NOVEL NEXT Chapter 328: Morning
The night ended.
No fireworks. No blood. No infernal orgies echoing through the halls.
Just silence.
Even demons needed a break sometimes.
The aftermath of the gathering settled into velvet silence—room by room, wing by wing. The wine bottles stopped breathing. The harp stopped humming. The last of the desserts melted into forgotten sugar stains on porcelain.
Lux didn't join the women in their rooms.
Most of them were passed out. Fiera was sleeping like a dramatic swan in the guest suite with three pillows stacked under her neck and one arm hanging off the bed. Naomi had locked her door, Rava had returned to her suite, and Sira? Sira had vanished into her own wing with a sultry yawn and a comment about "needing to dream about mischief."
And Mira?
Mira stayed.
But not in his bed.
Which was fine.
More than fine.
Lux hadn't joined anyone.
Instead, he sat in his dark study at midnight, legs crossed, shirt undone just enough to breathe, scrolling through Hell's core financial arteries like a sinner revisiting their crimes.
He reviewed three major merger requests. Flagged one for soul laundering. Rewrote a corruption clause in an infernal dividend contract. Checked his own vault flow.
Everything was stable.
Which, frankly, made him suspicious.
Still. He logged off, filed the necessary reports, and finally dragged himself to his private bath. A hot shower. A steam room cool-down. A brief moment in the mirror.
Then bed.
Alone.
For once.
And—
5:53 AM.
His eyes opened like they'd been wired to an alarm that no longer needed setting. The sky outside was still velvet-blue, hints of gold leaking at the edge. His pillow was cold on one side. The room still smelled like him. Clean sheets.
He blinked up at the ceiling and let the silence linger.
Then murmured to himself, voice a dry rasp, "I guess this is the first time I got up without anyone beside me."
A pause.
He rubbed his face with both hands and sat up slowly.
No groaning. No stretching. No fanfare.
Just that quiet, mechanical precision of someone who didn't know how to sleep in.
A curse, really.
He ran a hand through his hair and padded barefoot across the cool stone floor, grabbing a loose black workout pant on the way. His torso was bare.
Outside his room, the halls were still.
He passed two servants bowing low, their uniforms crisp, hands folded politely.
"Good morning, Lord Vaelthorn," one of them greeted softly.
He gave a slow nod.
"You're up early."
"I slept six hours," Lux said. "That's more than enough."
The servant nodded. "Your coffee will be waiting."
"Make it the usual," Lux said over his shoulder as he walked.
Then he changed direction.
Instead of the kitchen, he turned toward the garden wing. He wanted to check on Veyra's work. And if he was being honest, he missed it.
Not the plants. Not the flowers.
But the order.
Veyra didn't just grow things. She cultivated them like secrets. The kind that bloomed under pressure and bled when cut.
The mansion's west garden doors opened automatically as he approached, the runes pulsing softly in recognition.
And there it was.
The garden.
Beautiful in a way that hurt a little.
Not in a "mortal elegance" kind of way. These weren't roses or tulips or anything so delicate. No, the blooms here were wrong in all the right ways. Petals that shimmered like obsidian glass. Stems that moved when you weren't looking. A vine that whispered occasionally—soft curses in a dead dialect. And near the back, a massive tree with veins of molten gold curling through its blackened bark, humming like a purring beast.
"Veyra," he called gently.
From behind a twisted hedge of silver-thorned hellebores, a figure straightened. Long gloves. Wide-brim hat.
"My lord," she said, brushing dirt from her apron and bowing her head.
"You're early."
"I never left," she replied.
He walked slowly, eyeing the newest additions. One flower glowed faintly with bioluminescent spite. Another tried to bite his shadow.
"Any problems?"
"None worth mentioning."
"Do you need more supplies? Tools? Seeds? Backup?"
Veyra glanced up from her planter tray. "No. The flora respond well to blood-stained soil and silence. I have both in abundance."
He gave a faint smile. "Of course you do."
He lingered another minute, breathing in the sweet rot and sulfur. It smelled like home. Like the Infernal realm. Like who he really was.
Then he turned. "Carry on."
She bowed once more.
Back in the mansion, his coffee waited—perfectly hot, perfectly bitter, perfectly balanced. He took a long sip, sighed through his teeth, and headed down to his private gym.
Still shirtless.
Still barefoot.
The gym was state-of-the-art: enchanted machines, weighted runes, punch targets that adapted to your power level. There was a sauna in the back. A cryo-room behind it. Even a cursed punching bag that screamed every third hit.
Lux didn't use any of that.
He stuck with basics.
Push-ups. Weights. Stretching. Cardio bursts. Just enough to stabilize the cortisol, clear the mind, and keep the body battle-ready. Thirty minutes. That was all he needed. Health wasn't an aesthetic for him—it was a function. Just like food. Just like sleep. It all fed into his work.
So there he was.
Sweat glistening across his back, chest rising with controlled breaths. Muscles tensing. Hair damp. Body lean, powerful, alive.
He was doing pull-ups when he felt the air shift.
Movement.
Not danger.
Just… someone else.
Barefoot steps. Half-stumbling. Hesitant.
Then—
"Oh."
Mira's voice.
Half-slurred, still husky with sleep.
He looked over his shoulder—upside down, from his current hanging position.
There she was.
Hair a tangled mess of waves. Oversized robe wrapped around her like a loose cocoon. One slipper. No makeup. Eyes still puffy from sleep.
She blinked at him.
He hung still.
"…Morning," she said, rubbing her eye. "I was going to yell at a servant for forgetting my tea, but then I saw you."
"Lucky me," he said, dropping to the ground in one fluid motion. His bare feet landed with a dull thud.