Page 5

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.”

A disdainful snort escapes me. “Presentable, as if I’m some caged pet to parade?” I tilt my head, studying her. Beneath my glare, she shrinks, pressing her palms together anxiously.

“N-no,” she stammers. “I—I only do as I’m instructed.”

Her fear is palpable, flooding the room with a faint tang that flickers over my senses. I could tear her apart if I wished, but that would serve no purpose. She’s just another pawn in the King’s game. My anger demands an outlet, though, so I let out a slow breath to keep it in check.

“I need nothing,” I say coldly. “Go.”

She bows again, stammering apologies, then hurries out the door as though devils are on her heels.

I slam the door shut behind her. The slight tremor that runs through my frame betrays the depth of my irritation.

Presentable , indeed. I’m a demon, not a pampered courtesan.

The King can wrap me in fancy clothes, but it won’t change the fact that I despise him.

Grumbling under my breath, I stalk back across the room.

Memories swirl, dancing at the depths of my consciousness.

The day I was first summoned, the ceremony drenched in blood, the scalding magic that forced submission.

If only I’d never answered that summons.

But I was wounded, desperate from a losing battle in my home realm.

The dark elves offered a bargain they never intended to keep. Their perfidy sealed my fate.

I sink onto the edge of my basalt bed. The stone is cool against my thighs, providing a modicum of relief to my heated skin. Outside, the night stretches on, a canvas of darkness. My tail coils around my calf. There’s no comfort in these chambers, only restless isolation.

Tomorrow, I’ll face King Grymlock’s demands once more, likely forced to watch or even assist in another sacrifice. The thought of being complicit twists my stomach. Slavery. That’s what it is, no matter the illusions of grandeur. My fury simmers again, a slow burn behind my ribs.

Drawing on a corner of my chaos magic, I let flickers of black flame dance across my claws.

The darkness slithers between my fingers, an extension of my Soz’garoth heritage.

Under different circumstances, I might have grown in mastery, become a formidable sorcerer-lord in my own right.

Instead, I’ve been stunted, forced to use this gift to do the elves’ bidding.

The black flame reflects in my eyes, and I see the beast I’ve become.

A subdued snarl vibrates in my throat. My reflection warps in the shimmer of dark energy, horns elongated, fangs bared.

I let the magic dissipate, unwilling to attract warding spells that might punish me for summoning power without permission.

I can’t break these chains alone. There’s no ally among the elves to help me.

Perhaps I could force another demon to unite with me, though they’re scattered or likewise bound.

Some fled to other corners of Protheka rather than let themselves be trapped by the dark elves.

Others remain hidden in the swirling maelstrom of the floating continent of Galmoleth, rumored to be under the Demon King Asmodeus’s dominion.

But Asmodeus has his own goals, and forging an alliance with him might mean trading one master for another.

A wave of exhaustion washes over me, though I rarely need true rest. My body might endure, but my mind bears the weight of centuries.

It’s enough to tax even a demon’s resilience.

At last, I lie back on the slab, letting my wings shift to accommodate the hard surface.

Staring at the vaulted ceiling, I notice the runic inscriptions etched overhead.

They flicker with faint luminescence, shaped like coiling serpents.

These wards form part of the fortress’s binding.

They keep me here, tethered, inescapably locked in the King’s domain.

For a moment, I recall that fleeting glimpse of the human girl from earlier.

Her eyes had sparked with defiance, even from a distance.

It was…unusual. Most humans cower in Lowtown.

If she stands out, she’ll likely perish or be singled out for the arena.

The notion stirs conflicting impulses—why do I even think about her?

I banish the thought. She’s nothing. A mortal who’ll vanish soon enough in the endless churn of this city’s cruelty. Turning onto my side, I let my tail curl near my leg. The basalt’s chill seeps into my skin.

The fortress hushes around me, except for the faint hum of warding spells. Sleep eludes me, but I rest with my eyes closed, drifting in a half-lucid state. My mind wanders to the concept of freedom. Despite my immense strength, I am powerless where it truly counts. And so I bide my time.

In the silence, I chart out a mental map of every crack in these walls, every weakness in the wards, searching for an angle I might exploit.

The day will come when I put my claws through King Grymlock’s chest and relish the sound of his dying breath.

But until then, I wait like a beast in a gilded cage, bound by treacherous spells to serve a cause I loathe.

I don’t realize how far my mind has wandered until a predawn glow filters through the narrow window. A muted haze of light signals that the city stirs again. My rage remains, burning beneath the surface. Another day, another test of endurance.

I stand and roll my shoulders. The scars across them pull tight, reminding me of countless battles.

Striding to the small washbasin, I splash tepid water over my face.

My reflection stares back—eyes red as hot coals, hair a wild shade of midnight blue that tangles around my horns.

My jawline is sharp, marred by a faint silvered scar crossing from chin to cheek.

Spidery lines of glowing crimson flicker across my bare arms, synchronized with my heartbeat.

The presence of so many wards annoys my senses, but I’ve grown accustomed to the constant pressure.

In the corridor outside, footsteps approach. The door creaks. Garevir, once again, or perhaps another messenger. My lips peel back with a silent growl. I brace myself for whatever commands the day brings.

I vow silently. One day, I will break this contract and watch these walls crumble. Until then, I’ll let them believe they own me. They have no idea what monsters they’ve invited into their midst.

I bare my fangs in a grin that’s more threat than smile. One day, the chain will snap. And on that day, Vhoig will tremble beneath my wrath.