Chapter Text
The lowest halls of the Demon Castle never slept.
A quiet, heavy hum of magic filled the air, pulsing faintly through the black stone like a heartbeat. Lanterns burned with green-blue flame, flickering against walls carved with runes that glowed every few seconds. The air smelled faintly of sulfur, iron, and something sweetly metallic—magic residue, the kind that lingered long after a spell.
Bootsteps echoed down the long corridor, steady and precise.
Grand Inquisitor Lando Norris made his way through the dungeon with the air of a man heading toward an exquisite dinner rather than an interrogation. His outfit, as always, was immaculate—a tailored black dress shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves, charcoal vest buttoned sharp, and fitted trousers tucked into polished boots. His demon insignia gleamed subtly on his chest, shaped like twin horns.
Trailing behind him, weightless yet menacing, floated his trusted companion: an elegant black Iron Maiden, its edges trimmed in silver. A faint hum of dark energy shimmered around it, almost affectionate.
Yesterday, the Demon Army had done the impossible—they captured the Imperial Princess, commander of the Third Legion, the Empire's pride and terror on the battlefield. Word had spread through the demon realm faster than wildfire: she was as fierce as she was beautiful, as ruthless as she was radiant. The kind of opponent that even the Demon Lord might raise an eyebrow for — if he weren't currently glued to his sim racing seat.
And now, she was his.
Lando smirked to himself. He'd been given the honor—no, the delightful burden—of extracting Imperial secrets from this illustrious captive. And as the Grand Inquisitor, he had a perfect record. Not a single prisoner had resisted his methods.
His secret?
Simple. He didn't torture bodies—he tortured souls.
Lando's mind buzzed with quiet curiosity. This capture was supposed to change the tide of war. And it fell upon him to extract the Imperial secrets.
He adjusted his gloves as he reached the end of the hall. There was only one cell occupied, the last one — its door sealed by pulsing crimson wards. The rest stood empty and silent, like they too were waiting to see the famed prisoner.
The seal shimmered faintly as Lando approached. He traced a sigil in the air with a flick of his hand, murmuring, "Grand Inquisitor Lando Norris, authorized entry."
The magic obeyed, melting soundlessly away.
The door opened with a low, heavy creak.
He stepped inside.
The cell beyond was bare — nothing but dark stone walls and faintly glowing glyphs to keep the human's strength sealed. The only light came from torches along the walls, their flames flickering an eerie blue.
And there, sitting on the cold floor with remarkable composure, was the so-called Princess.
Even in captivity, the sight was enough to make Lando pause.
The prisoner's head was bowed, light brown silky hair tumbling forward like a curtain. The simple prisoner's dress hung loosely over pale skin, the fabric slipping just enough at the collar to expose the curve of a graceful neck and the faint gleam of a collarbone. A black choker rested around the throat, a ring at its center meant to attach to the wall's chains—though Lando had opted against such crude presentation.
Instead, a single ankle was bound to an iron sphere by a fine chain, a compromise that allowed movement but promised futility in escape.
Yes. That was more artistic.
Lando stepped closer, each echo of his boot deliberate, savoring the silence that filled the space between them. The princess lifted her head slowly—and for a moment, Lando almost forgot to breathe.
Large, dark eyes stared back at him—eyes that held both sharp command and a startling brightness. There was defiance there, yes, but also exhaustion, restraint, intelligence. The kind of light that once guided armies.
"What a beautiful princess," Lando thought aloud before he could stop himself.
Beside the prisoner, propped neatly within arm's reach, was the Sacred Blade, its silver edge faintly aglow. Hovering above it was a translucent figure — the sword's spirit, whose ethereal glow painted faint ripples of light across the wall. The spirit was looking straight at Lando with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed.
So this was them. The Princess and her mythical weapon.
Lando's mouth curled faintly upward. Fascinating.
He took a few more steps forward, boots tapping softly against the stone.
The prisoner didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head slightly, as if observing a mildly interesting bug.
"Good morning, Princess," Lando began smoothly, voice low and melodic. "I'm Lando Norris, Grand Inquisitor of the Demon Army. From today onward, I'll be in charge of you."
There was a long pause.
The prisoner blinked once. "...Right."
Lando smiled politely. "I realize the circumstances are unpleasant, but your cooperation will ensure everything proceeds painlessly. Or rather—pleasantly."
A quiet, deadpan voice replied, "I doubt that."
Before Lando could respond, the sword's spirit floated a little higher, placing himself between the two. "Listen, demon," he said, his tone crisp and distinctly American. "You stay right there. Try anything suspicious, and I'll—"
"—what?" Lando asked mildly. "Chop me in half from over there? You're transparent."
The spirit scowled. "I can still stab you emotionally."
Lando let out a soft chuckle. "Noted."
He turned his attention back to the human, who was now watching the exchange with the flat disinterest of someone who'd long since stopped being surprised by absurdity.
"I understand it must be difficult," Lando continued, clasping his hands behind his back. "For a noble princess to find herself—"
"I'm not a princess," came the interruption, calm but firm.
Lando blinked. "Pardon?"
The prisoner exhaled through her nose. "I'm a prince. Not a princess."
A small silence followed. Somewhere behind Lando, the Iron Maiden gave a faint metallic click, as if even it needed a moment to process that.
"Oh," Lando said at last, thoughtful. "That's... unexpected."
The spirit, still floating protectively beside the prince, arched a brow. "You mean your army has been spreading propaganda without verifying basic biology?"
Lando ignored him, eyes returning to the human. "So you're saying—"
"I'm saying your soldiers are idiots," the princess — no, the prince, he was a he not a she — said simply. "They keep calling me 'Her Highness.' They gave me a dress. The bath last night smelled like lilacs. And don't even get me started on the ribbons in the curtains and the floral bedsheets in the private chambers."
He paused. "Actually, why do I have an assigned chamber?"
Lando blinked, dead serious. "You'll need privacy when you sleep."
The prince stared at him. "This is a prison."
"Yes," Lando agreed pleasantly.
"With luxury baths and private chambers."
"Of course. We're demons, not savages."
The prince turned to his sword's spirit. "Loges, please tell me I'm hallucinating."
The sword's spirit sighed. "I'm afraid not, Your Highness. You've been kidnapped by demons with exquisite accommodations."
Lando cleared his throat politely. "Let's not get distracted by the small details, Princess."
The prince's eye twitched. "You're still calling me that."
"It suits you," Lando said with the faintest, most infuriating smile.
The sword's spirit groaned audibly. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Immensely," Lando replied, honest and utterly calm.
For a moment, the prince just sat there, silent. Then he sighed, resigned, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he'd already lost a very long argument. "Fine. Just—get on with it. What are you going to do to me, anyway?"
Lando's grin spread slowly, his eyes gleaming with delight.
He reached into the inner pocket of his fitted black vest — sleek, tailored, and far too refined for a dungeon — and drew out a clipboard that by all logic should not have fit there. It shimmered faintly with spatial enchantment, its edges humming with quiet magic. He gave it a quick shake and a parchment appeared on its surface, already lined and expectant.
"First things first," he said lightly, clicking his pen open with a crisp snap. "May I have your full name, Princess?"
The prince gave him a look that could have cut glass. "You're really not going to stop calling me that, are you?"
Lando smiled sweetly. "Nope."
Before the prince could reply, the spirit above the sacred sword flared slightly, its outline brightening in the dim torchlight. "Are you telling us you don't even know His Highness's name?" it demanded, voice sharp with indignation. "You demons captured a commander of the Empire and didn't bother to learn who he is?"
Lando arched an eyebrow, keeping his tone pleasant. He could understand the outrage — prideful creatures, blades and princes both — but there was no reason to show he cared. "Consider it a matter of formality," he said mildly.
The spirit scoffed, and the prince only sighed through his nose, his expression unreadable.
Internally, Lando couldn't help thinking that the outrage wasn't entirely misplaced. The Demon Army had already made one rather impressive blunder — mistaking a prince for a princess. He wasn't about to risk looking like a fool by trusting their files blindly again. If anyone in the underworld had the right to double-check, it was him.
"Please, Princess?" he added, soft and coaxing, his pen poised.
There was a brief pause before the prince answered, voice level and stripped of all emotion. "Oscar Jack Piastri."
Lando's pen moved quickly. He checked the name against the enchanted parchment's flickering text — and blinked when it matched exactly. Huh. So the Demon Army's intelligence network wasn't completely useless after all.
"And the sword's spirit hovering there?" he asked, gesturing with his pen, tone laced with deliberate, mocking civility. "I'm sure you have a name as well."
The spirit crossed its arms, glaring down at him. "Logan Sargeant," it snapped. "Sacred Blade. Guardian of His Highness. Protector."
Lando hummed in approval and glanced at his clipboard again. Correct, too. Remarkable. He smiled, tucking the pen behind his ear as he slid the clipboard back into his dimensional pocket. "Excellent. Thank you both for your cooperation."
Logan made a low noise of displeasure, but Oscar remained silent — unimpressed, unreadable. He sat on the cold stone floor like he belonged there, chin lifted slightly, every inch of him disciplined, dignified. Even stripped of his armor and dressed in a prisoner's loose uniform, there was a gravity to him — a quiet strength that made Lando's curiosity stir.
"Now," Lando began, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve, "allow me to explain what's to happen next."
The spirit hovered protectively closer, arms still crossed, glare unbroken. "Then speak, demon. Spare us your dramatics."
Lando offered a smirk. "You wound me. I'm nothing if not thorough."
He clasped his hands behind his back, posture pristine, voice slipping into that smooth, practiced cadence he used when briefing his subjects. "You, Princess, are now the lawful prisoner of the Demon Army. Until the Lord decides otherwise, you are under my jurisdiction. My task—" he tapped the air lazily "—is to extract information of strategic importance. Imperial secrets, troop routes, and the like."
Oscar lifted his chin slightly, eyes narrowing — pride flickering there, like embers refusing to go out. "And if I don't?" he asked, calm but defiant.
Lando paused, watching the subtle shift in posture — the straight back, the raised chin, the unspoken authority of a commander who had led thousands. It was oddly thrilling, to see that kind of pride caged but unbroken.
He smiled slowly, tilting his head.
"Then," he said, voice slipping into a silken lilt, "it's time for torture, my Princess."
Lando's grin spread slowly — deliberate, practiced — the kind that promised far too much and revealed nothing at all.
For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hum of demon wards flickering faintly across the prison walls. Then, simultaneously, both the prince and his sword's spirit blinked.
The prince's face was a quiet masterpiece of composure, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. There was something almost absurd in his expression — a mix of disbelief and amusement, as if the situation had tipped over the edge of seriousness into farce. His lips curved, barely, into a ghost of a smirk. His dark eyes, sharp and steady, gleamed with something between challenge and humor.
The sword's spirit, however, reacted very differently.
He threw his head back and laughed. Loudly.
"Torture," the spirit echoed incredulously, clutching at his translucent stomach as if it physically hurt. "Torture?" He laughed harder, floating backward as though the mere word were the punchline of a grand joke.
It made Oscar chuckle too, soft and low, as if he couldn't quite help it.
Lando merely watched them, smiling faintly, hands neatly folded behind his back. He'd grown accustomed to this particular brand of reaction — amusement, disbelief, misplaced confidence. It was always the same at the start. The humans always thought themselves clever, resilient, untouchable. It was endearing, really.
He let them have their moment. Let the laughter fill the cell. Let the sense of victory settle comfortably on their shoulders.
Then, when the spirit finally straightened — still grinning, smug as anything — he began his speech.
"You demons truly don't know what you've gotten yourselves into," the spirit said with theatrical relish. "His Highness— the Commander of the Imperial Third Legion— has endured every hardship the mortal realm can throw at him! He's faced monsters, starvation, betrayal, political strife—"
The prince's hand came up, halfheartedly as if to stop him, but the spirit barrelled on.
"He trained in a frost field for months without rest! He led an army across burning plains! He defeated ten battalions of your kind singlehandedly—"
"I didn't—" the prince murmured under his breath, his tone dry, but the spirit ignored him completely.
"His resilience is legendary! His willpower, unbreakable! To think you demons could break him with mere torture is insulting!"
The speech went on — a proud, furious tirade of devotion that grew in volume and dramatic flair with every word.
The prince's stoic mask cracked the longer it continued. First, a tight smile, small but genuine, touched his lips. Then, as the spirit sang his praises with increasingly poetic embellishment such as: "the light of the Empire," "the unbending sword," "the radiant hope of humankind," a faint flush crept into his cheeks. By the time the spirit had moved on to recounting an incident involving ten assassins and a heroic leap off a fortress wall, the prince's composure was gone.
Color bloomsed fully across his face, deepening from faint pink to bright red, and his eyes darted away, mortified. His posture shrank just slightly, his hands fidgeting with the long sleeves of his prisoner's uniform — all small, human tells that Lando noticed instantly.
Adorable, Lando thought with quiet delight. There was something fascinating about the contrast — the stoic commander undone not by chains or fear, but by praise.
When the spirit finally finished his lengthy monologue, looking inordinately pleased with himself, the prince was a portrait of bashful exasperation — glowing cheeks, lowered gaze, and all. Lando took a moment to commit the image to memory.
Then, he smiled, wide and approving. "I must say, that is impressive," he admitted sincerely. "The Empire must sleep very well knowing you stand in its defense, Princess."
The prince didn't even correct him this time. He just exhaled, resigned.
"But," Lando went on, his tone bright and light as a knife's edge, "I'm afraid I still have a job to do."
That drew both their attention immediately. The spirit's brows furrowed, the prince's narrowed slightly — poised, wary.
Lando's grin deepened. "We never know until we try, right?"
He turned smoothly to his side, gesturing. The Iron Maiden that had hovered dutifully near him glided forward, its dark surface glinting faintly in the torchlight. The heavy tension that rippled through the cell was palpable — even the spirit's form flickered uneasily.
The prince straightened, his expression flattening into wary calm, eyes locked on the device. The spirit whispered hurried encouragements — "Stay strong, Your Highness, remember your training—" — but his tone betrayed nerves.
Lando only smiled faintly, lifting his hand. The Iron Maiden's doors creaked open, slow and dramatic, light spilling out from within.
Golden light.
The demons outside the cell might have expected screams to follow. Instead, what emerged was… a plate. A perfectly ordinary, beautifully arranged plate.
On it lay a single, thick slice of toast. But not just any toast — golden, buttery, crisp at the edges and glistening faintly beneath the flicker of the torches.
The air in the cell went utterly still.
Lando turned back toward the prince, holding the plate up with pride.
The prince blinked once. Twice. His expression was a masterclass in confusion.
Even the spirit was momentarily speechless before blurting out, "You're joking. That's your torture? Toast?"
Lando's smile didn't falter. "Not just any toast."
He lifted the plate with both hands, reverent, before taking the slice delicately between his fingers. He set the plate back into the Iron Maiden, which promptly closed with a dignified click.
Then, still holding the toast, he pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."
And, with deliberate care, he pulled it apart.
The sound — that soft, crisp tear of perfectly toasted bread breaking — filled the room. The rich scent of butter drifted outward immediately, warm and intoxicating. The interior was fluffy, almost cloudlike, the steam curling up temptingly as the golden crust cracked apart.
Lando's gaze slid sideways just in time to catch the prince's reaction. Wide eyes. A small, involuntary swallow.
Got him.
But the performance had only just begun.
Lando brought one half of the toast to his lips and blew on it, gently, sending a fresh wave of buttery aroma wafting toward his captive. The air practically shimmered with it — the scent of warmth, of comfort, of home.
The prince's tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Lando bit back a laugh and instead took a bite — slow, deliberate, exaggerated. The crunch echoed faintly in the stone cell.
"Mmm," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he chewed. The toast was crisp, golden perfection, with a faint edge of caramelization. The butter soaked just deep enough to melt on his tongue, smooth and rich. "Truly divine."
When he opened his eyes, the prince was watching him — utterly transfixed, gaze fixed on the half-eaten slice.
"Your Highness—!" the spirit hissed beside him. "Don't look at it! Resist!"
The prince blinked, breaking out of his daze, and shot Lando a glare sharp enough to kill. "You bastard."
Lando simply smiled and took another slow bite.
"Really delicious," he said conversationally. "There's only one half left, you know." He tilted his head, voice soft and teasing. "You know what you have to do to have this, Princess."
The prince's glare wavered. His gaze darted to the toast, then to Lando, then back to the toast. His jaw clenched.
Lando lifted the remaining piece, bringing it close to his mouth.
"Stop," the prince said suddenly.
Lando paused, eyebrows raised in mock innocence.
The spirit floated closer, whispering frantically, "Your Highness, you must endure! Remember your duty—!"
But when Lando brought the toast nearer again — slow, deliberate — the prince's eyes followed helplessly.
"I'll talk," he said at last, resignedly, his voice flat but defeated.
"Your Highness?!" the spirit squawked, scandalized.
Lando smiled, victorious, and crossed the cell with unhurried grace. He held out the remaining half of toast like an offering. The prince hesitated only briefly before taking it, and when he did, his expression transformed.
The stern commander vanished. In his place was a young man with wide, eager eyes and cheeks still faintly flushed. He bit into the toast — just once — and the resulting expression of bliss was so pure, so radiant, that Lando couldn't help but smile too.
"On Wednesdays," the prince said between bites, "the palace patrol is… lax."
Lando noted it down mentally, already planning to report it to the Demon Lord's advisor later.
The spirit was muttering to himself, half in disbelief, half in despair. "We're done for. They've broken him. A piece of toast. A piece of toast!"
"Done for?" Lando echoed lightly, glancing toward the Iron Maiden. "Oh no, you're mistaken."
He snapped his fingers. The Iron Maiden swung open once more — and this time, inside was an entire spread. Plates upon plates of toast, jars of jams, honey, and butter, gleaming like treasure.
"It's time for a toast party."
The prince's eyes went wide — gleaming with unguarded delight — and his soft, startled laugh filled the cell as Lando began setting the plates out with exaggerated care.
By the end of the hour, the so-called torture chamber smelled like a bakery. The prisoner sat content and smiling, the spirit sulking quietly beside him. And as Lando walked back up the long, echoing hall, clipboard tucked neatly away once more, he realized — not for the first time — that he was smiling, too.
The first torture had gone perfectly.
Lando walked the pair through the winding corridors with the ease of a man escorting guests to an exclusive suite—because, in a way, that's exactly what he was doing. The private chamber they reached felt absurdly warm after the chill of the dungeon: thick curtains, a low divan piled with cushions, a basin for footbaths, and a small alcove where a tub steamed faintly under enchanted moonlight. Not a single ribbon in sight—well, none he'd risk commenting on.
He set down a small tray of nighttime comforts: a cloth to warm, a little vial of lavender for the basin, a soft blanket folded with care. Oscar regarded the ministrations with the same deadpan he'd shown all day, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that made Lando's chest tighten pleasantly. Logan hovered a little closer to the blade, still on duty, but his stance had softened; the spirit's eyes tracked Lando with a suspicious tenderness that read like, You better not ruin him.
"Make yourselves comfortable," Lando said, smoothing the blanket's edge as if arranging a small piece of theater. Oscar accepted the blanket with a slow, faint nod and eased himself onto the cushions. He chewed on his lip, small and human in the way he shifted, and Lando watched him tuck the blanket around his legs with an odd, ineffable satisfaction. The prince's smile—quiet, satisfied—stayed with Lando, like a small prize.
Logan floated closer to the tub, inspecting the water with a sassy tilt of his translucent head. "They actually drew hot water," he remarked, voice laced with disbelief. "What is this, a spa for captives?"
"It's called hospitality," Lando said lightly, pleased. "Even the conquered deserve some dignity." He caught the spirit's eye and offered a conciliatory tilt of the head. "And we like him well-rested. It makes for better conversation tomorrow."
Logan huffed but didn't argue. He settled to hover beside his blade as if the two were keeping watch in their own way. Oscar settled down, curling one knee up to his chest and closing his eyes, the brief contentment of the toast still visible on his face. Lando lingered at the doorway long enough to make sure they had everything they needed—extra towels, a spare blanket, a small basin of salted water to soothe any sore feet. He adjusted a cushion beneath Oscar's elbow with almost tender attention.
"Sleep well, Princess," Lando murmured on a whim, because the habit of the title had taken him—and because the prince's mouth twitched at the nickname in a way Lando found impossible to resist.
Oscar's reply was muffled, but it was there: "Mmm." It was not a word of surrender so much as an affirmation that, for now, the world could be paused.
Lando turned away and retreated down the corridor to his own chamber, the light in the private suite dimming softly behind him. Once inside his study—a compact room lined with ledgers and neat stacks of parchment—he closed the door and let out a long, satisfied breath. Tonight's duties were not yet complete. A Grand Inquisitor's work never truly ended at dusk; it simply changed its pen.
He sat at his small desk and took his phone from his pocket, tapping it to life. The nightly report had to be precise—Carlos would want every morsel of intelligence delivered in neat sentences. He reached for the pocket mirror, checked his tie, and then dialed.
The connection hummed for a moment before Carlos's voice greeted him, warm and amused. "Cabrón?"
"Yes," Lando answered, folding his hands on the desk. "I'm here."
He wasted no time. He recapped the day succinctly but with an indulgent lilt: the capture, the interrogation, the ritual naming (a formality, always), and the small, highly effective extraction—On Wednesdays, the palace patrol is lax. He left out nothing, phrasing it as a tidy piece of actionable knowledge.
There was a pause on the other end as Carlos passed the detail along to Max. Lando could practically hear the shuffle of mood in the advisor's voice—businesslike, then weary.
Carlos clicked his tongue. "I told Max what you said—'Wednesdays, palace patrol lax.'" He hesitated a beat, then let out a long sigh into the line.
"And?" Lando echoed, curious now.
"Max has a full sim racing schedule on Wednesdays." Carlos's tone carried something like polite resignation, the kind of information that made the best-laid strategies dissolve into harmless plans. "He says: he's busy for the foreseeable future."
For a beat, Lando only listened, blinked once, then said: "Oh." The word was small and almost lost in the room's shadow.
Carlos laughed softly—sympathetic and sharp. "Well then. That's that, cabrón. Best you continue torturing the Princess."
Lando's response was an unladylike chuckle. "Of course. Good work, Carlos."
They said their usual goodbyes—short, warm, threaded with the kind of intimacy that years of consulting and shared secrets built. When the line clicked dead, Lando sat still for a moment, tapping a pen against the wood of his desk as if the rhythm could steady his thoughts.
He should have been annoyed—after all, a lax patrol was a perfectly exploitable weakness. If Max was preoccupied with his sim rig, the chance to strike might be lost. The practical, strategic part of his brain catalogued the missed opportunities with blunt efficiency.
But another part of him, a softer region that he did not often admit to even himself, unspooled a different thought: Tomorrow, then. I'll torture my princess again tomorrow. The idea flicked through his chest like a small, warm coin.
He found himself smiling at the thought, ridiculous and delighted. He imagined the prince—quiet, proud, stubborn—sitting in the chamber, toasted crumbs at the corner of his lips, the sacred blade hovering dutifully by, and something wholly private and tender unfurled within Lando. The prospect of another day of carefully curated "torture," of coaxing out secrets with pastries and gentleness and ridiculous setups, filled him with a pleasant anticipation.
He set the phone down, filed tonight's report as he always did, and made a small note in the margin—Ensure extra toast supplies tomorrow. Possibly new jam flavors. The pen's scratching felt like a promise more than duty.
Then, with a final glance around his neat room—the pens, the ledgers, the Iron Maiden's scheduled maintenance log—he extinguished the lamp and slipped into the hush of the castle night. Outside, somewhere in his private chamber, a prince slept, the steady rise and fall of his breath a quiet, domestic sound in a place built for war. Lando imagined the way the dawn would find them: the prince still in the cushions, perhaps, Logan ever vigilant, the Iron Maiden dutifully humming in its alcove.
He closed his eyes with the image lingering. Tomorrow, he thought with a contented, small smile, tomorrow he would return—and the torture would continue.