She sat, not in the fire-scorched halls of the underworld, but in the heart of what was once the city of Vexmoor, a quiet town near Haldria, now reduced to ash and obedience. They called it Castle Ruinspire now, rebuilt from the bones of the siege capital she razed two months ago. The banners were no longer blue and gold. Now they bore her sigil, a horned serpent strangling the sun.
Prisoners lined the courtyards, shackled and bruised, watched closely by her lesser demons, the Howlers, eyeless creatures with a split at the end of their tongues like it's two joined together. The prisoners didn't scream anymore. Screaming was pointless here. Pain was the language now.
She sat on her throne, obsidian and alive, pulsing faintly beneath her touch. A demon lieutenant dragged a man in by the hair, his uniform torn, chest bloodied, but his eyes still burned with the pride of someone who had once led.
"General Harkon of Kendros," the demon muttered, tossing the man to his knees.
He spat at the foot of the steps leading up to her. "You think you've won, demon bitch. We were caught off guard, not defeated."
She didn't blink. She didn't move. Her hand rested on the armrest, cold and steady.
He smirked. "You don't speak? What, nothing to say now that you're not hiding behind your horde of freaks?"
Her eyes narrowed, faintly, like a blade slipping an inch from its sheath.
"You know they'll come for you," he continued, licking blood from his lips. "The humans will rise. They always do."
She said nothing.
Then he moved. Fast. Too fast for the guards to stop. A thin blade, small and jagged, pulled from his boot as he rose. He charged her, roaring.
But halfway up the stairs, his body stopped. His arms froze in mid-motion. His legs locked. His scream died in his throat.
His eyes went wide.
She had not raised a hand.
She only tilted her head.
Slowly, his hand moved. He fought it, jaw trembling, veins bulging, but the blade turned. Turned on him. And with a slow, steady hand, the general slit his own throat. Not quick. Not clean. But with the hesitation of a man watching himself die, begging silently for it to stop.
He crumpled forward, blood spilling across the obsidian steps.
"Cold," she said softly. "Take that mess and feed it to the Cindervores."
A few demons moved in. They dragged the corpse away without a word. The Cindervores waited outside, hulking beasts that fed on meat and memory.
---
Far north, the banners of the human kingdoms still flew, though lower than before.
General Mirelle stood in the Hall of Swords in Ossira, her red cloak soaked from rain, her hands on the map table. General Tavros leaned beside her, armor dented, bandaged beneath his breastplate.
Around them, the war council gathered. Zorhalem priests, Iltrane spies, Rovarian beastmasters, and Kendros sky-officers. They had all come to hear what had happened.
"What do you mean she didn't fight?" asked one elder, voice thick with disbelief.
Tavros' voice was hoarse. "She sat. On a throne. Her demons fought. She never left her seat."
"You let the Sword of Hope fall," another spat. "We spent twenty years raising that boy."
"He was brave," Mirelle snapped, eyes hard. "None of you were there. You didn't see what we saw."
"She made him kneel," someone muttered. "I heard she made him… in front of everyone."
A few laughed. Bitter, cruel laughs. But not all. Some looked down.
Mirelle went silent.
Then the chamber doors opened. Heavy boots echoed.
General Aldros, the Iron Sentinel of Rengard, entered. His armor was black, trimmed with froststeel, his beard silver, his eyes cold as mountain peaks.
"You mock the fallen because you are afraid," he said. "And that fear makes you fools."
The room went quiet.
He walked to the table, stared at the map. "We lost more than men. We lost our illusion of victory. So now, we adapt."
Tavros asked, "How?"
"We gather the best from each kingdom," Aldros said. "Not kings. Not priests. Not sons of nobles. The real ones. The blades hidden in the dark. The ones who kill quietly. The ones who survived her."
He turned and walked out.
Mirelle and Tavros followed.
Outside, soldiers trained, rain soaking their tunics, swords clashing.
"These are not enough," Aldros said.
"Then who?" Mirelle asked.
"Those who are willing to die screaming if it buys us one second against her."
---
Back in Castle Ruinspire, Asmodara watched the rain fall outside the broken windows. The blood of General Harkon had already been cleaned.
Her second in command approached. General Throzak, twelve feet of armored terror, bowed low.
"My Queen," he said. "The eastern front sends word. The humans are regrouping. They plan to gather their finest."
She sipped from a black chalice, still staring at the window.
"Let them."
She didn't smile. She didn't blink.
"Hope," she said, voice empty. "Is such a delicious illusion."
And the chamber fell silent.