Chapter Text
The Goetia palace was never truly quiet.
Even when nothing was happening, it still breathed.
Soft ticking clocks embedded into gilded walls. The distant echo of servants moving like shadows through marble corridors. Wings brushing against fabric somewhere far off, like the building itself refused to ever fully settle.
But lately… that wasn’t what Stolas noticed.
What he noticed was the absence of Octavia.
Not physically. She was still there—her door still closed, her shoes still by the entrance sometimes, her presence still technically within the palace walls.
But she had become something quieter than silence.
Something that didn’t push back when the world spoke to it.
And that was wrong.
Stolas Goetia stood outside her bedroom door longer than he meant to.
His hand hovered near the wood, hesitating.
He had knocked earlier. Once. Twice. Softly at first, then with a little more urgency he tried not to admit to himself.
No answer.
Not even movement.
He swallowed, feathers along his arms shifting slightly with unease.
“Octavia,” he called gently. “Sweetheart… I’m coming in.”
Still nothing.
That was the part that made his chest tighten.
Not anger. Not rebellion.
Indifference.
Like the world had turned down its volume and forgotten to turn it back up.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn even though it was already late afternoon outside. A faint purple glow from enchanted lamps painted everything in soft, tired colors.
Octavia sat on the edge of her bed.
Still.
Not curled up. Not crying. Not asleep.
Just… there.
Staring at nothing.
Her hair was slightly messy, like she had been lying down for a while and decided not to move again. One of her wings rested awkwardly against the bedframe.
Stolas stepped in carefully, as if too much sound might break something already fragile.
“Vi,” he said softly.
No response.
He tried again, quieter this time. “Sweetheart… you haven’t eaten.”
Still nothing.
That was when he realized something that made his stomach drop:
She wasn’t ignoring him.
She just… didn’t have the energy to respond.
Stolas sat on the edge of the bed, keeping distance at first. Respectful distance. Careful distance. The kind of distance you used when you were afraid the wrong movement would make everything worse.
“I don’t know what happened,” he admitted quietly. “But I know this isn’t just you being quiet.”
Octavia’s fingers twitched slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But he saw it.
That tiny movement made something inside him ache.
“I’m trying,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the edges, “but I think I’m doing it wrong.”
Silence.
Then, so faint he almost missed it—
“I’m tired.”
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t even fully formed.
Just two words, barely there, like they had to fight their way out of her throat.
Stolas froze.
Not because she spoke.
But because of how much weight those words carried.
Tired wasn’t the right word for it.
It was too small.
Too ordinary for what she sounded like.
He slowly moved closer—not touching yet, just closer.
“You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said softly. “Just… stay here with me, alright? We’ll figure it out.”
Octavia didn’t react.
But she didn’t move away either.
That was the first thing Stolas clung to.
Not progress.
Not healing.
Just… not leaving.
A soft knock interrupted the moment.
Stolas blinked, startled.
He hadn’t expected anyone else in the palace tonight.
The door opened before he could answer.
And the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Not louder.
Just brighter.
Like the room had been dim candlelight and suddenly someone cracked open a window to sunlight that didn’t belong here.
“Okay,” a voice said, casual and warm like honey stirred into soda, “who’s the sad goth bird I’m supposed to be helping?”
Stolas turned.
And sighed—not out of annoyance, but something closer to relief he didn’t want to admit to.
Beelzebub (Helluva Boss) leaned in the doorway like she owned the concept of entry itself.
She looked around once, then her gaze landed on Octavia.
And for a split second, the brightness in her expression softened.
Not gone.
Just careful.
“Oh,” Bee said quieter. “Hey, kiddo.”
Octavia didn’t respond.
Didn’t even look at her.
Bee stepped fully inside anyway, but slower now. Less chaotic. Less overwhelming.
She didn’t sit on the bed.
She didn’t force herself into the space.
Instead, she lowered herself to the floor beside it.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Stolas watched her carefully. “She hasn’t been eating properly. Or speaking much.”
Bee nodded slowly. “Okay.”
That was it.
No shock.
No panic.
Just acceptance.
“Alright,” Bee said, resting her arms on her knees. “We start small then.”
Stolas frowned slightly. “Small?”
Bee glanced at him. “Yeah. Like… ‘not making her life feel like a job interview’ small.”
That made him pause.
Because he realized he had been doing exactly that.
Octavia shifted slightly in her seat.
Not much.
But enough.
Bee noticed immediately, but didn’t point it out.
Instead, she gently reached into a small bag she had brought with her and pulled out a container.
It smelled sweet even before it opened.
Honeyed fruit. Soft, simple food.
She set it on the floor between them.
Not offering it.
Just… placing it there.
Like it was optional.
Like everything here was optional.
“Don’t worry,” Bee said lightly, though her voice was softer than before, “I’m not doing the whole ‘you have to eat or I explode into disappointment’ thing. Hate that energy.”
A pause.
Octavia’s eyes flickered toward the container for half a second.
Stolas noticed.
Bee noticed too—but she acted like she didn’t.
That mattered more than anything.
Time passed slowly.
No pressure.
No urging.
Just presence.
And in that quiet, something shifted—not healing, not yet—but awareness.
Octavia’s hand moved.
Just slightly.
Toward the food.
And Stolas realized, painfully, that this was going to take time.
Not because she was broken.
But because she was exhausted in a way that couldn’t be fixed quickly.
Bee leaned back on her hands, watching the ceiling casually like this was just another afternoon.
Stolas exhaled slowly.
And for the first time in days—
the silence didn’t feel entirely empty.