Page 48

VALENTINA

T he echo of our footsteps resonates against the carved walls, each step drawing us deeper into the monarchy’s lair.

My heart pounds, but there’s a steady pulse of defiance that undercuts my fear.

Malphas is right behind me—his massive frame radiates suppressed fury and battered strength.

The vow’s chain no longer strangles him like before, thanks to the shattered anchors we left in our wake.

Yet I sense its lingering presence, a faint coil of tension that thrums in the hush of these corridors.

We slip into a wide antechamber draped in black silks embroidered with serpents.

Pillars carved from obsidian flank a central aisle, each etched with glowing runes that look too similar to the vow’s script.

A haze of incense coats the air, heavy and cloying, prickling my nostrils.

The place reeks of old blood rites and dark sorcery, a temple to the monarchy’s twisted worship of the Thirteen.

Malphas steps to my side, illusions flickering around his horns.

He’s tall—easily eight feet—and every inch of him is taut with wary anticipation.

Patches of dried blood streak his ebony skin, and the molten lines that trace his arms pulse with sporadic arcs of black flame.

His wings droop in exhaustion, but determination burns in his glowing eyes.

When he meets my gaze, I see the vow’s subdued agony in them—he fights it at every moment.

We stand at the entrance of a massive ritual hall that opens beyond a short flight of steps.

Flickering torches reveal a polished floor inlaid with swirling mosaic patterns.

At the hall’s far end, an altar rises, ringed by serpentine pillars that curve upward to a vaulted ceiling.

A swirl of opalescent light coils above that altar, shimmering like an inverted storm cloud.

My skin crawls. I sense wards anchored there—the monarchy’s final fallback for subjugating Malphas if they can’t physically overpower him.

I press a hand to my bandaged ribs, breath shuddering.

My body wants to collapse, but my mind refuses.

We have come too far—there’s no turning back.

We must face the monarchy’s most formidable lords and whichever nightmares they conjure to corner us.

Our entire plan hinges on me unleashing a power that could rewrite the vow or at least tear it from Malphas’s soul.

Fear twists my stomach at the memory of the prophecy etched in the archivist’s notes.

A child of the Abyssborn shall unbind a demon’s chain through blood’s final tether.

I force myself to recall the vow I made to Malphas: I won’t die for them. I’ll break fate if I must.

He notices my trembling, places a huge clawed hand on my shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Steady,” he murmurs, voice low and deep. “You said we’d do this on our terms.”

I swallow, nodding. “I meant it. We handle any confrontation they throw at us.”

Stepping forward, illusions swirl around him, forging ephemeral shapes that flicker at the periphery of my vision.

We advance into the ritual hall, boots echoing.

My short sword clenches in my grip, palms slick with sweat.

The swirling mosaic across the floor depicts scenes of demon subjugation—dark elves towering over chained, horned figures.

Fury ignites my gut. They once enslaved Malphas.

They thought to break him. That ends tonight.

We cross the center of the hall. The hush is suffocating, as if the air itself holds its breath.

Then, a blast of arcane pressure ripples from the altar.

My stomach lurches. Figures emerge from behind the serpentine pillars, stepping into the torchlight.

Each wears sleek obsidian armor chased with silver filigree.

Their faces are hard, cold, eyes gleaming with contempt.

Dark elf lords. Some are known from rumors—high-caste generals who command entire armies.

Others exude potent magic, hands wreathed in faint arcs of power. My pulse spikes.

In their midst, a monstrous silhouette steps forward—a demon nearly Malphas’s height, but slender, serpentine horns curling around its skull.

Pale green lines pulse across its chest. A collar of black iron circles its throat, runes shimmering along the metal.

My breath hitches. A rival demon lord, enslaved by the monarchy.

My heart clenches at the sight, remembering how Malphas once stood in a similar position.

The monarchy has a thing for chaining demon royalty.

A tall elf at the front raises his chin, dark hair slicked back to reveal angular ears. His lips curl in a sneer. “You’ve come far enough, traitor.” His eyes flick to me. “And your pet mortal. I see the vow’s anchors were insufficient to keep you leashed. No matter. We have final methods.”

I stiffen, biting down an angry retort. Malphas bares his fangs, illusions shimmering over his horns. “You have no hold on me,” he snarls, voice laced with raw fury. “Your vow is undone.”

A second elf, a female with elaborate braids and a scar crossing her cheek—laughs coldly. “Undoing the vow’s primary anchors won’t save you from re-subjugation, demon. We have fresh wards keyed to your essence. Surrender now, and we might be lenient.”

A strangled growl escapes Malphas. “Lenient? Don’t make me laugh.” He lifts a clawed hand, illusions swirling into tangible shapes around his fingers. “I owe you centuries of retribution. Your wards won’t hold if I tear them apart from the inside.”

The rival demon lord steps forward with a hiss, collar crackling. Its horns arc like twisted crescents, eyes a dull orange that flickers with hatred and subservience all at once. The lords behind it smirk. They want demon pitted against demon. My gut churns at the cruelty.

A swirl of savage adrenaline pumps through my veins.

I can’t let them overrun Malphas. He’s battered from our last battles.

If these lords cast their wards in unison, they might hamper his illusions again.

I feel the Abyss stirring in me, that ancient lineage I barely comprehend.

The prophecy calls me a child of the Abyssborn.

My chest tightens—I promised I’d harness that power without sacrificing my life. If I fail, everything ends.

I grip my sword hilt tighter, stepping to Malphas’s left, so we form a united front. “We’re not surrendering,” I say through gritted teeth. “Let me guess—you plan to kill me and rebind him? Or force me to watch as you reclaim your demonic weapon?”

One of the lords—a tall, gaunt figure with elaborate epaulets—tilts his head.

“Clever mortal. Indeed, the monarchy’s hold on the demon must be reestablished.

You are… expendable.” He flicks his gloved fingers, and arcane lines ripple across the floor.

Runes shift, the mosaic patterns reconfiguring.

My heart stumbles. Some hidden mechanism is activating.

Suddenly, glowing chains lash out of the mosaic, snaring Malphas’s ankles.

He curses, illusions swirling to fend them off, but the arcane chains cling, fueled by the temple’s reservoir of magic.

The vow’s remnants spike in him, making him reel.

I see his horns dip, agony contorting his face.

The monarchy lords grin, stepping in to tighten the trap.

“Stop!” I snap, lunging. But they know to keep distance.

The rival demon lord leaps forward, intercepting me with an enraged hiss.

Its collar glows, compelling it to strike.

I barely manage to parry the blow, sword scraping its scaled hide.

My arms tremble from the impact. This demon is no mindless thrall—it’s cunning, forced to obey by the monarchy’s brand.

Malphas tries to tear the chains away, illusions flickering around his wrists, but the synergy of wards locks him down. A female elf extends a staff crackling with vile energy. “We’ll keep you pinned until the vow is reattached. Resist more, and we’ll incinerate you.”

My mind races. If they forcibly recast the vow, everything we did is lost. I dodge the demon lord’s second strike, my ankles sliding on the slick floor.

I need to break their focus or free Malphas.

Another slash from the demon lord nearly takes my head off.

I duck, heart hammering. “Malphas,” I shout, “hold on!”

He roars in defiance, illusions surging, but the monarchy’s wards glow in the mosaic.

The chain around his ankles spreads, creeping up his calves.

Blood seeps from his leg wounds. The vow’s flicker intensifies, though not fully restored yet.

He looks at me, anguish blazing in his red eyes. He can’t fight them alone.

I grit my teeth. Time to unleash the power I swore to master without losing my life.

The monarchy’s attempts to rebind Malphas must be interrupted.

I can’t sever the vow with half measures.

A swirl of dark energy slithers in my veins, reminiscent of the day I first discovered my lineage.

My father’s blood, the Abyssborn strain, calls me to let go of mortal constraints.

Black runes flicker across my arms, lines of liquid darkness that swirl around my wrists. Yes.

A jolt of dread hits me. The prophecy warns that channeling the Abyss might devour my soul if I’m not strong enough.

But I have no choice. “Malphas!” I scream, letting that primal energy surge through my limbs.

The black runes intensify, flaring across my chest and jaw.

My vision tinges with shades of obsidian and amethyst, the entire temple cast in swirling fractals of shadow.