Chapter 270: The Daemon Who Kneels
The silence in the dungeon was almost unbearable. Dust still drifted from the fractured ceiling, sparks of lingering magic crackled across broken stone, and the sharp tang of blood hung thick in the air.
Kael stood tall, chest heaving, his blade dripping with his own blood and Zerathis's. At his side, the massive figure of the daemon straightened, chains still clinking around his wrists where fragments of his ancient bindings remained.
Zerathis was no longer just a presence in the room — he was a force that demanded attention. His form was humanoid, towering well over seven feet, shoulders broad and powerful enough to crush stone with ease. His skin was obsidian-dark but patterned with faint, glowing cracks like veins of molten fire running across his body. His eyes burned like two coals, irises molten gold rimmed with crimson, staring into the world with predatory sharpness.
Two sweeping horns curved back from his temples, black with streaks of dull crimson as though still stained by centuries of war. From his back sprouted faint traces of something once greater — skeletal remains of wings, long-since burned away, yet still giving him the look of something ancient and half-ruined, a monument of fury. His mouth curved into a grin that revealed serrated, wolf-like teeth. His body bore countless scars, each a story of another impossible battle survived.
Every step he took carried weight, as though the dungeon itself strained to contain him.
Lyria, Azhara, Rogan, and Varik could not move. They had watched Kael match the daemon, defeat him, force him to kneel. And yet now, seeing Zerathis walk free of his chains at Kael's side, their awe bled into fear.
Lyria's hand instinctively went to her bow. Rogan's fists clenched, his instincts screaming to fight. Azhara's daemon blood stirred uneasily at the sight of him. Even Varik, steady as ever, could not hide the tension in his jaw.
But then Kael spoke, voice hoarse yet unshaken.
"He kneels. He follows. He is mine."
Zerathis turned his molten gaze on them all, smiled with jagged teeth, and inclined his head — not mocking, but respectful.
"You need not fear me," he rumbled, voice like rolling thunder. "Your leader has broken me. Until his flame dies, my power is his."
No one answered. The only sound was Kael sheathing his bloodied sword, his eyes as sharp as steel as he looked to his companions.
"Let's go home."
The Hollow Reacts
When they returned to the Hollow, the streets froze.
Children playing with wooden swords fell silent. Merchants stopped mid-barter. Guards dropped their spears in shock. All eyes turned as Kael walked through the gates, battered but unbroken, and behind him strode a daemon of nightmare — tall, scarred, radiating power. The faint molten glow in Zerathis's skin illuminated the evening gloom, casting him in a terrible light that made even hardened warriors falter.
Murmurs rose like wildfire.
"Is that—"
"A daemon—!"
"What has he done—?"
By the time Kael reached the council hall, the Hollow was a storm of whispers and fear.
The council chamber was already waiting for him, every member seated, faces taut with unease. Saekaros, the Voice of the People, rose first, his hands trembling as he pointed at Zerathis.
"Kael! What in the gods' names have you brought upon us?! That—that thing is death itself! You dare drag an upper daemon into our home?!"
Rogan stiffened at the insult but said nothing. Varik's eyes flicked between Kael and Zerathis, calculating. Azhara's jaw tightened, conflicted, her daemon blood whispering recognition of the creature before her. Lyria sat rigid, her bow laid across her lap, but her gaze never left Kael.
Kael raised a hand, commanding silence. His voice cut sharp, iron wrapped in fire.
"He is called Zerathis. He was bound in the depths of the dungeon for centuries by the daemon lord himself. And I defeated him. I broke him. He is no longer a prisoner — he is mine."
The chamber erupted.
"You've cursed us all!" one elder barked.
"You've brought destruction into our walls!" another spat.
"This is madness!" Saekaros shouted, slamming his palm against the table. "A daemon cannot be tamed—"
Zerathis's molten eyes narrowed, and with the faintest curl of his lip, the air in the room grew heavier, hotter, like standing before a furnace. His presence alone silenced half the room in terror.
But Kael stepped forward, putting himself between Zerathis and the council.
"You fear him because he's powerful," Kael said evenly. "So was I. When I came here, when I first bled for this Hollow, some of you feared me too. You called me dangerous. You doubted me. And yet here we stand, with a home, with peace, because I chose to fight for it."
His voice hardened, his gaze sweeping across them all.
"I won't destroy a potential ally because you're afraid. If Zerathis betrays me, then I will cut him down myself. But until then—he is a weapon. My weapon. And I intend to wield him to protect this Hollow."
The chamber was silent, heavy with fear and anger, but also with the undeniable truth of Kael's words.
Azhara leaned forward, her voice quiet but sharp.
"He's right about one thing. If the daemon lord bound Zerathis, then he's no loyal servant. A daemon without loyalty is a wildfire — dangerous, yes, but also uncontrollable. If Kael truly has him bound, then this may be the first time in history one of the ten has bent knee to anyone but their lord."
Zerathis's teeth flashed in a grin, molten cracks pulsing faintly.
"Not bent. Broken. And remade."
The council sat stunned, their fury unspent, their fear unrelieved. But none could deny what they had seen: the daemon knelt.