Page 26

MALPHAS

I pace the length of my private study, tension humming through every sinew.

My wings rustle whenever I pivot, leathery membranes scraping the basalt walls.

The air in here smells of dust and centuries-old parchment, a stark contrast to the cloying scent of brimstone that saturates the rest of my fortress.

Tall shelves line the perimeter, stacked with scrolls and tomes I’ve gathered from ancient battlefields, deserted sorcerer towers, and raids on the dark elf archives.

A single arcane lantern sheds weak light, throwing restless shadows across the floor.

At the center of the room, a circular runic diagram glows faintly—a web of swirling lines and sigils etched into the stone.

The lines pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, responding to the power coiling under my skin.

It has been decades since I last used this circle to unearth secrets locked behind spells or wards.

Tonight, I’ll attempt something I never imagined: analyzing the bloodline of a mortal—no, not just a mortal —who vexes me in more ways than I can count.

The memory of last night slams into me unbidden: Valentina gasping my name, her nails clawing my horn as if searching for purchase in the madness of our joining.

The taste of her mouth, the heated shock in her gaze as I pressed her into that slab of basalt.

A growl rumbles in my throat. It was a foolish indulgence, a raw collision fueled by frustration and lust. Part of me still aches from it.

Another part curses how close I came to losing control, especially when the contract twinged at the height of my desire.

I clench my fists, glaring at the swirling runes.

“Focus,” I mutter under my breath. Desire is a worthless distraction.

Yes, I took her, but I’ll not allow that to sway me from the real mission: discovering the truth behind her blood.

If she truly is the key to shattering the demonic oath binding me to the dark elf King, I can’t let the complexities of us stand in the way.

Grim determination steels my spine. I pull a small crystal phial from a leather pouch at my belt.

Within it, a single droplet of Valentina’s blood shimmers under the lantern’s glow.

She scratched her arm this morning on a jagged edge of my fortress walls—likely while avoiding a nosy Trolvor—and I seized the opportunity.

Whether she realized I pocketed that droplet is uncertain, but I suspect she guessed. She’s no fool, that one.

The droplet pulses faintly against the glass, as though alive with dormant power.

The sight unsettles me, flaring an uneasy flutter I refuse to name.

This is more than mortal blood. It resonates with something primal, a whisper older than the illusions shaping my domain.

A whisper that reminds me of the Abyss, that infinite darkness the oldest demons sometimes speak of in hushed tones.

I step into the runic circle, carefully placing the phial at its center. Power stirs in the air, drawn by my presence. My horns tingle with the first brush of arcane energies. “Show me the origin,” I command, letting my chaos magic slip into the etched lines.

The runes blaze to life, black flames crackling along the sigils. My breath grows shallow. This circle can reveal hidden genealogies, blood-hex curses, or any number of secrets inscribed within a single drop of blood. I haven’t used it in ages, mainly because the results can be… unsettling.

A swirl of smoke coils above the phial, forming shapes that flicker in and out of focus.

I see the faint outline of a woman’s face, gaunt from hunger, then a man brandishing a sword in a dusty field.

The images shift too quickly for me to catch every detail.

They’re glimpses of Valentina’s ancestry, or perhaps the mortals who preceded her.

My heart thuds an uneven beat. You must keep your mind on the goal, Malphas.

The smoke condenses, blackening at the edges. My lips peel back in a silent snarl as a deeper power stirs within the circle. Something old. Something that hisses from beyond the wards of my fortress. The flames gutter, then flare bright, spitting sparks.

“Damn,” I hiss. This reaction is more intense than I anticipated. The swirling blackness forms a shape in midair: a horned figure with serpentine eyes, a shifting silhouette that dwarfs the ephemeral images of humans. My veins burn, chaos magic answering in kind.

Another shape flickers, this one vaguely female, locked in a swirling dance with that horned figure. There’s a sense of conflict, betrayal, and unstoppable power. The circle’s runes sing with tension, like the strings of a bow drawn too tight. My tail lashes the floor. What am I tapping into?

The ephemeral scene collapses back into swirling smoke.

A single, jagged rune forms at the center, pulsing red.

I recognize it as an ancient demonic glyph referencing the “Fallen One.” My breath catches.

The Fallen One is a primal figure from demon lore, a being cast out in the earliest days of the Underworld’s creation.

I recall scraps of legend: the Fallen One was an Abyssborn entity who warred against demonkind itself, or perhaps warred with them. The stories vary. Only one truth remains consistent across every telling: the Fallen One’s bloodline is lost, extinguished… or so we believed.

“Impossible,” I murmur. The glyph hovers in the air, confirming otherwise. The droplet of Valentina’s blood resonates with that ancient lineage. She’s Abyssborn, a direct descendant of the primeval power that once shook our realm.

Heat surges in my chest, excitement, and a flicker of fear.

If she possesses the blood of the Fallen One, that might explain the contract’s instability whenever she’s near.

She can potentially sever it. My wings twitch, anticipation thrumming in my bones.

For centuries, I’ve served under compulsion.

Now, for the first time, a genuine path to freedom opens before me.

The black flame roars higher, spitting out one last image: a chain snapping.

My entire body stiffens, recognition blazing.

It’s symbolic, a sign that Valentina’s ancestry can break bonds even older than mine.

Then the flame winks out, leaving the runic circle scorched.

The phial cracks, releasing the droplet of blood into the air.

It disperses in a hiss, leaving no physical trace behind.

The abrupt quiet weighs on me. My heart thunders, grappling with the revelation. She’s Abyssborn. She’s the reason my oath to the King is faltering. If we harness that power, perhaps it’s no longer a question of if I can break my chains, but how.

I exhale, running a clawed hand over my broken horn, an unconscious gesture whenever I’m deeply troubled.

Pride surges: I have an advantage. The King cannot suspect that the mortal he wanted sacrificed harbors the bloodline of a being so ancient it defies recorded history.

In one sense, this is my false victory—I’ve discovered the key to unbinding me from Grymlock’s contract.

An unexpected wave of unease strikes me.

She can free me. That’s the best outcome imaginable, so why do I feel this pang of dread?

My mind supplies the answer: if the King learns of her identity, he’ll stop at nothing to destroy her, to keep me enslaved.

And if I can’t protect her… I might lose the best chance of freedom I’ve ever had.

A growl simmers in my throat, half-protective, half-frustrated.

We just slept together, in a savage coupling that left me raw.

And now I discover she’s more significant to my existence than I ever dreamed.

Rage at the irony floods me, tempered by a strange protectiveness.

Another new emotion. When did I start caring about anything beyond my own survival?

I gather the battered remains of the phial and toss them aside.

The runic circle glows faintly with spent power, smoke drifting across the floor.

I should tell her what I’ve learned. If she suspects her blood is special, it might explain her own uncertain ties to illusions and magic.

But a twisted voice in my head warns me that if I let her know the full extent of her power, she might use it against me.

She loathes me, and rightfully so, after everything I’ve done to her kind.

I grit my teeth. My horns dip, shoulders tensing. But I need her. I need her trust, or at least enough cooperation to harness that bloodline. Telling her might be the only way. She’s stubborn, and secrecy could drive her away at a crucial moment.

Abrupt footsteps echo outside the study door, drawing me from my thoughts.

I sense her approach—the faint, uneven cadence of her stride.

My chest tightens. She’s come here, perhaps searching for me, or for answers.

I lift a hand, channeling a swirl of chaos flame to erase the leftover scorch marks from the circle.

No reason to let her see how I rummaged through her ancestry in secret.

The door swings open. Valentina stands at the threshold, eyes narrowed.

She’s dressed in a mismatched tunic and the coat I provided, the fabric straining over the bandages that hide her bruises.

Her hair is half-pulled back, revealing the angles of her face.

She’s still exhausted, likely from the illusions and the rawness of last night, but her silver eyes smolder with determination.

My heart hammers once more, betraying how her presence unsettles me.

“Looking for something?” I ask, letting my voice roll in a lazy purr that conceals my roiling nerves.

She sniffs the air, frowning. “Smells like smoke. You doing more demonic rituals in here?” Her gaze flickers to the newly cleaned floor, suspicion etched in her features.