"Now that you've all tasted my punishment," the Dark Lord's voice thundered, rolling across the cavernous throne room, "leave my Realm. Heed this warning: should I summon you again, it will be for your souls."
His burning eyes swept the crowd of captives. Their faces were pale, hollowed by pain, every step unsteady from the searing spell he had woven into their hearts. The air still crackled with residue from his magic, sharp as storm-charged air before lightning.
Michael staggered but kept his chin lifted. His chest throbbed with a dull ache that refused to fade. Around him, the other prisoners stumbled eagerly toward the swirling vortex that had opened at the far end of the chamber — a shimmering portal to freedom. Desperation quickened their steps. None dared look back.
Except one.
An Elf lingered at his side, equally pale but motionless, their gaze fixed on the throne. Michael noted the set of their jaw, the control in their breathing — not calm, but deliberate. Together, they watched as the last prisoner vanished into the vortex. With a final hiss, the portal collapsed.
The woman on the Dark Lord's lap stirred, her head nestled against his chest. She had remained still throughout the entire ordeal, as though asleep, yet her presence radiated a subtle gravity that unsettled Michael more than the Dark Lord himself. Who was she?
The Dark Lord smiled. "So. You two would stay — and join my council?" His voice carried amusement like a hidden blade, weight and threat woven into silk. He leaned back in his throne, a grotesque sculpture of bone and twisted iron crowned with the skull of some long-dead beast.
Puff perched on the armrest, quill scratching furiously across his notepad. His tail flicked in excitement. "A council of two!" he squeaked. "Will they defy him? Or kneel? Oh, this is rich."
Michael swallowed hard, throat dry as dust. Still, he nodded. He caught the Elf doing the same, their face composed, their eyes unreadable. Michael's hand trembled — he clenched his fist to hide it.
"And you accept all my conditions?" The Dark Lord's tone was deceptively casual, but iron rang beneath it. His fingers steepled, his gaze unblinking.
Michael drew in a breath. He had to appear steady, even as fear gnawed him hollow. "I… I have a request, my Lord," he said, his voice cracking despite him.
A predatory gleam lit the Dark Lord's eyes. He leaned forward, shadows thickening around him. "What request?"
"That I may pass my mantle to another of my race — should one more suited arise." His voice steadied as the words left him. He held the Dark Lord's gaze and did not look away.
A silence settled, heavy as stone. The cavern echoed only with the drip of unseen water.
Then the Elf spoke, calm, measured: "I ask the same, Dark Lord."
Puff nearly vibrated off his perch, scribbling furiously. "A power struggle! Delicious."
The Dark Lord chuckled, low and dangerous. "Very well. But know this: your life force will be bound to the Minions I assign you. That bond will remain, even if you surrender your mantles. Betrayal means death — for you, and your heirs."
Cold dread lanced through Michael. Bound to a Minion? He felt the weight of the Dark Lord's will pressing against him, suffocating. Yet survival demanded his assent.
"I accept, my Lord," Michael said, his voice taut. The Elf echoed him, unwavering.
The Dark Lord snapped his fingers. Two figures bled out of the shadows, their forms shifting like smoke solidifying into nightmare. Minions. Shape-shifters. Their eyes burned with a baleful light.
One stretched tall and skeletal, skin a sickly green, claws glinting like knives. The other was squat and brutish, its mottled purple flesh pulsing with brutish strength.
"These are B1 and B2," the Dark Lord said smoothly. "Oscar, you are bound to B1. Michael, to B2." His gaze lingered on each of them, silent promise of ruin in his eyes.
A pulse of dark power rolled through the chamber, striking Michael like a blow. Pain seared his chest, white-hot and fleeting, leaving behind the chilling certainty that his soul was chained. He gasped, fighting to steady his breath. B2 loomed at his side, silent, its glowing eyes fixed on him.
The Dark Lord gestured. A round table rose from the obsidian floor, its surface etched with a living map of the Ancient Realm. Twelve tall chairs surrounded it, each marked with the name of a race.
He whispered to the woman at his side. Her eyes flickered open; together they crossed to the table. He seated her in the chair of the Deamune, before taking his place in the one marked "Dark Lord."
"Now," he said, his eyes pinning Michael. "Tell me what you know of the Human wizard, Merlin of House Sylvestrus."
Puff perked up, ears twitching. "A human wizard! Intriguing."
Michael's pulse spiked. Merlin? The name was legend, shrouded in awe and fear. What did the Dark Lord want with him?
"He… entered this world long after the Age of Legends," Michael said carefully. "He fought in the Sun Realm War, sealed the portal, and charged his House with guarding the site. None may enter where it once stood."
The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Michael felt sweat bead at his temple.
"Interesting," the Dark Lord murmured at last. "But what of the portal itself? What was its purpose? What secrets did it hide?" His voice dropped to a growl, suspicion sharpening each word.
Michael's thoughts spun. To lie was death. To answer wrongly — perhaps worse. "My Lord, I cannot know Merlin's true motives. He lived in an era of myth long forgotten, but his choice reshaped history. The sealing altered the balance of power among the races."
The Dark Lord's eyes burned brighter. "Fear? Or protection? What was he hiding?"
Michael forced himself to hold steady. "I can only guess, my Lord. But whatever the truth, his decision was… decisive."
Puff leaned in, tapping his pen against his notepad. "Secrets. I do love secrets."
The Dark Lord studied him a long, suffocating moment. Then his gaze slid to the woman beside him. He murmured something — her eyes widened slightly, then she nodded.
When he faced Michael again, a faint smile curled his lips. "Very well. Let us move on." His voice rang with renewed command. "I will summon my future wife — the Deamune Princess Victoria. And I will marry her."
The words hit like thunder. Michael's blood iced. A Deamune princess? Their sworn enemy? Madness — pure, impossible madness.
Puff nearly squealed, scribbling furiously. "A Deamune princess! Oh, this is epic. Chaos, politics, romance! The story writes itself."
The Dark Lord leaned back, laughter erupting from his chest, shaking the cavern walls. "Ah, the horror on your faces! Priceless! You, the so-called 'Race of Light,' so eager to brand things good or evil. And now? You trapped me with Ra's petty thorns — and I shall return the favor in kind."
He gestured at the crystalline body bound in vines of light, mocking. "A Deamune princess! Can you imagine the chaos? The exquisite pandemonium? It will be glorious."
Puff nodded vigorously, eyes alight. "Glorious indeed! But Master — what about the wedding? Grand ceremony or intimate gathering? A feast, surely? The gown, the crown, the favors!"
The Dark Lord threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Oh, Puff, you are a treasure! Yes — a grand ceremony, a celebration of darkness and power. And I shall wear a crown worthy of chaos itself!"
Oscar's eyes widened when the MagalaN introduced them to the Demon Princes. Cold crept through his body, numbing his fingers. Beside him, Michael turned pale as bone, like his very blood had been drained away.
"You can't do this!" Oscar blurted, voice cracking with panic. "This will start an all-out war!"
Michael sputtered, only just remembering to breathe. "The Alliance will—will declare war if you try to summon her!"
The MagalaN cut them off, his tone colder than stone.
"You are here to advise, not to state the obvious. I told you already—I expect them to wage war. When they do, I will crush them. Many will perish, and some of them do not deserve to die. That is why you are here: to speak for those who deserve to live. So… advise."
Oscar's thoughts spun like leaves in a storm. His voice barely reached his own ears.
"Then… I advise you not to summon her. Avoid the war while you still can."
The MagalaN's lips curled. "War is upon you whether you like it or not." His laugh followed, sharp and humorless—yet he seemed amused, as though savoring a private joke.
He's toying with us, Oscar realized, horrified. He wanted this outburst. He's enjoying it.
His eyes flicked toward the Demon Princes. She smiled at the MagalaN with something disturbingly tender, like courtiers doting on their sovereign.
Oscar swallowed hard. "Dark Lord," he said carefully, "may I ask the Demon Princess her reasons for entering our Realm? Her intentions?"
Michael's hand shot up in protest. "You can't be serious, Oscar. Don't—"
Oscar didn't turn. His voice was flat. "The Dark Lord has already made up his mind. He doesn't need our advice on this matter. He's only informing us of his plan."
Victoria arched a single brow at the title he gave her and the impertinence of the question, her emerald gaze sharp as glass. For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then the Dark Lord reached out and took her hand. Her lips softened into a smile as though his touch alone had blessed her answer.
"I intend to be with my future husband," she said, her voice smooth as silk over steel. "To follow him, and to attend his will."
Oscar's jaw tightened. He pressed further. "Do you mean to bring your Horde upon us, as in the stories of old?"
The Princess's expression hardened into regal disdain. "I follow the Dark Lord's command. Should I bare my Horde upon your armies, it will be at his word. Pray the day never comes." Her voice rang like prophecy, a foretelling none could deny.
The silence that followed was thick as ash. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
At last, Oscar bowed stiffly and turned to the MagalaN. "Then allow me to congratulate you, Dark Lord, on your betrothal. But my counsel is this: let your union be kept secret, and far from the Realms of the Light Races. Else the war you speak of will find you sooner than you wish."
The MagalaN inclined his head, though shadows flickered in his eyes. Puff, ever incapable of restraint, muttered in the back of his mind:
Ah yes, the classic 'Congratulations, now please elope quietly and don't destroy civilization' speech. Very diplomatic, Oscar. Truly riveting advice.
The Dark Lord almost smirked, but masked it with a cough.