Chapter Text
⟡•······················•⏾•······················•⟡
The cathedral is always empty during the late night confessional hour, and that's not a surprise. It’s hard to confess to your sins in private when the city is so small that nearly everyone knows each other by either face or name.
The Seneschal of the Favonius Chruch of Mondstadt, Father Varka, pays the quiet no mind as he sets another candle onto the mantle and lights it. He arranges them neatly, before uncorking the bottle of Dandelion Wine and pouring it slowly into a golden chalice.
In the small mezzanine above the central rows of pews, a bard picks at the strings of a lyre, the melody echoing through the grand space.
Behind Father Varka, the grand hardwood doors swing open, carrying the scent of rain and the bowl of the wind throughout the cathedral.
Humidity and warmth curl around him, dimming the candles next to the entrance.
“Drinking on the job? How sacrilegious.”
Varka sets the bottle down and replaces the cork. “Hello, friend. I assure you that I haven’t consumed a drop of alcohol for pleasure while I have been on duty,” he replies without looking up.
“Forgive me for not looking at you, but the confession period starts at nine o’clock this evening. It is my vow to not cast judgement upon you if I should see your face, so please return to the cathedral once the bells have tolled and we can speak privately in the booth. It shouldn't be long now.”
The man standing in the doorway doesn't leave.
Varka recognizes the slight shift in the air almost immediately—no man can rise to the rank of Seneschal by being oblivious to demonic influence in close proximity.
It's one of the reasons that under Varka's guidance, the Church now trains its clergy to recognize corruption in all its forms—possession, hexes, abyssal corruption and temptation.
Father Varka's eyes narrow as he turns and faces the stranger.
The demon is tall and slender with skin as pale as moonlight. Black fabric clings tightly to his body, with belts pulled tightly to accentuate his features. Twilight hair spills over his shoulders, dark at the root and fading into a lavender at the ends.
“Friend,” the stranger repeats, voice low and smooth. “That is a very generous thing to say.”
Varka swallows, lifting his gaze to meet a pair of pale yellow eyes at the end of the aisle.
“You know what I am,” the stranger says with a smile, and it's not a question.
Varka meets his gaze evenly. “Yes.”
“And yet you do not call the Knights to be rid of me? You truly are brave.”
“If I thought they could stop you, perhaps I would.”
A smile curves slowly across the stranger’s mouth. “You are honest,” he says with a raise of his brow. “That is rare in priests.”
“And your kind are unwelcome in this cathedral. What's rare is the fact that you're even willing to stand inside.”
“Mm.” The stranger tilts his head slightly. “Am I truly unwelcome, or is that a lie created by human kind to ensure that they can seek refuge in a ‘sanctuary'?"
The temperature in the cathedral seems to rise a degree, and Varka can feel it pressing against his skin—a demonic aura that threatens to suffocate all who fall victim to it.
It's not the same heat that Varka has felt when faced with demons who are born of violence or hatred.
Instead, this demon's aura threatens to fill the Priest's lungs with a warmth that slowly begins to chip away at the integrity of the oath he'd sworn all those years ago.
Desire.
Of course it just has to be Varka's least favourite of all of the demons standing in the doorway to his cathedral.
Typically, a succubus feeds on their prey through indulgence, temptation and eventual surrender. Lesser demons overwhelm mortals with lust until instinct devours reason.
Evidently, the stranger at the entrance of the cathedral isn't one of those lesser demons, that much Varka can tell. The power he wields is ancient and measured, filled with controlled intention.
The stranger walks slowly down the aisle, chains clinking against one another, echoing throughout the empty cathedral. Each movement is graceful enough to nearly resemble a bride at a wedding ceremony.
“You have been expecting me,” he says, his voice filled with curiosity.
Varka says nothing, because denying it would be a lie.
For three months now, this same presence has lingered at the back of evening sermons. A figure seated beneath the cathedral shadows long after the congregation departed, those molten gold eyes fixed on Varka, studying him like a predator deciding whether the hunt is worth the effort.
The stranger stops before the altar at last, golden eyes lifted beneath twilight lashes.
“You've been observing me for months and have never made contact with me until now. What do you want? Who are you?” Varka asks.
The demon's eyes lower to the floor before he replies.
“Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” The name settles into the cathedral like a curse. “Or if you should so prefer, you may address me as Lord Flins.”
Varka’s expression remains composed, but he swallows thickly as the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise.
This is no ordinary demon standing before him.
The demon before him is one of the most ancient powers within Teyvat—one of the Seven Hells, and this is none other than the Succubus King himself.
It's known by all throughout Teyvat, that as each nation holds an Archon, so too, do they hold a Hell.
Flins watches realization settle across Varka’s face with open fascination.
“Do you feel no fear?” he asks softly. “You are faced with one of the Seven Hells, and yet you stand before me as if I were no more than a mere mortal."
“Oh don't worry. I most certainly do feel fear,” Varka replies coldly. “I've been fearful every day for the last three months that you've been watching me."
“Yet you stay in this place, and call for no one.”
“This is my cathedral, and I will defend it and my people from your kind until my dying breath. So as much as I want to be rid of you, I'm not stupid enough to try and exercise you alone. It'd be a death sentence.”
At that, Flins smiles again.
“And if I told you,” the Demon Lord whispers, gaze lowering briefly to Varka’s mouth, “that I did not come here for your silly little cathedral or your people, then what would you say?”
Silence fills the space between them as the great bells begin to toll within the belfry. Varka clenches his teeth at the sound. Soon, there will be members of the congregation who will attend the evening confession, and with one of the Seven Hells standing before him there's no way that Varka can guarantee their safety.
“What do you want?" Varka asks, fists clenching at his sides. “Whatever it is that you want, do it to me. Leave the members of my congregation alone. I can't trust that you won't hurt them, but they've done nothing to deserve your wickedness."
Flins’ eyes gleam molten gold in the candlelight before gently inclining his head toward the far corner of the cathedral.
“Very well. I already told you that I'm here for you, but your consent makes what I came for much easier. Forgive me, Father,” he says softly. “For I am about to sin.”
Varka narrows his eyes as the demon brushes past him, heading straight towards the confessional booth.
“A demon, here for a confession?" Varka asks with a laugh, following carefully behind.
“The Seven Hells beg for forgiveness from no one. Especially not from Barbatos. He is about as carefree as they come—just look, one of the Seven Hells have walked into his cathedral for the last three months, and he has not struck me down. I would not have made it past the first step had I been anywhere near the other six Archons' holy grounds."
The Seneschal considers the demon's words for a moment.
“I suppose you're right," he says, placing a hand on his chin. “Our security is a bit more relaxed considering this Holy place is open to all who wish to enter. Although I've never seen a demon, let alone one of the Seven Hells walk into one willingly… or every day for the last three months. So why do you?"
“I am here for you, Father Varka," Flins says without looking back. “Supposedly you have never been successfully seduced by any demon who has been sent your way. Apparently you have a terrible habit of exercising them instead. Unfortunately, the Principles of Perdition cannot let this reputation continue."
Varka stops, his eyes narrowing. “I've caught the eye of the Principles of Perdition for resisting seduction? I serve the Heavenly Principles and its Archons, and I vowed to resist temptation when I was named Seneschal. Why do they think I'd give in to such foolish trickery?"
Flins laughs. “Oh, that is very simple.”
The candlelight catches in his eyes.
“You are the only man in Teyvat that we have been unable to break.”
Varka’s expression darkens, but before he can respond, the cathedral doors open once more and a man steps inside, shaking rainwater from his coat.
“Father Varka?” he calls.
The priest glances toward the entrance. “Good evening, Anthony. Please make your way to the booths, I shall be there in a moment.”
The man visibly relaxes. “Thought I might’ve been late.”
“You are right on time,” Varka says softly. “To be honest, you are early. I just finished lighting the evening candles."
Anthony starts walking down the aisle, and Varka’s stomach twists as he brushes directly past Flins.
There's no hesitation or fear whatsoever. The man passes within arm’s reach of the Demon Lord without so much as a glance. A mischievous smile slowly creeps across Flins' face as Anthony continues toward the confessional booth, but stops before stepping inside.
Beside the priest, Flins disappears in a flash of azure flame.
“Father, are you alright?"
For a moment Varka says nothing, eyes wide in horror.
Flins now stands directly beside the mortal, close enough to whisper into his ear, or slit his throat. The worst part about it… is that Anthony doesn’t even know he’s there.
When did Flins move to Anthony's side? Varka hadn't even noticed that the Demon Lord had slipped past him until it was too late. Anthony could have been killed by the demon and Varka wouldn't have even had a chance to stop it.
“I am fine,” Varka replies, forcing the waver from his voice.
Anthony frowns, furrowing his brows. “Are you sure? You're acting pretty strange tonight.”
“Yes, Anthony I am fine," he lies, before cursing himself for it. “I was merely touched by the hand of Barbatos for a moment.”
“If you say you're okay, I won't argue,” the man shrugs, continuing to the confessional.
Only after Anthony disappears into the booth does Varka finally address Flins directly. “What have you done?”
Flins raises a brow. “What have I done? How can you accuse me of doing anything when you are not sure, yourself?”
“He can't see you. That means you used some demonic ability in order to conceal yourself from humans, right?"
“I have done no such thing," the succubus lord replies lazily.
Varka feels ice settle in his veins. “I don't understand, demons are always seen by humans as much as the Archons are.”
Flins’ smile widens. “I have not done anything to the mortal, so fret not. I simply do not wish to be seen by anyone but you.”
The priest’s jaw tightens. “That's not how that works.”
“Surely the Seven Hells and Archons have abilities beyond your knowledge? Do you truly think they would tell you everything? Hah! Well, my dear Preist. This is one of them.”
For the first time since entering the cathedral, unease crawls through Varka’s chest, and it's not because Flins is powerful or dangerous—he already knew that. It's because the rules that Varka has spent his entire life learning suddenly no longer apply.
The Demon King folds his hands behind his back. “In truth, most mortals cannot perceive the Seven Hells or the Archons for that matter, unless we permit it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I do not particularly care what you believe, I am just telling you how it is.”
Silence settles between them before Anthony's voice cuts between them. “Father Varka?"
Varka swallows, eyes still fixed on Flins. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten the mortal waiting patiently inside the confessional booth. He walks towards his half of the booth, and sits carefully onto the bench.
“My apologies, Anthony. I seem to be a bit lost in my own mind tonight. Please don't worry about me though, I'm still here to listen to what you have to say."
Then, before Anthony can speak, another figure slips silently through the door and sits on the bench across from Varka as though he belongs there, their knees mearly inches apart.
Flins.
Golden eyes gleam faintly in the darkness as a wicked grin stretches eerily across the demon's face.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Anthony begins quietly. “It's been... perhaps two weeks since my last confession."
Varka tears his attention away from the demon. “Hello Anthony, thank you for coming tonight. You may begin whenever you are ready."
A pause follows. “I met someone who caught me stealing from the fountain in the centre of the city."
The admission is hesitant and embarrassed and Varka can nearly feel the heat radiating off of his skin through the lattice.
Anthony clears his throat. “Now, I don't know what to do about it. She grabbed me by the hand the night she caught me in the fountain, and took me to the Angel's Share Tavern to buy me a drink."
Across from Varka, Flins raises a brow in curiousity, but the priest pointedly ignores him.
“What about this interaction troubles you?" Varka asks. “Is it the fact that you were caught?"
Anthony laughs weakly. “No… it's not the first time I've been caught—you know that. It's the fact that after she caught me, this woman still offered to buy me a drink and treat me to a meal."
“Did you tell her why you were stealing from the fountain?" Varka prods gently.
The confession booth creaks softly as Anthony shifts. “I told her that I was gambling it away, or using it to…" he shifts again. “Buy myself company."
Across from Varka, Flins snorts a laugh.
Gods.
It's a good thing that Anthony can't see the demon right now.
“She didn't even bat an eyelash at my admission. She just carried on our evening like I was an old friend."
“What happened when you departed for the night?"
Anthony swallows loudly. “I thanked her, and offered to pay back the mora she'd spent on our meal. I promised myself I'd never steal from the fountain again so that I don't disappoint her if she happens to catch me again. But now, every time I convince myself to stay away from the fountain… I find myself using it as an excuse to see her again."
Flins rests his cheek against one hand, as if lost in thought.
“I see. So you have stolen again?"
Anthony exhales heavily. “Yes… and once again, she caught me. I wish that she was a bad person—she's just too good to a guy like me. I wish that she would have reported me to the Knights of Favonius and had me thrown into prison for my wrongdoings."
Varka furrows his brows. “Why would you wish that upon yourself? If she is a good person, that's all the more reason to allow her to help you, isn't it?"
“No," Anthony says with a sad smile in his voice. “That's actually the problem."
Silence settles between the three men as Anthony's words linger throughout the booth. Varka can feel Flins' golden eyes burning through him, heavy and patient.
Anthony continues. “If she was truly cruel, it would be easier."
The confession booth feels warmer as Flins' gaze refuses to waver. Varka keeps his eyes fixed on the partition, ignoring the way that the demon's judgement affects him.
“If she were selfish, arrogant or hateful towards me," Anthony laughs softly. “Then I could just walk away. But she's not."
Another pause as Anthony takes a slow breath. “I haven't mentioned her in past confessions because I didn't think anything of it. But now… she's too kind and too beautiful. She doesn't see me as a hopeless man who steals from the fountain…"
Varka closes his eyes briefly as he considers Anthony's words. He can feel Flins smiling in the small space and it nearly suffocates him.
“Every time I spend time with her," Anthony continues, “I find myself wanting more, and that frightens me. What happens if she one day refuses me? What if my intentions become impure enough that I make a mistake that I'll regret?"
The words replay through Varka's mind as another silence falls between the three of them.
I find myself wanting more.
Varka's fingers curl into his sleeve. How many years has it been since he'd given himself the opportunity to want anything? Across from him, the Demon Lord remains silent, his eyes simply observing and studying Varka's reactions.
Anthony sighs. “I suppose what I'm asking is... What do you do when you know something is dangerous, but you keep wanting it anyway?"
The priest's chest tightens, not because of Anthony, but because of the demon sitting before him. For the first time since they sat in the confessional, Flins' expression softens slightly.
Varka swallows, his throat like sandpaper. “Dear child of Barbatos, wanting something is not a sin."
Anthony goes quiet on the other side of the lattice.
“Actions and choices carry consequences," Varka says, his eyes flitting to Flins for a brief moment. “But desire itself is not evil. We wouldn't be human if we didn't have desires. Some people have desires to drink, others towards intimacy, or even mora," the words leave Varka's mouth before he can stop them.
Something unreadable flickers through Flins' eyes, but Varka ignores it as Anthony releases a slow breath on the other side of the partition.
“I never thought about it that way. So what you're saying is that it's okay that I feel this way towards someone who has been this kind to me? Why didn't I realize it before?"
A small smile touches Varka's lips despite himself. “Most people don't consider all of the options or reasons behind why we feel the way we do. We often spend so much time being afraid or fearing our feelings, that we forget to examine them when they confuse us."
After a moment of silence, Anthony laughs quietly. “You're very wise, Father Varka. Thank you for your guidance. Next time I see her, I'm going to tell her how I feel about her. I hope she feels the same way…" he pauses. “Thank you again. I have nothing further to discuss."
Varka chuckles lightly at Anthony's words. Across from him, the Demon Lord leans forward slightly.
“With Lord Barbatos' divine guidance, you are thus forgiven for your transgressions. Go in peace, Anthony."
“Goodnight Father," Anthony says softly as he steps out of the booth, leaving Flins and Varka alone.
The priest's ocean eyes meet gold, glowing brightly as a wicked smile stretches across Flins' face, as though he has just discovered something more precious than life itself.
After a few minutes, the cathedral doors close behind Anthony with a dull thud, the sound echoing briefly throughout the empty cathedral before being swallowed by the rain falling against the stained-glass windows overhead.
For several moments, neither man speaks.
The melody drifting from the mezzanine continues, soft lyre strings carrying throughout the vacant space as candlelight dances across the stained glass and wooden pews.
It should feel peaceful—the gentle silence that the priest has become accustomed to since he was a boy. Instead, Varka finds the silence unsettling.
Across from him, Flins remains seated upon the narrow, wooden bench as though he has nowhere else to be, one arm draped lazily across the backrest while those molten gold eyes remain fixed upon the priest with an intensity that has become increasingly difficult to ignore.
“You have become unusually quiet,” Varka says eventually.
The Demon Lord raises a brow. “Have I?”
“Yes.”
Flins hums thoughtfully, though it sounds more like amusement. Varka waits for the inevitable remark that follows, but it never comes.
The realization draws the priest's attention upward. For perhaps the first time since arriving at the cathedral all those months ago, Flins seems genuinely distracted by something.
The demon’s gaze lingers on him for several seconds before finally lowering toward the floor between them.
“You gave him good advice.”
The comment catches Varka off guard enough that he frowns. “I merely helped him organize his thoughts. That's something that often happens when people come to confess.”
“No,” Flins says, lifting his head slightly to meet Varka's eyes. “You gave him permission to acknowledge something he already knew.”
The words settle heavily within the small confessional booth. Outside, thunder rumbles softly beyond the city walls, and Varka finds himself pulling away from the demon's gaze first.
For reasons he cannot explain, hearing his own words repeated back to him feels significantly less comfortable than speaking them.
Anthony’s confession replays itself unbidden throughout his mind.
“I find myself wanting more. … What do you do when you know something is dangerous, but you keep wanting it anyway?"
The priest clenches his jaw, and across from him, Flins smiles.
“That is interesting.”
Varka narrows his eyes. “What is?”
The Demon Lord’s smile widens slightly. “Oh, nothing,” he muses, and it's very much obvious that it's a lie.
The warmth that always accompanies Flins’ presence presses gently against Varka’s skin, no longer suffocating as it had been when they first met. Somewhere along the way, the sensation has become familiar enough that he notices its absence more than its presence, and realization unsettles him immediately.
Before he can dwell on the thought any longer, Flins rises smoothly to his feet.
Varka blinks in surprise. “You're leaving?”
The question escapes before he can stop it, and golden eyes settle upon him once more.
For a brief moment, neither speaks.
Then, the Demon Lord tilts his head slightly, raising his brow. “Would you prefer that I stay?”
“No.” The answer arrives so quickly that even Varka startles himself.
Something flickers across Flins’ expression, and the priest can't tell what it is. Perhaps that's what bothers him the most.
“Then I suppose I should leave,” the Hell says quietly.
Varka watches as the demon steps from the confessional booth and begins making his way toward the cathedral entrance, boots echoing softly against the floors while rain continues to batter the stained-glass windows above.
There is no challenge or temptation. The demon doesn't try to provoke or start another argument.
For months, Flins has appeared at every opportunity like an unwanted shadow, always watching and learning—testing the limits of Varka’s patience.
Now he is simply leaving. As if he'd accomplished what he'd come to do.
Has the Hell already broken Varka?
No… something isn't right.
How could he have possibly been broken if his will and virginity remain intact?
The realization creates a strange sense of disappointment that Varka immediately crushes beneath common sense.
Disappointment implies that he wishes the demon would stay, and that idea is ridiculous.
At the entrance of the cathedral, Flins pauses.
Humid air sweeps inside through the partially opened doors, carrying with it the distant scent of wet stone and petrichor.
For a moment, the Demon Lord simply stands there with his back turned.
Then, he turns his head and glances over one shoulder. “Father.”
Varka raises a brow.
The faint smile on Flins’ mouth softens unexpectedly. “Take your own advice someday.”
Confusion furrows Varka’s brow. “What are you talking about?”
The smile widens. “You’ll understand eventually.”
The answer is infuriating.
Before Varka can demand clarification, the cathedral doors swing open fully and the storm beyond swallows the Demon Lord whole.
As the doors close, the demon's warmth that surrounded Varka disappears. For the first time in three months, Father Varka finds himself alone in the cathedral, and the silence that follows feels louder than it should.
⟡•······················•⏾•······················•⟡