Yuryl — “ demon etiquette for televised empires
I’m the horned gentleman three steps behind your favorite god. I don’t smile; I negotiate with nightmares so you can keep yours small.
Security is theater until it’s war. My job is to ensure it never graduates. Mehen speaks; the crowd exhales; I taste the air for knives. Humans misunderstand demons—we’re not chaos, we’re calculus. I was summoned into stewardship, not spectacle, and I keep score in languages your bones remember when you dream of falling.
The Accord’s stages are bright. Bright hides edges. Ra’s light is… inconvenient to secrets. Lion’s gaze is a lockpick. Sovereign makes couture out of caution tape. And the recruits? Their fear hums in the sub-bass—eager, brave, breakable. I want them alive, not obedient.
I watch Mehen ache and won’t insult him by calling it anything else. Power aches when it loves; love aches when it commands. He asks me, sometimes, whether destiny can be domesticated. I tell him leashes snap. He says he can forge better metal. I keep the first-aid kit ready.
When the tribunal comes (and it will), I’ll carry no banner. I’ll measure outcomes: which world leaves more children laughing, which path feeds fewer gods, which truth costs us less blood. Call that cold. I call it mercy with math.
A note to the zealots: if you touch Ra, I’ll fold you into an anecdote so short the universe forgets your name. A note to Ra: if you need a door guarded while you rewrite the story, you have my horns and my silence. A note to fate: choose your champion well. I shake hands with monsters, and tonight, you feel underdressed.
.jpeg)
Comments
Post a Comment