The borderlands were a scar across the world—a no-man's land of ruined villages, blackened forests, and fields where nothing grew. General Lira Valen rode through the ashes, her armor dulled by soot, her sword heavy at her side. She had seen too many wars, buried too many friends. The land remembered every drop of blood.
Her scouts had reported strange movements beyond the old wards—demons, but not the marauding bands she'd fought for years. These moved with purpose, avoiding patrols, leaving behind signs of parley instead of slaughter.
Lira dismounted at the edge of a burned-out chapel, its stone walls cracked and overgrown with thorn. She signaled her men to stay back. Alone, she stepped inside, her boots crunching on broken glass.
A figure waited in the shadows, cloaked and hooded, the air around her shimmering with heat. Lira's hand went to her sword, but she did not draw.
"You're late," the figure said, her voice low and melodic.
Lira studied her. "You're the one who sent the message? 'Peace is possible, if you dare to listen.'"
The figure lowered her hood, revealing horns swept back like a crown and eyes the color of molten silver. Vaessara, daughter of the Demon King.
Lira's breath caught. She had expected a trap, not royalty.
"I am Vaessara," the demon princess said. "And I am not my father."
Lira's jaw tightened. "Why should I trust you?"
Vaessara stepped forward, her hands empty, her gaze steady. "Because I want this war to end. There are many in Yth'razel who do. My father's rule is not as absolute as he believes."
Lira laughed, bitter and tired. "You expect me to believe demons want peace?"
Vaessara's eyes flashed. "We are not all monsters. Some of us remember what it was to live without fear. I have seen your world, General. I have seen the children hiding in cellars, the mothers weeping for sons lost to fire. Is this victory?"
Lira's anger faltered. She thought of her own daughter, lost to a demon raid years ago. "What do you propose?"
Vaessara drew a dagger from her belt—not to threaten, but to cut her own palm. Black blood welled up, smoking where it touched the air. She extended her hand.
"A pact," she said. "Blood and bone. You help me overthrow my father. In return, I will help you seal the gate—and end this war."
Lira hesitated, then drew her own knife. She sliced her palm, red blood mingling with black as their hands clasped.
The magic flared, ancient and binding. For a moment, Lira saw visions—cities rebuilt, fields green again, children laughing in the sun. And then, fire and ruin, if they failed.
"It is done," Vaessara whispered. "We are bound."
Lira released her hand, the wound already closing. "If you betray me—"
"I won't," Vaessara said. "But we must move quickly. My father suspects nothing, but the rebellion grows. There are others who will join us, if we give them hope."
Lira nodded, her heart pounding. For the first time in years, she felt something like purpose.
They slipped out of the chapel, two shadows in a world of ash, bound by blood and the desperate hope for peace.