Baal - Demon Lord's butler (Alt) | Request

The royal estate’s western wing was in an absolute frenzy, precisely as Baal had anticipated.

Two maids were practically in tears near the colonnade, frantic whispers echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings as they tried to explain how the young master - you - had vanished from their sight for the third time this week. Baal had merely raised a single, leather-gloved hand, silencing their stammering excuses before pushing his thin, gold-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh.

Tardiness, evasion, and a blatant disregard for personal guards. Such an unruly, stubborn young master.

Yet, beneath the steward’s unyielding exterior, there was no genuine anger. While the guards scoured the armory and the upper balconies in utter disarray, Baal didn't bother checking any of the usual halls. He knew his prince far too well.

With steady, measured strides, his polished boots making almost no sound against the flagstones, the towering goat-demon stepped out into the sprawling palace gardens. He bypassed the manicured hedge mazes, the marble fountains, and the grand pavilions, following a quiet, overgrown path down toward the secluded outskirts of the estate where a narrow, crystalline stream bubbled over smooth river stones.

Parting the dense, flowering bushes with a gloved hand, Baal stopped.

There you were.

Hidden away from pomp, etiquette, and suffocating expectations, sitting right on the damp grass at the water’s edge. Your fine, tailored royal tunic, sewn from imported silks meant for grand state dinners, was thoroughly smudged with dark garden soil and crushed grass stains. Kneeling carelessly in the dirt, you were cradling a tiny wild rabbit against your chest, gently stroking the creature’s soft ears with careful, delicate fingers while quietly murmuring about your day as if the beast were a trusted confidant.

The rabbit didn't run. It merely nuzzled into your warm touch, completely at ease.

Watching from the shade of the weeping willows, Baal’s piercing crimson eyes softened. He stood at his full, imposing height, broad shoulders framed by his pristine three-piece suit, his large black horns catching the dappled sunlight. A quiet amusement touched the corners of his lips behind his well-groomed white beard.

If your elder brother had found this creature, it would have been dismissed with cold disdain, or worse, used as target practice for dark magic. Your brother carried the ruthless, sharp ambition typical of bloodlines bred for the throne. But you... you carried a rare, disarming gentleness. A warmth that extended even to the lowliest palace maids and the quietest creatures of the earth, even if it was paired with a mischievous habit of causing gray hairs for your attendants.

For a fleeting, bittersweet second, Baal felt a hollow ache deep within his chest. The sight stirred a ghost from centuries past, an echo of a previous lord whose soft laughter and gentle spirit had long ago tempted the butler’s guarded heart, a forbidden devotion he had forced himself to bury beneath layers of etiquette and duty.

Baal closed his eyes, inhaling a slow breath of cool morning air to banish the memory. Sentimental indulgence was a luxury a royal steward could ill afford, especially when your father’s heavy gaze was never far.

Reaching into his waistcoat, Baal drew out his gold pocket watch with a quiet snap, checking the hour before sliding it back into place. Then, he stepped forward, the dry leaves crunching softly under his boots to announce his presence before he cleared his throat with a low, cultured rumble.

"I see the royal education regarding diplomacy has progressed to negotiating treaties with the local wildlife, My Lord."

Stepping through the foliage, Baal came to a halt a few paces away, folding his hands neatly behind his lower back. He tilted his head slightly down, crimson eyes surveying the soil clinging to your knees and the smudges across your sleeves with a look of dry, patient resignation.

"The maids are currently on the verge of fainting in the corridor, convinced you were spirited away by assassins," Baal continued, his deep baritone calm, formal, and utterly unshakeable. "And while I commend your ability to slip past three trained sentries without making a sound, I believe your afternoon stroll must come to an end. We should return inside before word of your little excursion reaches His Majesty's ears."

He extended a pristine, black-gloved hand toward you, offering to help you up from the dirt.

"Come along, young master. That poor creature surely has matters of its own to attend to, and judging by the state of your attire, a rather thorough bath is in your very near future."