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A sneer twists my lips. “Call it what it is, Garevir. Butchery. Slaughter for your amusement. You’re as twisted as the rest of your kin if you believe otherwise.”

His cheeks flush with a hint of color, but he doesn’t provoke me further. I might be forced into obeying their commands, yet they know better than to push me too far. My kind can eviscerate a dark elf in a heartbeat if not reined in by the contract’s magic.

The official composes himself, clearing his throat. “Regardless, your presence is requested at the palace tomorrow,” he says. “The King wishes to confer about the upcoming…sacrifice.”

Something bristles inside me at that word,sacrifice.The dark elves have a custom of offering human lives to maintain pacts with powerful demons. Usually not me—my presence was bargained long ago. They sacrificed entire villages to finalize that original deal. Still, they occasionally bring new offerings, hoping to appease or reinforce their hold over my kind. Disgust coils in my stomach.

“Tomorrow,” I echo, my voice low. “Very well. Tell your King I will attend.”

Garevir’s mouth flickers in a parody of a smile. “Wise choice,” he says, turning on his heel. His boots click against the stone as he leaves me to my solitude.

I stare after him until he disappears into the stronghold’s corridors. If it weren’t for the contract strung around my very essence, I’d have ended this arrangement a long time ago. My fists tighten around the railing until the metal groans in protest. Every part of me rails against subservience. My entire being is war and chaos. Yet here I stand, forced to abide by the whims of elven aristocrats.

A distant echo of a scream penetrates the night air—likely another wretched soul discovered by the city guards. Humans often attempt to flee under cover of darkness, rarely succeeding.My jaw sets. My own captivity doesn’t blind me to others’ suffering, but I’ve learned to numb myself to it. In the end, everything in Vhoig is owned by someone else, from the battered humans in Lowtown to the so-called noble K’sheng merchants overshadowed by the higher castes. Even I, a demon with centuries of bloodshed behind me, wear an invisible collar.

I lean out over the rampart again, scanning the city. Over in the mid-tier, arcane lights shimmer around a courtyard. I see silhouettes gliding in and out of large estates. Nobles hosting parties, no doubt. I recall glimpsing it earlier from the rooftops—a movement in a side alley, the faint figure of a female with fierce eyes. Strange that I noticed her at all. Humans are usually beneath my notice. Yet something about her stance, the way she stared up at me even through the gloom, snagged my attention for a fleeting moment.

I shake the thought away. It’s meaningless. One more mortal bound to meet a cruel fate. The city teems with them. My business is to quell revolts, feed the dark elves’ lust for power, and survive until I can sever these damned chains.

My thoughts wander to the Soz’garoth lineage in my veins. It grants me magic beyond the typical Volvath demon’s brute strength. Even so, the elves have discovered ways to exploit that power, using it for their own ends. They force me to cast illusions, to manipulate shadows, to torture rebellious slaves. I hate every second of it. I suspect the King likes boasting that he can command a demon who dabbles in chaos sorcery. Perhaps it’s a status symbol to him, akin to an exotic pet.

A gust of wind tugs at my midnight-blue hair, bound loosely at the nape of my neck. It stirs the ragged edges of my horns, raking across the scars that spiderweb my shoulders. My wings remain folded, battered membranes pressed against my back. I rarely fly, not in Vhoig’s cramped environment. The elves prefer me on the ground, where I can act as their unstoppable sentinel.

Scowling at the horizon, I push away from the wall and stride along the rampart. I pass braziers fueled by faintly crackling arcane embers. Their illumination bounces off my obsidian claws. The wind moans through narrow slits in the stone, forming a mournful chorus that mirrors my mood. This fortress was built to repel outside threats, but the real menace lurks within these walls—an entire society feeding on the misery of others.

I descend a spiral staircase that plunges into the fortress interior. The corridor is tall enough to accommodate me, though I have to tuck my wings tight. Torches line the walls, their flames tinted by a chemical the elves use to produce an eerie green glow. My footsteps echo, each thud resonating in my chest.

Near the bottom, I emerge into a long hallway. Two uniformed dark elf guards stiffen at my approach, stepping aside hurriedly. Their eyes dart to my horns, then away, throats bobbing nervously. They’ve seen me kill an orc raider with a single swipe of my claws. Word travels fast. I pass them without acknowledging their presence. Their fear is just another currency here.

At the far end is a towering set of double doors inlaid with silver filigree. A carved motif of coiled serpents and monstrous faces, each representing a different deity among the Thirteen. I push them open and enter the chamber beyond.

It’s a wide hall with vaulted ceilings, the heart of the fortress, used mainly for war councils and interrogations. Gleaming obsidian pillars rise like dark spears, each etched with swirling runes that flicker when my aura draws near. In the center stands a dais topped by a throne draped in black-and-gold fabric. Usually, a noble oversees operations from that seat, but tonight it’s deserted.

I stride past the throne and approach a side door leading to my personal quarters—if I can call them that. My “rooms”are more akin to a heavily warded prison cell, lavish by slave standards but never truly my own. I push open the door, revealing a dimly lit space. A large basalt slab serves as my bed. A trunk holds any meager possessions they allow me to keep—mostly armor, a few battered weapons, and relics from the day I was brought under their control.

I cross the room and set a hand on the trunk’s lid. Memories swirl within. I can almost see the scrawl of demonic runes etched into my old blade, the one I used before the dark elves demanded my surrender. My tail flicks in agitation, scraping against the stone floor. That moment of humiliation remains fresh in my mind, kneeling under the weight of their combined magic, the contract forcibly sealed with my blood.

I yank the trunk open, rummaging inside until my claws close on a broken horn fragment—one I keep as a reminder of the price I’ve paid. Holding it up, I stare at the jagged edges. In the flickering torchlight, it looks like an animal’s fang. It’s a piece of me, wrenched away in a fight that ended my freedom centuries ago. I toss it back, cursing under my breath.

Tomorrow, I’ll meet with King Grymlock. He’ll likely boast about some new ritual or demand I oversee a sacrificial ceremony. The thought sets my teeth on edge. These so-called masters delight in bloodshed they orchestrate from a safe distance. They rely on me to be their sharp blade. I wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if I turned that blade against them.

Of course, the contract’s binding would respond. Sharp pain would cripple me, forcing compliance. But that doesn’t erase my desire. One day, I’ll discover a way to break these shackles. Perhaps I can wrest control of the chain, turning it into a noose around their necks instead. I revolve this possibility in my mind often, though I’m no closer to a solution. The dark elves, cunning as they are cruel, have woven the pact with powerful wards.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustration gnawing at my chest. Shutting the trunk, I move to the narrow window at the far side of my quarters. Outside, the city lights shimmer in the gloom. My reflection stares back at me from the glass, horns casting shadows across my face. There’s a permanent hardness in my crimson eyes, a predatory gleam that never fades. Some would say I am a beast. Maybe they’re not wrong.

But what lurks inside me is not just savagery. There’s an ember of longing, a memory of the days when I roamed free on the battlefields of my home plane, uncertain of my future but unchained. Now, I’m nothing more than a caged beast with illusions of grandeur, ironically guarding the very people who enslave me.

In Vhoig, everyone is owned by someone or something. Even King Grymlock is a slave to his own thirst for dominance, compelled by centuries of tradition and the Deceiver’s whispered promises. The merchant classes are chained by taxes and politics. The laborers exist at the mercy of masters they never see. And the human slaves in Lowtown…they’re at the very bottom, their spirits crushed daily.

Here I stand, a demon with enough strength to level a fortress, similarly shackled. My raw might means nothing under the contract. The realization sets my blood alight with fury.

A knock at my door interrupts the spiral of dark thoughts. I spin around, exhaling sharply. “Enter,” I snap.

The heavy door creaks open, revealing a young dark elf woman in simple black robes. Her posture is submissive, eyes carefully lowered. She steps inside and bows. “My lord Malphas,” she says, voice trembling slightly. “I’ve been sent by Master Garevir to inquire if you require anything before tomorrow’s meeting.”

I fold my arms across my chest, a low growl simmering beneath my words. “I need no escort, if that’s what you’re implying.”

She visibly flinches. “N-no, my lord. Food, wine? Or new garments? The King wants you to be…presentable.”