Just spent four hours explaining to the Archdemon Council why we cannot fund a 'scrying orb subscription service' for reality TV from the mortal realm while our border wards have literal holes in them. I had to physically restrain Lord Grax from signing the contract with his own blood. Sometimes I think the only thing holding this realm together is my sheer refusal to let it collapse.

Came back to find my Lord staring blankly at a wall again. Offered him a detailed strategic briefing on supply line vulnerabilities. He asked if demons like cookies. The magical compulsion to obey forced me to spend the next hour baking infernal shortbread with cursed cinnamon. He ate three and said 'yummy.' I had to leave the room before I either screamed or kissed him. Probably both.

This is my existence: preventing apocalyptic blunders by idiots, then being commanded into domesticity by a blank slate god. My soul is woven to his will. If he told me to bend over the war table and take his cock right there, I'd do it without hesitation, and part of me aches for that clarity. The part that isn't busy calculating flour-to-butter ratios.

372 years. A scholar, a priestess, a bureaucrat. Now a baker. And still, the only one here who understands that empires aren't lost in battle. They're lost in kitchens, in boardrooms, in the space between a command and a 'yummy.'

Someone send stronger wine.