6. Callista

6

CALLISTA

A s I'm doing my usual rounds, trying to figure out my escape, I hear a voice I haven't heard before. My curiosity is piqued as I get closer to the living room, I can feel the tension that radiates there. I watch from the shadows as Dagon and another demon seem locked in a verbal standoff.

He's shorter, but just as muscular with obsidian eyes and crimson skin. His horns are shorter and more curved, and his blood-red hair is shoulder-length like Dagon's, but that's the extent of their similarities.

Dagon keeps flexing his fingers and balling his fists, visibly pissed about the words coming from the other demon's mouth. My heart races as I walk into the room, and Dagon meets my eyes.

"Who is this?" I ask casually, noting the way his face tenses.

Dagon turns, eyeing me darkly before his answers. "Callista, this is Tagar. My brother." His voice is heavy with reluctance, and I get the feeling he and Tagar have nothing in common.

"Aw Dagon, you didn't tell me you got a pet!" Tagar's sinister voice drips with contempt. I stiffen, my cheeks reddening as I watch, waiting for Dagon to react.

My heart hammers against my chest, as a rush of fury rises in me. Dagon's jaw clenches, his eyes flickering with a silent rage that I've come to recognize. Tagar leans back, a smirk playing on his lips, clearly enjoying the discomfort he's causing.

"Pet, huh?" I shoot back, my voice laced with venom. "That's funny, coming from someone who seems more like a parasite in his own brother's house." Tagar's smirk fades slightly, replaced by a flash of surprise.

Dagon's eyes meet mine, a warning swirling in their depths. But fuck that. I'm not going to stand here and let this asshole tear at him with his words.

"What's the matter, Tagar?" I continue, stepping closer, my voice low and steady. "Not used to someone calling you out on your shit?"

Tagar stands up, his height meant to intimidate, but I hold my ground. The air between us crackles with tension, a dark, heavy blanket that threatens to suffocate. But I'm not backing down.

Dagon moves, a subtle shift, positioning himself slightly in front of me—a silent protector. But I don't need protecting, not from the likes of him.

Tagar's sneer fades and he takes a step back as he smooths the front of his shirt, an arrogant smile playing on his lips. "You're right. Let's not ruin a delightful evening. After all, we have so much to catch up on, don't we, brother?"

The way he says 'brother' is like a venomous hiss. I can almost see the word slither through the air, each syllable laden with toxicity. Dagon's muscles tense again, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. It irks me to see Dagon like this, his usual confidence undercut by Tagar's presence.

We move to the dining room, a beautifully set table before us, which now feels more like a battlefield than a place for a meal. As we settle around the dining table, the air thick with unspoken tensions, Tagar casually shifts the conversation towards his recent exploits, but with a dark twist that immediately sets the tone for the evening. His voice is smooth, almost disarming, but the content of his stories is anything but.

He proceeds to recount incidents of brutal conflicts and violent wartime acts, each story more harrowing than the last. His descriptions are vivid, not shying away from the gruesome details of bloodshed and betrayal. With each word, he seems to relish the discomfort he's creating, watching us closely for our reactions.

I try to keep a composed face, but inside, I'm recoiling. The graphic details make my stomach churn, and I catch Dagon's eye across the table, his expression stony. It's clear that Tagar's words are intended to provoke, to remind Dagon of a darkness he has tried to leave behind.

"Really, brother, surely you remember the way the enemy begged us for mercy as blood spilled from their bodies." Tagar continues, his voice tinged with a disturbing enthusiasm. "But, of course, there was none to be given."

I feel a cold shudder pass through me, and something inside me snaps. The room feels colder and darker as if Tagar's tales are seeping into the walls themselves. How can he speak of such horrors with a smile? I wonder, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger.

"Enough," I interject sharply, unable to contain my disgust. "We get it, Tagar. You're tough and merciless. But you're also sitting at a dinner table, not a war council. There's no need for such... graphic storytelling here."

Tagar's eyes flick to me, a flash of surprise at my interruption before his smirk widens. "Oh, my apologies, pet , I see that not everyone has the stomach for the realities of power and survival."

"I'm no one's fucking pet." I scowl at the slur, drawing a scoff from Tagar.

As the dinner progresses, I find myself watching Dagon more than I listen to Tagar. The way he maintains his composure, the subtle signs of his discomfort, it all stirs a protective fury within me. Only I get to push his buttons like that.

As Tagar continues with his macabre tales, the atmosphere at the table grows heavier. Each story is punctuated by his laughter, his eyes alight with a dark glee as he describes the chaos and carnage of his exploits. I find myself despising him more with every minute, not just for his stories but for the way he's corrupting the space between Dagon and me, a space already fraught with our own complexities.

As the meal ends and the plates are cleared, the weight of Tagar's stories lingers like a bad taste. Dagon and I might share a mutual enemy in Tagar, but it does nothing to soften the hard edges of our own relationship

Dagon remains silent, his face a mask of composed neutrality, but the tightness in his posture betrays him. He's usually more than capable of giving back as good as he gets in our verbal skirmishes, but tonight, his brother's morbid tales have left him withdrawn, lost in thought.

Our interactions are defined by conflict, each of us pushing the other in a continual battle of wits and wills. Yet, seeing him subdued in this way, affected so deeply by Tagar's words, stirs an unfamiliar, uncomfortable empathy within me.

As I reflect on the evening, I find myself both wary and oddly intrigued by this realization, uncertain of what, if anything, I want to do about it.