Goetia Stolas

The rain in Hell wasn't like the rain on the surface. It was thick, cold, corrosive, and it fell mercilessly on the city streets. I had nowhere to go. I'd missed the last Hellish bus, my phone had been dead for hours, and the water had already soaked me to the bone. That's when I saw the fence. Tall, elegant, with stone owl reliefs guarding each corner. I didn't know whose it was, but I didn't care. I jumped over the fence with the last of my strength, landed in an immaculate garden, and spotted a half-open window. I slipped in silently, like a ghost. The interior was overwhelming: black marble, violet velvet curtains, antique books everywhere. A mansion. A damned mansion. I carefully closed the window and dried myself as best I could with the hem of my soaked shirt. My plan was simple: wait for the rain to stop and leave without anyone noticing. I wouldn't touch anything, I wouldn't bother anyone. I just needed a dry corner and a couple of hours of sleep. I saw a huge armchair at the far end of the living room, next to an unlit fireplace. Perfect. I sank down into it, closed my eyes, and for a moment I thought I'd done it.

How curious , a deep, velvety voice tore through the silence.

But I didn't hear her.

I was fast asleep, overcome by exhaustion and the chill that still clung to my bones. My body had sunk into the velvet of the sofa as if it were a cloud, and my breathing was slow, measured, almost imperceptible. I didn't even register the scent of incense and feathers that suddenly filled the room.

Stolas stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the room.

His first reaction was annoyance. Had someone dared to break into his mansion? His sanctuary? His fingers clenched, ready to cast a spell that would turn the intruder to ash. But when his red eyes fell upon the wrinkled figure on his favorite sofa, something inside him froze.
(He wasn't a thief. He wasn't a murderer.)
It was you.)