extended to you, you can at least refrain from complaining about it. You will see, in time, that the position you enjoy is uniquely privileged above many others.”

I wanted to say something at that moment. To reject everything she was telling me, to throw it away. But I couldn’t find the words, because she wasn’t wrong, and I had no way to contradict her.

I had chosen this.

“Now, I would encourage you to get a shower and get cleaned up.” Danya says, pulling out her phone again and checking her messages. “Lord Syntaritov requested a full and varied wardrobe for you, so I took your measurements yesterday and spent much of the day shopping for appropriate clothes down in the city. You have a few outfits for semi-formal occasions; three sets of nightclothes, or ‘pajamas’, as you mortals so fondly refer to them; two casual sets; a full week of uniforms to be worn while you are on the estate, and a few work outfits for when you leave Sjelefengsel on errands for your Lord. There is also a phone readied for your use in your new role; you will find it in the drawer of your bedside table.” Tucking her phone away again, she steps around me on her way to the door. “Once you have gotten cleaned up and into one of your uniforms, make your way to the commons room. I will come collect you for a tour of the grounds.”

I’d wiped the back of my hand across my eyes as the door opened, and clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the large bedroom. I’d clutched my shoulders, my fingers hooked through the holes in my tattered clothes, feeling wretched and abandoned. I’d raised my gaze to the glass wall that made up one side of my room, and the distant city skyline down in the barren valley.

And in that moment, I hated that Raikaron Syntaritov had ever stepped into my life.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret: Hallway

Present, 11:17am SGT

“This will be your first official meeting with him in your capacity as an avenger.” Danya says as she strides down the hall, her long legs carrying her impossibly far and leaving me scrambling to keep up. “Remember to address him as ‘my Lord’; never use his first name unless he gives you permission to do so, and only use his last name in parting. Do not speak unless you are spoken to, or invited to do so. Remain focused when he is speaking to you or looking at you; do not let your gaze wander unless his back is turned, or he is focused on something else.”

“What the hell is this? What are all these rules for? What are we, second-class citizens here?” I demand, despite how nervous I’m feeling.

Danya stops and turns, looking at me. “Yes.” she says flatly. “This is hell. What did you expect, a society of equals? Sjelefengsel is governed by a hierarchical structure; the powerful exert dominion over the weak, and determine the terms of engagement. What I am telling you is how you should behave with every Lord of Sjelefengsel, not just Lord Syntaritov. I tell you these things because they will protect you and keep you from inviting the wrath of demons that are many times more powerful than you are.”

“What, they’ll punish me just for having an opinion?” I demand.

I can tell from Danya’s expression, the way she folds her arms behind her back and how she tilts chin up, that my questions are starting to chip away at her patience. “Yes, Ms. Jaskolka.” she says, adopting a false cheeriness. “You are in hell. Kindness and tolerance are not our primary export here. Our culture is composed of such charming qualities as senseless violence, arbitrary malice, cruelty for the sake of cruelty, and flagrant abuses of power that would be unacceptable in most civil societies. In order to better foster an atmosphere that is conducive to the punishment of sinners, we embrace the worst impulses of mortal existence, that we may better render them on the damned. Inflicting pain and suffering for the smallest reason, or even no reason at all, is one of the oldest and most cherished traditions of Sjelefengsel, and many other hells.”

She finishes by offering a charming smile, almost like a tour guide extolling the best qualities of their locale. My fingers curl into fists; I want to tell her how terrible and awful that is, but I know that’s the point. Hell isn’t supposed to be a good place. Bad things happen here, but I’m not used to a place where bad things are part of everyday life. Where people relish in them, in making others suffer, and others simply shrug because that is how things are.

“And what if I don’t follow the rules?” I demand.

Danya’s mouth curls into a little smile. “Ultimately, they are only suggestions. Your soul does not belong to me; it belongs to Lord Syntaritov. I cannot force you to do anything.” She turns away once more, starting down the soft-lit hall as she speaks over her shoulder. “If you would like to find out what happens when you disobey your Lord, by all means, defy and disrespect him. A masochistic streak gets a lot of mileage here in Sjelefengsel.”

My fingers clench a little tighter, my nails digging into my palms. After a moment, I start half-running after her to catch up.

I was starting to look forward to this meeting less and less.

Event Log: Rewind: five days earlier

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret

9/19/12763, time indeterminate

After I’d gotten dressed, I’d gone to find the commons room, as Danya had requested, and promptly got lost. This place, this ‘House of Regret’, had a lot of rooms. A lot of floors. And all of it with rich red carpets, pale yellow lights, old-fashioned paintings of demons, black granite fireplaces, intricate woodworked banisters, black-iron chandeliers… you get the idea. Really pretentious, really old, most of it austere and unwelcoming. It didn’t seem like the sort of place I could think of as home.

I never ended up finding the commons room, partially because I couldn’t tell which rooms were meant for what. Some rooms were obviously bedrooms; I found a kitchen, and bathrooms, but many of the other rooms were just big rooms with tables and chairs and fireplaces and couches. The sort of thing you’d expect to be used as a living room, except I didn’t see anyone else as I wandered around. At some point, after realizing I was thoroughly lost, I tried to trace back my steps to the room I’d woken up in, but I just ended up more lost.

When I finally accepted that I couldn’t find my way to where I was going, I’d settled in a room that seemed like it could be the commons room. It was big and long, with a grand fireplace in one of the walls, and a regiment of couches arranged in a U-shape in front of it. The wall opposite the fireplace had towering windows that looked out across what appeared to be the House’s grounds, each one trimmed with lavish red drapes; I had gone to one, gazing through the glass to see that the grounds were quite extensive. A driveway curved through a lawn of fall-yellow grass, and hunched, twisted trees with low, broad canopies dotted the grounds here and there. On the edges, I could see a few outlying buildings adjacent to the House; they were smaller, and looked like sheds, garages, storage areas, and secondary housing. Overall, the entire estate appeared to be built on a gentle hill that sat some elevation above the valley that it looked over.

“Well that’s unusual. Rookies usually have to serve for a few years before they’re allowed to step foot in the House.”

The voice startled me, and I’d twisted around to see a tall, brown-haired man standing at one of the entrances to the room. Or rather, leaning against the doorway, arms folded, sizing me up with yellow eyes. He was wearing a battered duster, scorched and worn; an absolutely massive sword was hung on his back, nearly tall as the man himself. Glancing down, I could see his boots had stains of them, some old and dark, others… fresher. Damp.

“You’re a pretty little thing. Kinda surprised. He usually goes after the outcasts and the rejects.” He’d pushed off the doorway, his boots echoing on the hardwood floor as he slowly sauntered over to me. “They call it the House of Regret, but it’s been more like the House of Strays ever since he took over. At least that’s the word I’ve heard from other Lords that have been around for longer than he has.”

“I-I’m sorry, who are you?” I’d stuttered.

“Harro. Rai’s best hound.” he’d said, stopping just short of me. “I’ve been working for him for about a decade or so. And based on your uniform…” He’d reached out at that point, fingering one of the buttons on my shirt. “…you’re the newest addition to his collection.”

“I’m not property.” I had replied sharply, taking a step away from him. I’d straightened my uniform at that point; it was a set of black pants, and black, buttondown shirt, tucked into the belt at the waist. Golden buttons at the cuff and the collar, and slick black shoes. “I need to know where the commons room is. I was supposed to meet Danya there so she could show me around the House.”

“Danya.” Harro had said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure she’s made you feel real welcome. Forget about her; I can give you a tour and do it without trampling your ego in the process.” With that, he’d held a hand out to me, offering a smile as he did so.

It was the first real smile anyone had given me since I arrived here; the first sign of friendliness that I had seen. Something in me yearned towards that, missed it, and without thinking, I’d reached up to take his hand.

“Harro!”

I’d jerked my hand back at the sharp voice, both of us turning to see Danya at the other door, her face set in a fierce scowl as stalked across the room, heels clicking against the hardwood. “You know damn well you are forbidden from touching Lord Syntaritov’s newest acquisition, and the Lord himself told you as much in no uncertain terms. Are you wanting to be turned inside out and thrown into a magma pit for an hour or two?”

Harro had held both of his hands up, giving her an innocent look. “I didn’t touch her. And nobody said I wasn’t allowed to talk to her.”

“You are to stay away from her.” Danya had said as she arrived, putting an arm around me and guiding me away. “Lord Syntaritov does not want you corrupting this one. He does not ask as much as other Lords would, so what little he does ask, we ought to respect. If I catch you trifling with her, I will tell Lord Syntaritov, and let him deal with you.”

“Tell him what you like. I was just being hospitable.” Harro had said, apparently unruffled by Danya’s irritated tone. As Danya piloted me out of the room, I’d looked back over my shoulder; Harro, catching sight of it, had given me a wink and a smile as he tucked his hands back in the pockets of his duster.

“If you see that demon, you are to stay away from him, you understand?” Danya had said as she’d steered me down the hall.

“But— why?” I’d asked, confused.

“Because he is trouble. To him, you are nothing but another notch in his belt, no matter how friendly he may seem on the surface.” Danya had said, letting go of me once I’d started walking on my own. “Harro Garkia is one of Lord Syntaritov’s best hounds precisely because he is capable of considerable cruelty and disloyalty.”

“Wait, but… if he’s disloyal, why does Raikaron rely on him?” I had asked, still confused. “If he’s Raikaron’s best hound, that means Harro is loyal to him, right?”

“No.” Danya had answered, turning a corner. “It means Harro belongs to Lord Syntaritov, body and soul. Just like me, and just like you. Harro takes orders and enforces Lord Syntaritov’s will not out of loyalty, but because he is a damned soul that was placed into Lord Syntaritov’s jurisdiction. The only thing Harro cares about is speeding the end of his sentence, and if he can use you to make that happen, he will. If he makes advances towards you, shut him down. Do not entertain him, or you will regret it.”

“Is that like an order, or…?” I had asked, struggling to keep up with Danya’s long-legged stride.

“It is a strongly worded suggestion.” Danya had answered, slowing as we’d come to what looked like a tiled entry hall with a pair of massive double doors. “This is the House of Regret, after all, and if you would like to do something which you will eventually regret, you must have the freedom to do so. But do not say I did not warn you.”

I’d nodded at that, unsure of what to say. I wasn’t sure I believed Danya; she seemed like the type to believe the worst of everyone. And besides, there was nothing about Harro that had immediately screamed ‘untrustworthy’. And he had been the first friendly face I had seen since I woke up here, so I didn’t know what to think after what Danya had said.

“Now.” Danya had said, squaring her shoulders as she reached out to button the collar of my shirt, despite the protesting sound I’d made. “The reason your uniform’s collar covers your neck is to hide your contract mark while you are in the House. The same with the cuffs. We hide these when you are on the estate because we already know who you belong to. When you are off the estate, you may roll up your sleeves and unbutton, or fold down your collar, so that it is clear to everyone who you belong to.”

“I’m not property!” I’d growled at her, reaching up to slap her hands away. “Stop saying I ‘belong’ to Raikaron. I work for him. He doesn’t own me.”

Danya had raised an eyebrow at that, straightening up and folding her hands together. For the first time, I saw something approaching pity in her dark blue eyes. “I wish, sometimes, that I could go back to being as naïve as you are right now.” she’d said. “Are you ready for your tour now?”

I’d reached up to the collar of my shirt, tempted to unbutton it because it felt tight and uncomfortable, but I had hesitated when I’d heard her words. And when I thought about it, I realized I didn’t want to see that mark more than I had to. So I’d let my hand drop, and gave a second look to the foyer we were standing in.

“Yes, I’m ready now.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret: Hallway

Present, 11:21am SGT

“Any last questions?”

Standing in front of the great wooden door that led to Raikaron’s study, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to say yes or no. On one hand, I wanted to make sure this meeting went as well as it could go; on the other hand, I didn’t want Danya to start giving me more lectures about how I should stand and look and speak while I was in Raikaron’s presence. After a moment, I shook my head.

“Very well. Remember what I’ve told you.” Danya says, stepping forward to take hold of the doorknob and twist it open. Pushing the great door open, she steps in ahead of me, announcing herself as she goes. “Good afternoon, Lord Syntaritov. Jayta is here, as you requested.”

With that, she steps to the side, and I step in past her. The room beyond the door is large and spacious; the walls on the other side are made of floor-to-ceiling windows, and a large desk sits in front of them, carved out of rich, dark wood. There’s a fireplace off to one side, with a set of chairs and a couch arranged near it, and a coffee table. Bookshelves are built into the opposite wall, but they’re not completely full; there are gaps left between the books, with little glass cases or artifacts sitting in those gaps. I’m not sure how you would reach the higher shelves, since there’s no ladder, and they’re more than double my height.

Stepping carefully onto the room, my shoes sinking into the thick carpet, I focus on the familiar face sitting in the swiveling chair behind the desk. There’s a crimson holoscreen projected up to one side over the desk, but at Danya’s voice, Raikaron looks up, eyebrows raised. His tie’s been loosened around his neck, so he can unbutton his collar; his cuffs are likewise unbuttoned, the sleeves having drifted down his forearms and baring his wrists, which have elegant manacle marks of their own.

“Ah. Yes. I did send for her, didn’t I?” he says, reaching over and closing down the crimson holoscreen with the flick of a hand. “Thank you, Danya. You are excused.”

Danya nods, stepping back out and pulling the door closed with her. As the door clicks shut behind me, Raikaron gives a slight smile. “Well, Jay. How are you liking Sjelefengsel so far?”

After everything that Danya’s told me, I know I should try to say something polite, but I can’t bring myself to do it. “I hate it.” I blurt out. “It’s a terrible place.”

That prompts a chuckle from him. “Well, it is hell.” he says, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his chair. “Do you at least like your room? I know the estate can be… stiff and unaccommodating, but I’d been hoping you’d at least enjoy your room.”

“My room is okay.” I admit quietly. “It feels a little too big at night.”

“I can make it smaller, if that would be more comfortable for you.” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “Would you mind coming a little closer? There’s no sense in us talking across the room like this. I could barely hear your last answer.”

“Sorry.” I say quickly, crossing the large study until I’m about five feet from his desk. “And I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather be released from my contract.”

“Mmm.” he says, unlacing his hands as he tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek against his curled fingers. “Danya said you had raised this earlier. She already explained to you the consequences of being released from your contract; I can reiterate them once more, but nothing will have changed. Besides, you haven’t even given your new life a try yet. It’d be a shame to throw in the towel before you’d even started.”

“I don’t think I can be what you want me to be.” I say, shifting uneasily. “If you could just drop me off on some other world, I can find my way from there. I’ll make it work.”

He makes another soft humming sound. “I have my doubts about that. But even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t arrange that. You have a debt to pay, little flower, and I have a vested interest in seeing you reach your full potential. I believe there’s a lot you could blossom into, with a little guidance and encouragement.”

My fingers start curling into fists again. “Well, I don’t want to be what you want me to be. I want to be a normal person, living a normal life, not some hitman for a hell-lord, living in some fancy house with stupid rules and uncomfortable uniforms. Send me back to… whatever planet is closest to wherever this is that also isn’t Coreolis.”

He arches one of his crimson eyebrows, responding with a soft, lazy “No.”

I brace my knuckles against his desk as I lean forward over it. “I demand you let me go.”

“Do you now?” he asks, still in a velvet tone. “And what will you do if I don’t?”

“I’ll…” I can feel my face starting to heat up as I realize that I hadn’t planned for what would happen if I didn’t get my way. “I’ll leave this place and find a way out of here on my own.” Pushing off the desk, I start to stalk back towards the door of the study.

“No, I don’t think you will.” The words have that certain soft certainty to them, a finality which brooks no disagreement. My pace starts to slow, not of my own accord; I try to move faster, but I can’t make my stride lengthen, or my feet move faster. Instead, my steps get smaller and smaller until I’ve stopped in the middle of the room. I try to start walking again, only to find that my legs won’t move, at least in the direction I want to. But when I try to turn around, I find that I can easily move so I can turn to look back at Raikaron, who’s stood up and is taking his time buttoning his crimson vest.

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper.

“Making a point.” he says as he buttons his cuffs at a leisurely pace. “You signed a contract, Jayta. If I saved your life, kept you from prosecution and prison, and gave you access to the commensurate privileges of hell, you would forfeit your soul to me and serve as an avenger under my command. That covenant was writ in the ancient language of the universe, and you signed it in blood. I have upheld, and continue to uphold, my end of the arrangement, and so long as I continue to do so, your soul belongs to me.” Finishing buttoning his cuffs, he buttons his collar, and tightens his tie back up. “And with it, your free will and autonomy. You are mine, body and soul.”

“I don’t belong to you.” I whisper.

“No, you don’t, do you.” he says, stepping out from around his desk. “Because in a civil, decent society, that would be slavery. In a civil, decent society, people would not do something so demonstrably evil to each other. In a civil, decent society, this sort of dominion over another sapient creature would not be tolerated. It would be illegal, outlawed, unacceptable in the eyes of decency and society.” He stops just short of me, arms folded behind his back. “Do you think Sjelefengsel is a civil, decent society, Jayta?”

“I don’t belong to you.” I repeat, but it’s weak with desperation.

“No, you don’t, do you.” is his softly repeated answer. But both of us have repeated these phrases, knowing the truth is exactly the opposite.

My soul no longer belongs to me.

Lifting a hand, he motions to the tall mirror set into the wall between the bookshelves, a wordless invitation. I turn and walk towards it, stopping in front of my reflection; a scrawny little 5’5 blonde in a black uniform with gold trim. Teary grey eyes, fighting against the grief and regret of the choices that got me to where I am now.

“I’ll teach this lesson once, and gently, in hopes that I never have to teach it to you again.” Raikaron says from where he’s standing. My arms start to rise, not of my own accord, as he speaks. “The control I can exert over the souls I own is absolute. It is not like those portrayals you see in the mortal realms; I have no need of verbal commands or a certain proximity. I merely need to think of the soul, to will it to act, and it will do as I have willed.”

The tears have started to slide down my cheek, but I’m unable to wipe them away because my fingers are unbuttoning my collar, moving as if someone else was controlling them. I’m afraid they’re going to start unbuttoning the rest of my shirt, but they only unbutton the collar; after that, they start unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves.

“Some Lords use this overmuch. Their servants become little more than extensions of them, hollow shells that have had another’s will imposed on them with such frequency that they lose their own will, and stop acting of their own accord.” Raikaron goes on. “I am not one of those. I will only exert dominion when I find it absolutely necessary; at all other times, you are your own to control. I believe that my servants ought to have as much freedom as possible, which is good for both them and me. All I ask in return for this light touch is that when I ask you to do something, you do it because you can trust that it is important to me — and because I have asked you to. Service out of loyalty, not out of obligation.”

My hands, still moving of their own accord, have pulled back the cuffs of my sleeves to reveal the manacle tattoos around my wrists. One of those hands is currently hooked in the collar of my shirt, having pulled it down enough so that the thorny vines burned onto my neck are visible. A reminder that I am bound, captive, a servant to the will of someone other than myself.

“Who is your Lord?” Raikaron asks quietly.

It takes a few tries for me to answer. I can hardly breathe; the lump in my throat feels like a boulder. Something in me wants to lash out, to defy him, to yell and scream that he doesn’t own me, that he can’t tell me what to do. That he can’t control me.

But he does own me, and he can control me, and there’s no telling what he’ll do if I try to defy him or push his buttons.

“I hate you.” I eventually manage to gasp past the lump in my throat, glaring at the mirror where I can see him still standing in the middle of the room.

“They usually do.” he replies calmly. “Who is your Lord?”

I struggle with it. I grit my teeth, seething at the words that I know I have to speak, but that I will hate hearing. I want, so badly, to tell him to go die in a hole somewhere, to tell him that I’ll never do what he tells me to do. I want to tell him that I’d happily spend a hundred years in prison for the murder I committed rather than spend a single day bound to him. I want to tell him to do it, to send me back to Coreolis to fend for myself.

But I don’t say any of those things, because they’re not true, and I know they’re not true, and he probably also knows they’re not true. I know that, if given the chance to go back to Coreolis or stay here, I would choose here, because if I go back to Coreolis, my life is over. At least here, I’m free, so long as I do what Raikaron asks me to do, when he asks me to do it.

“Who is your Lord, Jayta?” he asks a third time.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth as I choke the words out.

“You are.”

It’s quiet. My words fully fade into silence before Raikaron speaks again. “I’m glad that you understand that. You are dismissed for now.”

I start to turn the moment I hear the word ‘dismissed’, and by the time he’s finished speaking, I’m already running for the door. Yanking it open, I dash out into the hall and slam the door shut behind me; leaning back against it, I clamp my hands over my mouth to hold in the broken wail fighting its way out of me as I slide down to the floor. Tears streak down my cheeks as I squeeze my eyes shut again, my shoulders hitching and hunching with silent sobs.

I hate this place.

Event Log: Rewind: five days earlier

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret

9/19/12763, time indeterminate

“…and finally, this is the library.”

I’d walked through the last door with a tired step. Despite Danya naming each room as we went through them, there were so many that they had all blurred together. There were multiple of some types of rooms, and some rooms that were used for things and functions so similar to each other that they were essentially the same thing, yet ‘different’ in Danya’s eyes due to the slight subtleties in their purposes. I was trying to pay attention, I really was, but it was hard. I doubted that I would remember everything she showed me, and the only thing I’d really gotten out of the whole tour was that I now knew what floor my room was on, so I could find my way back to it.

“Ms. Jaskolka. Are you still with us, or has your mind wandered into the fields of purgatory?”

I’d pulled a sharp breath, blinking as the room around me came into focus, along with Danya’s disapproving expression. We were in a large, multistory room, filled with towering, circular bookshelves that had gaps between them, each gap leading into the next layer, like…

“It’s a labyrinth.” I’d said, suddenly paying more attention. “A library… labyrinth. That’s incredible!”

“I’m glad we found something which finally seems to have piqued your interest.” Danya remarked drily, striding into the next layer of the library. “Yes, the library was personally designed by Lord Syntaritov. He has a… unique gift for creative punishments.”

“Wait, what?” I’d asked as I’d followed Danya around one of the corners. “What do you mean, punishment? I’d love exploring a place like this!”

“I’m sure you would. However, the design of this library, while it often delights visitors, is meant for someone else entirely: our resident librarian.” Danya had answered as she led the way through the labyrinth. “You will find that many of those that serve within the House of Regret are damned souls filling out the sentences handed down to them by the court. Our librarian is one of those; he never leaves this room, for he cannot. Every time he learns the maze and gets near to the exit, the bookshelves shift and adjust, and the maze reforms into an entirely new configuration.”

“Isn’t that inconvenient for everyone else?” I’d asked, looking up at how the bookshelves towered high above. “Doesn’t that mean you all have to learn the maze all over again too?”

“We never do. The labyrinth was designed with visitors in mind; it senses intent, and can guide visitors to what they’re looking for.” Danya had explained, motioning downwards, where a thick orange band ran along the floor, illuminating the path that Danya was walking along. “Our librarian cannot see this proverbial ball of string, however. And if he tries to follow a visitor out, the maze will cut him off from them.”

“Oh.” I’d said softly, not sure what to say to that. I’d been charmed at first by this room, but the more I heard about it, the less appealing it became. “What did he do to deserve this kind of punishment?”

“That is not for me to say.” Danya had replied, casting an eye over her shoulder. “As a rule, I do not disclose the struggles of other demons. If you wish to know, you may ask him directly, but I will warn you that demons are sometimes sensitive about the things that got them where they are now. Sometimes it’s a point of shame, of pain, of regret, that they do not enjoy revisiting. In many cases, you first have to earn their trust before they will open up to you and discuss those things. Asking about it out of the blue, and without getting to know the demon first, can get you in trouble. It’s considered a very personal, intimate thing to ask about.”

“Oh.” I’d said again. “Okay.” There really wasn’t much else to say about that; it made sense, and it seemed that Danya meant it as a warning. Mind your own business and all that.

“Consider the question in reverse. How would you feel if a stranger asked what landed you here in Sjelefengsel?” Danya had asked. “I may be wrong, but you do not seem like you would be entirely comfortable discussing the murder that led to your contract with our Lord.”

“No. Not really.” I’d mumbled.

“As I suspected.” Danya had said as she turned the final corner into what’s a large, circular space in the center of the labyrinth, with a few tables and couches within. Books are scattered across the tables, and sitting in one of the chairs is what looks like a serval Halfie, dressed in a uniform similar to mine, and a pair of half-moon spectacles mounted on his muzzle. His ears flicked and twisted, tilting in our direction before his head followed, tawny eyes fixed on us.

“Ms. Danya.” he said in a pleasant, smooth voice, setting aside a fountain pen and taking the spectacles off his muzzle. “To what do I owe the pleasure? A new addition to our Lord’s household?”

“Yes, Mek. This is Jayta Jaskolka, who will be training to become an avenger for our Lord.” Danya had said, placing a hand on my back and pushing me forward. “Jayta, this is Mek, our resident librarian. If you should need help with research, or learning certain profane arts, he is the one to which you can look for assistance.”

“Hmm. A little small for an avenger, don’t you think?” Mek had said, placing his pawhands on the table and pushing himself up out of his chair. “Lord Syntaritov always makes the most interesting decisions.”

I looked back at Danya, feeling uncertain. “Are avengers usually bigger than me?”

“Size has no intrinsic value.” Danya had answered, arms folded behind her back once more. “Being on the small side has no bearing on her capabilities. Believe me, she can be quite brutal when properly motivated.”

“Is that so?” Mek had said as he came around the table and leaned down a little to examine me. “Well, who am I to say otherwise. Lord Syntaritov has his reasons, and I have learned to trust his intuition. Not that I get to see the results of those choices outside of this prison.” Straightening up, he’d offered a pawhand to me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jaskolka. Welcome to the House of Regret.”

I’d looked back at Danya, unsure whether I should shake his hand after the way she’d warned me away from Harro. She’d caught my look, and gave me a permissive nod. “He is not like Harro.” she’d said. “Mek’s sentence is time-locked, so it cannot be shortened by how he interacts with others that visit him.”

“Ah. I see you’ve met our unfortunate lead man already.” Mek remarked. “The way he is isn’t really his fault, Danya.”

“That is a matter of opinion.” Danya had responded a little tartly. “But outside of opinions, Lord Syntaritov has made it clear that he does not want Jayta to become part of Harro’s sentence. He does not want Mr. Garkia corrupting her.”

“Mm. Is that so? Very interesting.” Mek remarked neutrally, but I could see some measure of amusement in his tawny eyes, and in how his whiskers twitched. He’d turned his attention back to me at that point, offering his pawhand again. “At any rate, it’s good to meet you, Ms. Jaskolka. I hope you will enjoy your stay in the House of Regret. Lord Syntaritov is good to us here, as much as he can be — his position requires that he invent punishments for damned souls that are given into his keeping, of which I am one.”

I’d reached up and taken his hand to shake it — his fingers were covered in fur, soft and warm, and his palm and fingertips were padded. It was an odd feeling; I’d shaken hands with Halfies before, but it’d been a while, and I hadn’t really been friends with any on Coreolis. As I’d done so, I also noticed his digitigrade legs, hinged similar to the hindlegs of a four-legged animal, with his uniform customized to account. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mek—” I’d started to reply, before Danya’s phone had trilled.

“That appears to be Lord Syntaritov.” Danya had said, pulling out her phone. “Mek, I need to take this. It was good seeing you. Jayta, come along.”

“Of course.” Mek had said, inclining his head towards Danya as she’d turned and started back the way we came. “Have a good day, Jayta.”

I had smiled back at him, and hurried to catch up with Danya as she disappeared back into the labyrinth, catching snatches of the conversation she was having. “…showed her the House, will probably do the grounds next… yes, I understand. I’ll see about getting the ball rolling on registration and residency papers… we’ll need to visit the city to get that sorted out; I can plan a trip— oh, you’ll take care of it? Well, if you insist…”

This went on for most of the walk back through the labyrinth, following the glowing line of orange on the floor. When Danya ended the call and put her phone away, I spoke up, my mind still on the librarian trapped in the labyrinth. “He doesn’t seem like he should be here.”

“Pardon?” Danya had said, looking over her shoulder at me, then gazing back the way we’d come. “Oh, you’re referring to Mek.”

“Yeah. He seems like a nice person.” I’d said.

“He is.” Danya had agreed. “I hear he was not always so. But that is the point of hell, and the sentences given to the damned. Most people take the view that hell is exclusively for punishment and torment, but Lord Syntaritov takes the view that if a punishment is designed correctly, it also has the effect of changing an individual. In his philosophy, a sentence should cause a sinner to reflect on what they have done, and feel the pain they have inflicted on others. Rather than suffering simply for the sake of suffering, our Lord believes that suffering should have a purpose.”

“So Mek’s punishment made him a better person?” I’d asked as we exited the library labyrinth.

“I would not say it’s as simple as that.” Danya had replied as she closed the door after me. “Despite the fact that you are in hell, things are not quite so black and white. There is nuance in things here, just as there is in the mortal plane.”

“It doesn’t seem fair for him to be locked up in there.”

“You make that judgement in the moment, on what you know of him right now.” Danya had pointed out. “But you don’t know who he was and what he did before he died and was judged to Sjelefengsel. Trust me, Jayta — every damned soul that you see here is here for a reason, no matter how kind they may seem. They deserve to be here, suffering for what they did during their mortal tenure.”

“And what about people like me? People that signed contracts?” I’d asked.

“People like you and me are here because we chose to be here.” Danya had answered. “We wanted something so badly that we signed away our souls and our freedom for it. Gave away that which is most precious above all other things. In a way, we also deserve to be here for giving up something so sacred.”

“You know, I didn’t believe in heaven and hell.” I’d called after her as she started back down the hall. “I wanted to be a scientist when I graduated from college. I didn’t believe in gods and demons, the sanctity of religion and other bullshit like that.”

She’d paused at that, looking over her shoulder at me. There was amusement in the way her lips curled at the corner. “An agnostic, then? Or an atheist altogether? I don’t suppose it really matters in the end… do you think your unbelief will protect you here, give you some exit that the devout do not have? That you will somehow be exempted from the struggles that the rest of Sjelefengsel’s population contends with?”

“I’m not a part of this system. I didn’t sign on to any of this.” I’d said, making a vague wave to the building around us, but more generally motioning to the hell beyond it. “I’m not religious. None of this means anything to me.”

Danya had turned at that point, her smile cold and aloof. “Neither am I, Jayta. And neither was Harro, and neither was Mek. Only a small fraction of Sjelefengsel’s population was devout in their mortal tenure. And yet they are still here.”

That had stopped me dead. “They’re not…” I’d started, stunned. “But I thought… I thought hell…”

“Sjelefengsel is one of the twenty-three main hells, little demon. The other twenty-two are reserved for specific cultures or religions. And Sjelefengsel — the oldest of all of them by several billion years — is where everyone else goes. A place for the unclaimed wicked, for the sinners that have no religion, for the agnostic criminal.” Danya had explained in a smooth flow of cruel truths. “An absence of belief does not protect you from the consequences of your actions. It’s a lesson best learned while you’re still alive, so you don’t have to learn it when you die.”

That had left me speechless. And in the ensuing silence, Danya had turned on her heel once more, walking down the hall with only a short command drifting in her wake.

“Come along now. I still have to show you the grounds and the outlying buildings.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

Sjelefengsel: The House of Regret: Jayta’s Room

Present, 7:07pm SGT

It’s only when I hear the click of the door that I pull my head off the pillow that I’m holding to my chest.

I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here and crying. After my meeting with Raikaron, I’d gone back to my room, ripped my clothes out of the closet and threw them across my room, had a screaming match with my wall, and finally collapsed on my bed and cried myself to sleep. And when I woke up, I’d gone back to crying and feeling sorry for myself and wishing I’d never listened to that sneaky red-headed bastard.

They’d rung the dinner bell at some point, and I’d ignored it, but I found myself wishing that I hadn’t. I was starting to realize I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and I’d been so stressed out that I hadn’t even felt hungry. I was feeling hungry now, but I was too proud to go down there and ask if there was anything left over.

So when my door clicks open, I look over my shoulder to see who’s stepping in.

It’s Raikaron, with a mug in one hand and a plate in the other. Literally the last person I want to see.

I roll back over on my side, facing the glass wall and the distant city skyline, its yellow lights gleaming in the deepening night. Raikaron’s footfalls are soft over the floor; he comes around the side I’m facing, setting the mug down on my bedside table, and setting the plate beside it — it’s got a piece of pie on it. After that, he looks to me, and I glare back at him with tearstained, bloodshot eyes.

“You look awful.” he remarks frankly.

“That’s your fault.” I rasp at him.

After a moment, he sits down on the edge of my bed. “Are you still upset about our discussion today?” he asks.

“What discussion?” I demand. “Nothing was discussed. You told me how things were gonna be and didn’t give me any say in it. Of course I’m upset, asshole.”

“I can see how that would be upsetting.” he says. “You look exhausted. You should get some sleep — tomorrow will be a new day. A fresh start.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I growl at him.

He stares at me a moment more, as if trying to decide how to respond to that, then turns his attention to the things he brought in. “I brought you hot cocoa. I made it from a family recipe that’s been passed down for generations; you should have some. Having something warm on a cold winter night makes it easier to go to sleep. The pie is mint pie, made by the kitchen; nothing special.”

I look at the mug and the pie, but don’t move towards them. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me accept his kindness. Which is stupid, because this is the only thing that anyone’s done for me since I’ve been here, and I’m ignoring it out of spite. But I’m angry right now, angry at him, at the control he has over me, and I want him to know that.

When I don’t make any move, he nods and looks back to the glass wall, and the view beyond the balcony, clasping his hands in his lap. “I hope you like the view. I’ve always liked being able to watch the lights in the distance, and fall asleep looking at them. I figured you’d like it too; it’s why I picked out this room for you. Among other reasons.” After a moment of silence, he goes on. “I’ve been going easy on you. Trying to ease you into Sjelefengsel, and the way things work around here. Once we get your citizenship all sorted out, though, I’ll need to put you to work. Running errands, delivering messages.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Eventually I ask the thing that’s been most on my mind whenever I think about my new job. “Will I have to kill more people?”

He looks back to me at that. “No. Not right away.” he assures, unclasping his hands so he can reach over with one. I cringe away as it nears me; I can see him hesitate, his hand hovering a few inches from my face as those green eyes search me, measuring and judging. After a few seconds, he speaks. “May I touch you?”

“Why?” I rasp.

Those vivid green eyes blink. “Your hair’s all in your face, there’s still some leftover tears under your eyes… it’s rustling my comfort instincts something fierce.”

“Comfort instincts?”

“Yes, when you see someone that’s distressed, there is an instinct to comfort them, especially if they are…” He peters off at that point, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he pulls his hand back. “Nevermind.” Standing up, he straightens his already immaculate vest and tie, readopting his more formal air. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day, a fresh start.”

With that, he steps around the bed, making his way back to the door. The room goes quiet as it clicks shut behind him; after a long moment, I let go of my pillow and sit myself up in my bed, reaching out to pick up the mug. Steam is still rising off it, and little marshmallows are drifting around on the top; blowing over it, I take a small sip. After a few seconds of letting the taste settle, I take another, hungry sip.

This is the best hot cocoa I’ve ever had.

Folding my legs into a pretzel, I stare out the glass wall at the lights of hell in the valley below. The hot cocoa is, as Raikaron promised, warm and relaxing, and I keep on sipping from the mug as I trace the distant metropolitan skyline with my eyes.

Tomorrow would be a new day, a fresh start.