I am still surprised that four of the five seats at the round table for the light races are now occupied: Oscar for the Elven Realm, Michael for the Human Kingdom, Ella for the Courts of the Fae, and Harnum for the Dwarven Mountains. I tried to release the freed captives on a remote stretch south of the Elven continent, but they refused to leave. They have chosen to stay—both to ensure I follow through on my promise to free every slave in the Never Day, and to bind themselves to my cause. Without consulting me, they appointed representatives to sit at this council. They volunteered, they swore fealty, and they accepted the link from my minions, claiming it would give them an edge when they need to fight.
Gork sits for the dark races, head bowed, avoiding the hostile stares from the other side of the table. He has kept his word; his kin follow my commands without question. Across the table, none of them meet my Princess's gaze. She rests her left elbow on the table, chin supported by the palm of her hand, staring at me. Is she reading my thoughts? I wonder—and she smiles, nods, and winks at me as if to say, I know.
"I'm proud of you, my love. You've done so much in so little time." Her voice slips into my mind, warm and proud. She reaches and takes my left hand beneath the table. I lose myself in the deep green of her eyes; even a king could drown there willingly.
"If you wouldn't mind, Dark Lord, we are eager to hear your plans." Ella interrupts, chin high, meeting my eyes. The others lean forward. Even Gork lifts his head to watch.
"Very well." I clear my throat and outline my strategy. "I intend to consolidate control over the southwestern borders of the Never Day. Gork reports that the far western territories are held by a Demon General named Hammel. I do not yet know his true strength. We will advance slowly—secure territory and build defenses—then reveal our presence only when our hold is unbreakable."
Ella's hand taps the table. "We want to be part of your forces in the Never Day. We'll care for the captives you rescued."
Harnum grunts. "We will help establish fortifications and mine the stone for your halls."
"Good." My voice is measured. "You will serve as support. You will not join advance or assault parties unless explicitly ordered. My minions will carry the brunt of the fights."
---
A Private Exchange
Victoria's presence hums at the edge of my thoughts. Her lips do not move, but her words brush my mind like velvet.
"My love, I can't help but notice that your Seven are not included in this gathering." Her smile curves, sly and knowing. "Hmmm… You have a separate plan for them, don't you?"
I allow myself a small smile, invisible behind the veil of shadow. "One should not place all their treasures in one place, my Princess."
I caress her hand absently beneath the table, feeling her warmth against my palm. "Each has their role in every game I am playing."
Her eyes glitter, pleased by my answer, though she presses no further. Between us, secrets need not be spoken aloud.
---
Puff the Minion
My quill scratches across parchment like a blade across steel—quick, precise, and dramatic. I pause, give it a flourish, and nod sagely to myself. History, after all, must look elegant on the page, even if those making it are clumsy brutes.
The council drones on, and I jot every word with the gravity of a royal scribe. Yet in truth, I am no stiff-necked scribe. I am Puff—first among the minions, chronicler of the Dark Lord, and occasional dispenser of comic relief when the air gets too thick with doom.
It is a useful role. When the others brood, I jest. When tension crackles, I smooth it with a clever remark. A Dark Court without laughter is like a dungeon without rats—unnatural, and very dull.
I still remember my old life as a Deamune Knight. Grim business, that. Sword, shield, honor, death. Very straightforward, very boring. Then came the shadows. One moment I was about to lose my head to the Dark Lord's blade, the next I was swallowed whole into his realm. Instead of ending, I was given a choice: be a footnote in history, or write it. I chose the quill.
Now I am stronger than I ever was alive, with shadow-forged gifts that make me near-immortal. But more importantly, I have purpose. I serve as his chronicler, his voice when he chooses silence, and—dare I say it—his favorite.
I glance up from my parchment as Ella makes some bold declaration about caring for captives. I arch an eyebrow and scribble: "Ella the Proud, interrupting again, chin higher than the mountains." Then I doodle a tiny crown on her head before continuing the minutes.
The Dark Lord does not laugh, but I sense he approves. He knows the court needs levity. Too much solemnity makes even victory taste bitter.
And so I write, I jest, I serve. One quill stroke at a time, I make sure the Dark Lord's reign is not just remembered—but remembered with style.
---
The table murmur fades as Oscar clears his throat. "Dark Lord, you said you lack precise intelligence on this Demon General. The Demon Princes—your consort—might have insight. Can she advise us on Hammel's strength?"
Victoria's expression hardens. "I am not a Demon - I am Deamune! A great rift in difference, High Sorcerer Oscar. Use that title again and you will find your next breath difficult." Her voice is silk over steel. Then, softer—"If he holds the rank of general, he commands seasoned troops. He will have a host of trained demons and capable officers."
A minion detaches from the shadows and glides forward, its dark cloak resolving into a lean, serviceable form. Its voice is a whisper that carries nonetheless:
"Dark Lord, the Horde stands ready for assault."
A ripple passes around the table. Five banners unfurl in my mind like promises: loyalty, work, support, skill, and faith. Outside the hall, the wheels of war begin to turn.
"Puff, my magic dragon. You will be General of the Dark Horde. You will lead the expedition."