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A dark elf cook strides past, pausing briefly to appraise my work. He’s tall, with angular features and slick hair pulled back, eyes narrow with distaste. “Faster,” he sneers, tapping the hilt of a dagger at his belt. “You worthless creatures can’t even handle a simple task without daydreaming.”

I stop the retort that surges to my lips. Instead, I keep slicing, letting the rhythmic motion quell my fury. The overheated air thickens with spices, baking bread, and the bitter tang of authority pressing down on me.

Time crawls. My arms soon ache, but I refuse to slow down. Another human worker approaches to carry away the chopped produce. She avoids my gaze. Interaction between slaves is discouraged—any sign of solidarity can lead to accusations of conspiracy. So we all function like cogs in a machine, silent and efficient.

At midday, the clang of a bell signals a brief pause. I straighten, stretching my back. Sweat drenches my brow, and my shirt clings uncomfortably. My gaze drifts across the kitchen. The dark elf staff cluster at a side table, enjoying a meal of freshbread, roasted meat, and cool drinks. They talk and laugh while we stand in the corners, waiting for permission to have scraps.

One of them, a high-ranking servant, by the looks of his elegant uniform—glances around. “Humans,” he calls out in a bored tone, “eat outside. You have five minutes.” He waves a dismissive hand.

We file into the courtyard, where a trough-like table is set up for us. A single loaf of hard bread and a watered-down stew wait in a large tin pot. I quietly spoon some into a battered bowl, ignoring the taste of rancid fat. A few mouthfuls is all I manage, but it’s enough to keep me upright. As I swallow, I scan the courtyard.

A hush falls. A trio of dark elves steps into view from a grand hallway. Their robes are rich velvet, embroidered with shimmering threads. They carry themselves with haughty grace. The one in the center, a stern-faced male with silver hair, addresses a caretaker who rushes forward to greet them. I catch fragments of their conversation—something about “the King’s Court,” “entertainment,” and “sacrifices.” A cold blade of dread pierces me. Sacrifices typically mean humans.

Before I can glean more, a harsh voice barks from behind, “Get back to work!” The moment is lost. We scramble inside, the next round of labor waiting. Anxiety gnaws at me. The mention of sacrifices lingers in my mind, stirring an unnamed terror.

Still, I bury it down. I can’t afford distractions that might get me whipped again. So I return to my station, pick up the knife, and continue. Slice, chop, peel. Over and over, mechanical, mindless, determined to survive another day.

My thoughts won’t let go of that single word,sacrifices.I don’t know who they plan to pick—or if it’s just a rumor. The memory of that horned silhouette on the rooftops slips back into my mind. My hands tighten on the knife, knuckles whitening.

I will not kneel to fear. My life is my own, even if circumstance disagrees. And if they choose me—if my fate collides with whatever monstrous entity they worship—then I’ll be damned if I go quietly.

I push the thought aside, burying it under the dull repetition of chopping. One more day. One more small victory. I’m still alive, and so is the small child I helped last night. That has to be enough for now.

Deep in my chest, the ember of defiance continues to glow, unextinguished. I cradle it, feed it my anger, my frustration. One day, it might burn bright enough to break these chains. One day, the darkness smothering Vhoig and its oppressed might face a reckoning. Until then, I endure.

2

MALPHAS

Iloom at the rampart, staring out across Vhoig under a moonless sky. My vantage point is the upper tier of a dark elf stronghold—a brooding fortress that juts from the city’s heart like a vicious fang. The stone beneath my feet vibrates with an ever-present hum of arcane power, siphoned from the Deceiver’s temple in the distance. I sense it pulsing in the wards etched into these walls, wards meant to keep creatures like me under control. The irony isn’t lost on me: a demon, made to guard the city that binds him.

I exhale slowly, and the air scorches my lungs. As an eight-foot-tall Volvath demon touched by Soz’garoth heritage, I’m used to the unnatural heat that coils through my veins. My skin is ebony-black, crisscrossed by faint veins of molten crimson that glow whenever I tap into my chaos magic. Tonight, they’re dim, dormant embers. A testament to the tight leash the dark elves hold around my throat.

I lean forward, letting my gaze traverse the multi-leveled city. From here, the opulence of Vhoig’s upper rings gleams under floating orbs of magical light. Turrets and minarets swirl in patterns that defy normal architecture, guided by thetwisted artistry of dark elf mages. Further below, the city’s mid-tier flickers with bustling life—merchants, minor nobles, and scurrying servants all weaving through labyrinthine streets. Deeper still, the bowels of Lowtown sprawl in squalor. Even from this distance, I can sense it, the pervasive stench of hopelessness clinging to those back alleys.

A scowl darkens my face. Like any demon, I thrive on fear. I find satisfaction in the trembling hearts of lesser beings. But the perpetual misery seething from Lowtown nauseates me, a sour aftertaste that lingers. The dark elves treat humans as vermin, working them to death, disposing of them when they no longer serve a purpose. Normally, I’d be indifferent. Yet something about the cruelty here churns my blood. It reminds me too much of my own cage.

Chains rattle in the hush of my thoughts, though there’s no metal clasping me now—only a collar of ancient contract magic. I can feel it coiled around my soul, forged by the dark elf nobility under King Grymlock Ishiraya’s orders. The brand rests deep in my being, restricting my power whenever they choose to tighten the leash. It’s a paradox. I am one of the deadliest forces at their disposal, yet I walk the line of servitude.

Tonight, my horns cast a jagged silhouette against the fortress lights. They’re asymmetrical, one broken near the tip, a permanent reminder of a battle lost centuries ago—back before I ended up enslaved by the elves. I’ve filed that memory away in the recesses of my mind. Dwelling on it only stokes my rage, and anger gets me nowhere unless I aim it carefully.

I let my gaze wander to the sprawl of rooftops below. Earlier, I prowled across them, following rumors of an impending rebellion. The dark elves dispatch me to root out any defiance before it grows. They consider me their enforcer. The entire idea revolts me. One day, I intend to snap their chains, but for now I feign compliance. I watch. I wait. And I keep them off balance.

A subtle footstep echoes on the stone behind me. I pivot, claws flexing out of habit, only to see a lithe dark elf approach. He’s draped in deep red robes trimmed with gold thread. His complexion is the dusky hue typical of his race, hair pale as moonlight, eyes a vibrant indigo. His posture exudes confidence—one who knows he’s protected by high status.

“Malphas,” he drawls, halting at a measured distance. My name sounds oddly soft in his mouth. “The city is restless. We’ve had more skirmishes in the Lowtown district. His Grace wants a report.”

My lips twitch in distaste. This elf is Garevir, a mid-level functionary assigned to supervise me. In truth, he’s little more than a messenger for King Grymlock. “His Grace wants a report, does he?” I echo, my voice reverberating off the stone battlements. “And what does he imagine I’ve been doing all night?”

Garevir’s eyes flick briefly to the battered iron railing. The corners of his mouth tighten. “We are aware you’ve been prowling the rooftops. Some claim they spotted your silhouette. Did you catch any rebels?”

“No.” My reply is curt. I see no reason to elaborate. If I had discovered a legitimate uprising, I would’ve torn it apart. Or possibly let it fester, if it served my own ends. My intentions are my own, carefully concealed behind the veneer of a dutiful soldier.

He steps closer, inadvertently showing a hint of boldness. “We need to ensure no disruptions occur before the next grand event. The city must remain docile.”

“The gladiatorial spectacle, you mean?” I arch a brow. “The so-called entertainment your people crave?” I nearly spit the words.

He lifts his chin. “It is tradition. Humans are better off serving in the arena than rotting in the streets.”