Page 4

MALPHAS

I loom 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 the twisted 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.”

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.