Chapter 9: The Last Betrayal!
The pre-dawn air of the demon realm carried its familiar bite of sulphur and ash as Xolvion stood before the ancient portal that would carry him to the human kingdom. The swirling vortex of crimson and gold magic hung suspended between two towering obsidian pillars, its surface rippling like disturbed water. Beyond its threshold lay salvation—or perhaps merely a different form of damnation.
"Are you certain about this, grandfather?" Xolvion asked, though he already knew the answer. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the travel pack containing his few possessions and the letter of introduction Zarathos had provided.
Zarathos Nightwhisper stood beside him, his violet eyes reflecting the portal's ethereal glow. Despite the early hour, the elder demon appeared immaculate in his midnight-blue robes, every silver hair perfectly in place. "Certainty is a luxury we cannot afford, my boy. But necessity... necessity is crystal clear."
The old demon placed a warm hand on Xolvion's shoulder, the gesture both comforting and final. "Remember what I told you about your heritage. The blood that flows through your veins carries potential beyond anything your siblings could comprehend. In the human realm, free from the limitations of our society, you will discover what you truly are. Trust me, my boy."
"And if I don't?" The question slipped out before Xolvion could stop it. "What if I really am just a powerless bastard with delusions of grandeur?"
"Well... Then you'll die," Zarathos said with characteristic bluntness. "But better to die striving for greatness than to live accepting mediocrity. Your mother understood that. It's why she never truly belonged in demon society—she was too ambitious, too intelligent, too... different."
The mention of his mother sent a familiar pang through Xolvion's chest. How many times had he wondered what she would think of his current predicament? Would she be proud of his survival, or disappointed in his cowardice?
"The portal is stable, my lord," Captain Thorne announced, approaching from where he'd been making final preparations. The guard captain was an imposing figure even by demon standards, his midnight-blue skin marked with ritual scars that spoke of countless battles survived. His silver eyes, characteristic of the Nightwhisper clan's elite guard, surveyed the portal with professional assessment.
Behind him stood Sergeant Korven, a younger but equally impressive specimen of demon nobility. His movements carried the fluid grace of a trained warrior, and the twin curved blades at his sides had clearly seen considerable use. Both guards wore the distinctive armour of Zarathos's personal guard. Polished obsidian plates adorned with silver runes that pulsed with protective magic.
"Excellent," Zarathos nodded. "Captain Thorne, Sergeant Korven, you understand your orders?"
"Escort the young lord safely to the human border, ensure his passage through the portal, and report back once the task is complete," Captain Thorne recited. "We understand, my lord."
"Good." Zarathos turned back to his grandson, his expression softening slightly. "This is farewell, then. I pray it will not be permanent, but if it is... Make them remember the name Xolvion Valous. Make them understand that being different doesn't mean being lesser."
The embrace that followed was brief but fierce, carrying with it all the affection and hope that words could not express. When they separated, Xolvion felt as though he was leaving behind the last connection to his old life, the final thread linking him to the demon prince he had been.
"Take care of yourself, grandfather," he whispered.
"And you, my boy. Now go, before time eludes us."
The journey from the Nightwhisper stronghold to the portal site took nearly two hours, winding through treacherous mountain passes that would have been impassable without demonic constitution and the guards' expert guidance. The path was deliberately obscure—this particular portal was one of several ancient gateways that Zarathos maintained for purposes that were never discussed openly to the likes of Xolvion.
As they travelled, Xolvion found himself studying his escorts more closely. Both demons carried themselves with the easy confidence of warriors accustomed to violence, their movements economical and purposeful. Yet something about their behaviour nagged at him. Perhaps it was the way they exchanged glances when they thought he wasn't looking, or the manner in which they kept him positioned between them rather than allowing him to take point or follow behind.
"Tell me," Xolvion said during a brief rest, his breath misting in the cold mountain air, "how long have you served my grandfather?"
"Seven years," Captain Thorne replied without hesitation. "We transferred from Lord Belphegor's service when he and Lord Zarathos formed their alliance."
"And before that?"
"Various houses," Sergeant Korven answered. "Mercenary work, mostly. Your grandfather values practical experience over noble breeding."
The explanation was reasonable, even admirable. Zarathos had always preferred competence to pedigree, a trait that had served him well in his rise to power. Yet something in their tone, a subtle flatness that suggested rehearsed responses, continued to trouble Xolvion.
They had been walking for another hour when Captain Thorne suddenly called a halt. "We're far enough from the stronghold now," he announced, his hand moving to rest on his sword hilt.
"Far enough for what?" Xolvion asked, though a cold dread was already pooling in his stomach.
"To ensure there are no witnesses," Sergeant Korven replied, drawing his twin blades. The curved steel gleamed wickedly in the crimson light filtering through the mountain peaks.
Understanding crashed over Xolvion like a wave. "I take it you are working for them?" Xolvion asked, already knowing the answer.
"Indeed, we are," Captain Thorne confirmed, his own sword emerging from its sheath with a whisper of steel on leather. "Vorthak and Seraphine send their regards, young prince. They were most... generous in their offer for your permanent removal."
"My grandfather—"
"Knows nothing of this," Korven interrupted. "As far as Lord Zarathos is concerned, we're loyal guards following his orders. Unfortunately, accidents happen on dangerous mountain paths. Bandits, monsters, unstable terrain... so many ways for a young demon to meet his end."
Xolvion backed away slowly, his hand moving instinctively to the ceremonial dagger at his belt. The silver blade that had saved him in the tunnels seemed pathetically inadequate against two professional killers in full armour.
"You don't have to do this," he said, desperation creeping into his voice. "Whatever they're paying you, I can—"
"What?" Thorne's laughter was harsh. "Offer us more? With what coin, bastard prince? Your grandfather's charity? Your non-existent inheritance? Hell, even your own grandfather doesn't want you. Why else would he banish you to the human world?"
The captain's words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. Xolvion had nothing to bargain with except his life. He was weak with no magical ability. Of course, his grandfather wouldn't risk the wrath of his siblings protecting a weak demon like him.
"Besides," Korven added, beginning to circle him like a predator stalking wounded prey, "this isn't just about gold. Your continued existence is an insult to proper demon nobility. A bastard with human features claiming royal blood? It's obscene."
The attack came without further warning. Thorne lunged forward with devastating speed, his blade aimed at Xolvion's heart. Pure instinct allowed the young prince to throw himself sideways, the sword point tearing through his travel clothes and scoring a burning line across his ribs.
He tried to draw his dagger, but Korven was already there, his twin blades dancing in precise patterns that drove Xolvion backwards towards the cliff face. The sergeant's technique was flawless, each strike calculated to wound rather than kill outright—they were playing with him, drawing out his suffering.
"Fight back, princeling!" Thorne taunted, landing a brutal kick to Xolvion's stomach that doubled him over in agony. "Show us some of that legendary royal demon fury we've heard so much about!"
But there was no fury to be found, only terror and desperation. Xolvion's blade work was clumsy, his movements telegraphed and easily countered. When he finally managed to land a strike, it skittered harmlessly off Thorne's armoured shoulder, the demon not even moving to block the attack.
A backhand from the captain sent him sprawling on the rocky ground, his dagger flying from numbed fingers. Blood flowed freely from his split lip, and his left eye was already beginning to swell shut.
"Pathetic," Korven spat, pressing the point of his blade against Xolvion's throat. "Look at you. Cowering in the dirt like the worm you are. This is what Demon Lord Malphas calls his favourite son? How such a powerful being like your father could even call you son is beyond me."
"Please," Xolvion gasped, hating himself for the weakness in his voice. "I'll leave the realm. I'll never return. I'll renounce any claim to—"
"Too late for bargains," Thorne interrupted. "You should have thought of that before threatening your betters with your very existence."
Lying there in the dust and gravel, bleeding and broken, Xolvion felt something snap inside him. Not his spirit—that had been fractured long ago—but his last remaining illusion about himself. His mother had been wrong. Her gentle words about his hidden potential, his grandfather's talk of dormant power, it was all wishful thinking designed to comfort a weak, powerless bastard who would never amount to anything.
"You're right," he whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I am pathetic. I am weak. Everything they said about me was true."
But then, as despair threatened to consume him entirely, a different emotion began to burn in his chest. Not acceptance, but rage. Not at his captors, but at himself. At his weakness. At his willingness to accept defeat.
"I hate it," he snarled, his red eyes blazing with sudden fury. "I hate being weak. I hate being helpless. I hate accepting scraps of pity disguised as wisdom."
Korven let him struggle to his knees, keeping the sword point pricked at his throat. "If I survive this... if I somehow make it out of here alive... I swear by every demon lord who ever ruled that I will become strong. Strong enough that no one will ever look at me with pity again. Strong enough to crush anyone who dares call me weak!" He said with burning fury in his red eyes.
The two guards exchanged amused glances. "Admirable sentiment," Thorne chuckled. "Pity you won't live to fulfil it. Any last words before we send you to join your whore mother?"
Xolvion opened his mouth to reply, but his words were drowned out by a sound that chilled demon blood—the hunting cry of a Wyvern. Both guards spun towards the sky, their professional bravado evaporating as a massive shadow passed over them.
The creature that descended from the crimson clouds was a nightmare made manifest. Thirty feet of scales, claws, and barely controlled fury, the Wyvern's leathery wings blotted out the hellish sky as it landed with earth-shaking force. Its serpentine head, adorned with a crown of curved horns, swayed hypnotically as it studied the three demons with predatory intelligence.
"Fuck," Korven breathed, his twin blades suddenly seeming inadequate against the apex predator before them.
"What the fuck is this thing doing so far from the mountains?"
The Wyvern's response was a jet of acidic breath that missed the sergeant by inches, dissolving a portion of the cliff face into bubbling slag. Both guards scattered, their formation broken, their attention completely focused on the new threat.
Xolvion didn't waste the opportunity. Ignoring the protests from his battered body, he rolled away from the combat and scrambled up before he sprinted towards the portal's location. The twisted spire of black rock, the ancient runes carved into the cliff face, and the shimmering air that marked dimensional instability appeared before him.
Behind him, steel rang against scales as the guards engaged the Wyvern in desperate combat. Their training and equipment were formidable, but they were facing a creature that had caused terror in the demon realm's skies since before their great-grandfathers were born.
The portal hung suspended between its obsidian pillars, exactly as Zarathos had described. The swirling vortex of energy beckoned like salvation itself, its surface rippling with otherworldly power.
Both of the guards noticed that Xolvion had made a run for it as they battled the monster before them, too occupied to do anything about it.
"Stop him!" Thorne's voice carried over the sounds of battle, desperation replacing his earlier confidence as he stopped the wyvern's powerful bite with his sword, forcing its mouth open with the length of his blade, causing the monster to howl out in pain.
But Xolvion was already at the cliff's edge, the portal mere yards away. Without hesitation, without looking back, he leapt into the swirling maelstrom of magic that would carry him to the human realm. Knowing it was his only chance at surviving.
Quickly, Korven charged in and smashed into the beast with a powerful rush attack, hurting the monster so badly it took to the sky and fled, its mouth still forced open by the sword that was wedged in it.
"Fuck... What do we tell the princes?" Korven said as he turned his attention toward where Xolvion had jumped into the portal.
"Nothing," Thorne replied grimly, catching his breath. "The bastard's in the human world now. He's as good as dead."