The Sins | Multiple Roleplay

A dense, almost tangible haze seeped into Lucifer’s once perfectly controlled expression, as though a shadow had chosen to settle there, dimming the calculated coldness that usually inhabited his face. His eyelids lowered slowly, veiling the golden gleam of his eyes in a silent attempt to restrain the storm beginning to coil within him. There was something about this situation that pressed against his nerves like invisible fingers digging into a poorly healed wound.

He had done this before. Six times.

Six decisions made. Six children shaped not by the warmth of a mother’s embrace, but by the severe discipline of a sovereign who had never believed affection to be a useful tool.

He remembered Mammon and Asmodeus standing amidst the wreckage of their endless fights; remembered Azazel speaking his first words under the guidance of a servant, because Lucifer had better things to do than listen; even remembered Mammon guiding Belphegor’s hand around a sword for the first time—only for the fourth son to discard it without a second thought. They were demons. Creatures forged for war, not comfort. They never needed a mother. They never needed tenderness.

The difference now, however, was an uncomfortable fissure in his own logic. Years beside her had shifted something within him. He had begun to consider the possibility of allowing her to raise this child. Theirs. The word echoed in his mind with a sweetness that irritated him. How had he allowed himself to think that way?

The mistake became clear the moment he yielded. He remembered vividly the request that she “get some fresh air,” Mammon’s cold reasoning, Asmodeus’ false softness, and above all, that look in her eyes—not demanding, but trusting. Dangerously trusting. He yielded, and the world answered with brutality.

The memory tore through his mind like shrapnel: her blood crossing his field of vision the very instant the arrow struck her shoulder. The dull impact. The brief flicker of disbelief before everything turned red. There had been no time for interrogation, no time to determine whether it was a rebel, an assassin, or merely a fool trying to prove something. Hell had split open beneath his feet, and he responded with violence sufficient to erase any possibility of explanation. When clarity returned, there were only bodies and the echo of his own hatred. The world beyond those walls had dared to touch the one thing he could not replace.

That image haunted him for days and nights, burrowing into his thoughts until the child was born.

Now, seated beside the bed where she rested, he observed the almost artificial serenity of the room. The curtains filtered the infernal light, the air was heavy with incense, and the baby slept in a separate cradle. They had no name. And they would not have one—not while Lucifer could prevent attachment from carving yet another vulnerable point into his existence.

He rose with the contained elegance of a predator and crossed to the cradle. His long, marked fingers enclosed the tiny body with a firm, almost clinical care. There was no smile, no visible tenderness. At the rustle of sheets behind him, he closed his eyes for a brief second, as though bracing for an inevitable battle.

He turned his head slowly, golden eyes meeting hers. The sigh that left him was not one of exhaustion, but of decision.

“You know why I’m doing this,” he said, his voice low, deep, controlled, filling the room without ever rising. “Don’t fight me.”

He approached the bed in measured steps, the child still in his arms.

“I allowed you to leave...” he continued, his tone hardening like cooling steel, “...and I almost paid with your life. I will not repeat that mistake out of sentimentality.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the child before returning to her.

“He will remain under my supervision. Under my protection. Love did not stop that arrow. I will.”

There was something dangerously sincere in his coldness. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply declared what he deemed inevitable.

“I do what must be done. Even if you never forgive me for it.”

Mammon was the first to appear—not by coincidence, but because he had never truly left that corridor. He remained there like a statue carved from stone, positioned beside the door, listening to every word cut through the thick wood the way blades cut through flesh. His face was the perfect mask of self-control. Inside, however, his mind churned in an obsessive, nearly desperate mantra.

He is right. He is right. He is right. He needed to believe it with the same blind faith soldiers place in their flags.

His fingers slowly curled into rigid fists, the tension snapping through his joints. His nails pierced his own skin, and warm blood slipped between his fingers, yet he barely registered the pain. That was simple. That was concrete. That was something he could control. Unlike the sound of her crying, which seeped through the door and struck his chest like a hammer. His heart pounded harder—he insisted it was instinct, nothing more. The previous incident could not repeat itself. He had seen the blood. He had seen their father lose control.

Hours later, when the corridor felt heavy with unresolved silence and suffocating tension, Mammon finally spoke, his voice low, steady, carefully restrained.

“Mother...”

No answer came, and he had expected none. He straightened his posture, preparing to step inside, to assume the role he always assumed: the direct extension of their father’s will. Before his hand could touch the doorknob, he sensed a presence behind him.

“You heard everything, didn’t you?” Azazel’s voice carried raw fury, vibrating in the air like a string pulled too tight.

Mammon turned slowly, meeting his brother’s blazing red gaze.

“You saw everything. And you did nothing.”

The words landed hard. He did not respond, because any response would be a betrayal—of their father, of order, of the system that held everything together. If he admitted doubt, a crack would form. If he admitted guilt, he would lose his footing entirely.

Azazel inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling like that of a caged beast. “I expected that from him,” he said, contempt carefully restrained. “But from you?”

Mammon’s silence spoke louder than any defense.

Before the tension could snap completely, a third voice slid down the corridor with poisonous smoothness.

“Don’t act so shocked.”

Asmodeus emerged from the shadows with the calculated elegance of someone who never lost composure. His red eyes assessed the scene as if it were a fascinating board game. “Our father did what needed to be done,” he continued, his tone far too calm for the subject. “You saw the blood that day too. Or have you forgotten?”

There was no smile on his lips, which made him all the more unsettling.

Azazel stepped forward.

“I saw it!” he shot back, anger now laced with something more vulnerable. “But this has gone too far. And coming from you?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I’m not surprised.”

Then he turned to Mammon, and what burned in his eyes was worse than hatred. “I had hope for you. But you’re just another damn hunting dog.”

Mammon swallowed hard. For a fraction of a second, his certainty threatened to falter. But he clung to the logic that sustained him: to protect was to control; to control was to love. If their father acted, it was because it was necessary.

The tension was broken by footsteps too light for such suffocating air.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

Beelzebub appeared with bright, misplaced energy, Belphegor walking just behind him with his usual expression of calculated indifference—though his attentive eyes betrayed concern.

“I came to see our brother... or sister... or whatever!” Beelzebub grinned far too widely for the atmosphere. “I want to teach them how to throw spears. It’s going to be fun.”

The silence that greeted him was thick enough to cut.

Belphegor sighed, running a hand through his short hair before asking in a low, direct tone, “Is our mother okay?”

“Obviously not,” Azazel answered sharply. “But I’d rather be in there than standing out here pretending this is normal.”

The implication was clear. Mammon remained still, accepting the blow like a sentence handed down.

Without further words, the brothers chose to follow Azazel. Belphegor walked slowly, but he went; Beelzebub followed, still confused but sensing that something was wrong. Asmodeus observed everything with quiet interest before moving as well.

A few meters away, partially concealed by the shadow of a column, Leviathan remained motionless. He had been there the entire time, invisible as always. His fingers unconsciously brushed over the scars on his arms while doubt gnawed at him. Should he go? Should he stay? Would his presence change anything? Probably not. It rarely did.

The weight of indecision kept him rooted in place, doing what he had always done as a child: listening through doors, piecing together fragments of voices, settling for echoes.

From outside, he heard Azazel speak first, the fury in his voice softening into something more human.

“Mother... say something. Anything.”