# Chapter 1: The Drunken Proposal

The rain lashed against the windowpanes, each droplet a cold reminder of the emptiness echoing inside Stolas. He stared at the half-empty bottle of Goetian whiskey clutched in his talon, its amber contents swirling like liquid regret. The sharp sting of Stella’s screeching call still vibrated in his skull, a grating counterpoint to the deeper ache – the terrifying silence where Blitzø’s laugh used to live. He’d forgotten the sound. Forgotten it. The realization hit him anew, a fresh wave of despair crashing over the dull, familiar pain of centuries. He tipped the bottle back, gulping down the fiery liquid. It burned, but it didn’t warm. Nothing did anymore. Not truly. He needed oblivion. He needed a distraction. Anything to drown out the ghosts whispering in the hollow spaces of his too-large, too-quiet house. The whiskey sloshed heavily in Stolas’ veins, blurring the edges of the world but sharpening the jagged ache in his chest. He needed Blixa. Needed her now. Not tomorrow, not after another sleepless night drowning in memories—now. Rain plastered his feathers flat as he stumbled through the slick streets of Imp City, the neon signs bleeding into watery smears of color. He knew her favorite haunt, a dimly lit bar tucked beneath a flickering casino sign called The Rusty Spur. Logic drowned in liquor; he pushed through the heavy door, the humid stench of cheap beer and desperation hitting him like a wall. The humid air inside The Rusty Spur clung thick with smoke and desperation, the clatter of dice and low curses blending into a dull roar. Stolas swayed near the entrance, rainwater dripping from his feathers onto the grimy floorboards. His bleary eyes scanned the haze until they locked onto Blixa—leaning against the bar, surrounded by three rough-looking Imps. One gestured wildly with a tankard, his laughter sharp and grating. Stolas’ heart lurched. He stumbled forward, ignoring the patrons who sidestepped him with muttered curses. One of the Imps nudged Blixa, pointing a clawed finger toward the entrance. "Uhhh, lady," he slurred, beer sloshing over his tankard. "You said you wasn't married. Is this your husband?" Blixa turned, her eyes widening as she finally registered Stolas—drenched, disheveled, and swaying dangerously close. Before she could react, Stolas lurched forward, wrapping his arms clumsily around her waist, his talons digging into her shirt. "Blixa," he mumbled into her shoulder, breath hot and heavy with whiskey. "Need to talk... 's important." Blixa stiffened, her cheeks flushing crimson as she tried to pry Stolas’ talons from her waist. “Stolas? What the—get off me!” The Imps exchanged smirks, clearly enjoying the spectacle. One whistled low under his breath while another nudged his companion, nodding toward the drunken prince clinging to Blixa like a drowning man. Stolas only tightened his grip, burying his face in the crook of her neck, oblivious to her discomfort. “Can’t lose you too,” he slurred, his voice thick with desperation and liquor. “Not like him…” Blixa’s jaw tightened as she shoved against Stolas’ chest, her movements sharp with embarrassment. "Get off me, you drunken mess!" The Imps chuckled, leaning back in their stools to enjoy the show. Stolas stumbled backward, blinking rainwater from his eyes as he struggled to focus on her face—Blitzø’s face, twisted in anger instead of affection. "You don’t understand," he slurred, swaying dangerously. "Can’t lose you like I lost him..." Blixa shoved him away again, harder this time. "You're making a scene!" she hissed, glancing at the grinning Imps. Rainwater dripped from Stolas's feathers onto the sticky bar floor as he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby stool. The room tilted violently. He blinked, trying to focus on Blixa’s furious face—so familiar, yet so painfully distant. "You don't... understand," he slurred, his voice cracking. "Every time... every time it happens again..." He gestured vaguely toward her, then toward the Imps. "You leave. They always leave." Blixa’s expression hardened into something cold and unfamiliar—a look Blitzø had never once given him. "You’re pathetic," she spat, turning her back on him as the Imps erupted into louder laughter. Stolas stared at her shoulders, the line of them rigid beneath her jacket, and felt the world fracture. Rainwater dripped from his feathers onto the grimy floor, each drop echoing the shattering inside his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there swaying as the bartender muttered about calling security. Stolas lurched forward again, his movements clumsy and desperate. He ignored Blixa’s sharp intake of breath as his taloned hand slid down her hip and fumbled against the fabric of her jeans, fingers digging clumsily into the seam near her thigh. "Stop fronting, Blixa," he slurred, voice loud enough to cut through the bar’s chatter. "I know you wet rn—these other men can’t please you like me." A collective gasp rippled through the patrons, followed by stifled snickers and one loud, mocking whistle from an Imp nursing a beer. Blixa froze, her face flushing crimson beneath the dim neon lights, humiliation tightening her features into a mask of fury. Blixa recoiled as if burned, slapping Stolas’s hand away with a sharp crack that echoed louder than the jukebox. "Get your fucking hands off me!" she snarled, shoving him backward with both palms against his chest. Stolas stumbled, tripping over his own feet and crashing hard onto the sticky floor. Rainwater and spilled beer soaked through his feathers as he looked up, dazed, at the ring of leering faces—Imps grinning, Hellhounds shaking their heads, all relishing the spectacle. Blixa stood over him, trembling with rage. "You think this is *romantic*? You’re disgusting!" Her voice cracked, raw with shame. The words sliced through Stolas’s drunken haze like shards of ice. *Disgusting.* Blitzø had never called him that—not even at his worst. Something primal snapped inside him. With a guttural growl, he surged upward, ignoring the ache in his ribs. Before Blixa could react, he hooked an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, lifting her off her feet in a bridal carry. She gasped, kicking wildly, but he held firm, crushing her against his chest. "You *want* fine?" he rasped, breath hot and whiskey-sour against her ear. "I’ll show you fine." He kissed her. Not gently. Not hesitantly. His beak parted hers with bruising force, tongue sweeping past her lips in a desperate, possessive claim. Around them, the bar erupted—jeers dissolving into stunned silence, glasses clinking forgotten. Stolas poured centuries of longing into that kiss: the phantom taste of Blitzø’s laughter, the ache of empty beds, the raw need to *feel* something real again. Blixa went rigid, then shuddered, a muffled whimper escaping her throat. Against all logic, her fists unclenched, fingers tangling in his rain-drenched feathers. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision—beak against lips, desperation against shock. Stolas poured every shattered memory of Blitzø—the warmth, the stolen moments, the ghost of laughter he could no longer recall—into the fierce press of his lips against hers. He tasted rain, cheap whiskey, and beneath it, something startlingly familiar—a faint, smoky sweetness that echoed Blitzø’s favorite cigarettes. It shattered his drunken haze. Stolas broke the kiss abruptly, panting, staring down at Blixa’s flushed face. Her eyes were wide, dazed, lips swollen. A flicker of raw vulnerability flashed across her features before hardening into furious embarrassment. "Put me down," she hissed, voice trembling. "Right now, you fucking lunatic!" Stolas’s grip tightened instinctively, talons digging into her thigh as rain dripped from his feathers onto her face. "Blixa, please," he slurred, voice cracking under the weight of centuries. "We need to talk. Come with me." His eyes, wide and desperate, scanned hers, searching for any flicker of the soul he’d loved. "Just... come home. My home. Please." The last word dissolved into a ragged whisper, lost beneath the sudden roar of jeers erupting from the bar patrons. Someone shouted, "Pay the bitch, prince!" Another laughed, "He’s cracked!" The mockery clawed at him, but Stolas didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Blixa’s furious expression. Now it's your turn to continue the story. What happens next? Do you want to: A) Follow Stolas and Blixa as they leave the bar and head to Stolas's palace B) Explore the backstory of Stolas and Blitzø's relationship C) Introduce a new character who challenges Stolas's proposal D) Describe the reaction of the bar patrons as they leave Choose your response: