Dropping to one knee beside the leader she had first felled, Paradonia gripped the hilt of her elven sword with both hands. The molten fissures burned subtly with a hell-born heat. She didn't hesitate. With a brutal, frenzied energy born of survival, she went to work, severing the weighted, horned head from the armor-clad shoulders with a few swift, heavy strokes.
When it was done, she stood, wiping the dark, streaming gore from her forehead with the back of her wrist.
She reached down, grabbing the thick, curling horns of the leader's severed head. The skin was still hot, smelling of scorched earth and copper. Slung the heavy, dripping trophy by its horns and turned her back on the scene, which painted evidence of her recent slaughter.
The climb back up the stone stairs was a grueling ascent. Her muscles screamed in protest, and every step pulled at the raw, crusting gashes across her back. But she didn't falter. She forced her breathing into a calm, steady rhythm, matching the calculated posture of submission.
When she reached the summit, the heavy iron doors parted. Brymthos was waiting for her in the shadows of the gallery, his skeletal frame draped in antiquity, his dead eyes gleaming with an insatiable, proprietary curiosity.
He stepped forward, expecting a dented helm or a scrap of royal cloth. Instead, Paradonia stepped into the dim, jaundiced light and dropped the bleeding head right at his feet. It hit the stone floor with a grotesque, wet thud, rolling slightly before coming to rest against his soot-covered boots.
Brymthos looked down at the trophy, then slowly raised his gaze to meet hers.
For a fraction of a second, the ancient, calculating lich saw a glimpse of the bloody reality of what he had unleashed. But the moment passed, buried underneath the blank, obedient mask Paradonia wore so perfectly.
A slow, delighted smile stretched across his hollow face. He reached out with his cold fingers, gently cupping her blood-spattered jaw, tracing her cheek with a tender familiarity.
"Such a good girl," Brymthos whispered. Paradonia didn't blink. She let him touch her, letting him believe whatever fantasy resided in that skull of his. The silence of the tower gallery settled back around them with the lingering stench of copper and chthonic dust.
Brymthos stood unmoving, his fingers resting against her jaw with a questionable fondness. He looked down at the severed head by his boots, then back up into her eyes, fully intoxicated by the illusion of his own absolute control.
"Clean yourself," Brymthos murmured gently, his voice descending into a smooth, dismissive purr as he withdrew his hand. He stepped past her, his tattered mantle sweeping the dust.
"The high lords will gather at the nightcourt once again."
He didn't look back as he retreated into the penumbra of the corridors, leaving her alone in the dim light. Paradonia waited until his footsteps faded into the stone. Only then did she lower her gaze to the blood staining her hands and the hilt of her sword still in her unrelenting grip. She couldn't bring herself to release it, or she might truly break apart. It was the only sliver of her old life that remained - that was still with her. The phantom sensation throbbing at the crown of her head was a dull yet bitter reminder of what was stolen from her, but it was quickly swallowed by the calculating void inside her chest. Her expression settled back into an impenetrable mask of indifference and docility.
She turned towards the narrow archway, leading down to the lower cells, her boots clicking softly against the aged and crude stone.
The lower cells were quiet when Paradonia returned. She washed the blood from her hands and face in the basin of cold water, watching it slowly turn crimson. The wounds across her back had begun to stiffen and crust with dried blood. The slashes kept pulling against her skin, even with the slightest of movements. She did little to tend to them. There was no use in wasting what remaining strength she had in reserve, and so she turned her attention to cleaning her elven sword. Giving it more care than she would for herself. She ran a cloth along the molten fissures until the darkening metal held its consistent hellish glow.
She fastened the last of her ruined and singed garments. The lich hadn't bothered to provide her with new clothes. Then again, why would he? Then her ears twitched at the sounds of approaching footsteps. Disturbing the quietude - making it temporary. The iron door opened, and Brymthos stood at its threshold.
"Come along, my dear."
Paradonia lowered her gaze and gave a brief nod.
"Tonight, you shall have the pleasure of meeting some rather important company."
He stepped aside, gesturing towards the corridor, and she walked through without question.
The nightcourt occupied the highest reaches of the obsidian fortress, beyond the galleries and chambers reserved for those who served its master. Its entrance was marked by two enormous obsidian statues, their monstrous forms bearing the likeness of biblical creatures who ruled the deepest and unforgiving depths of hell.
And beyond them lay a grandiose chamber of monumental proportions, enough to accommodate titans.
Black marble stretched beneath an arched ceiling shrouded in darkness, adorned with floating, golden chandeliers. Great pillars carved with a twisted spiral of black crystal supported the weight of the vaulted structure.
Green flames burned in iron sconces, their light falling across a constellation of elaborate thrones arranged in a great semicircle.
The demon lords had already gathered before their arrival. Some were recognisably humanoid, adorned in the extravagant garments of ancient nobility. Others were less inclined to conceal their monstrous forms. There were creatures with great curling horns, others with leathery wings folded neatly behind their ridged spines, and those whose bodies seemed to shift between shapes as though their physical forms were merely an inconvenience.
Their conversations dwindled as the great doors opened.
Brymthos entered first, and maintained a leisurely pace in his strides. His skeletal frame was draped in the remnants of an antiquated knightly mantle, its once-fine embroidery ruined by soot and age. Beneath it, fragments of armour remained, bearing the faint insignia of an order that long since disowned him.
His skull was concealed under a deep hood, though a dreadful grin underneath remained visible. He walked with composure, carrying the air of grace of a nobleman entering his own court.
Paradonia followed several paces behind.
"Brymthos," one of the lords greeted, his tone carrying a deep, gravelly resonance.
"You've kept us waiting."
"Have I?" The lich replied, glancing around the chamber. "How terribly inconsiderate of me."
A few of the demons exchanged amused glances. Another leaned forward in his throne, his attention settling upon the Paradonia. "And who is this?" He inquired.
Brymthos stopped.
For a moment, he appeared to consider the question, as though the answer were a particularly entertaining secret.
Then his smile grew wider.
"Ah. My acquisition."
He extended one skeletal hand towards her.
"Paradonia."
The name was delivered with an almost ceremonial flourish.
"A rather interesting creature, I assure you. An Nur'ian elf by appearance, yet a royal descent by birth, and has now become my most obedient instrument of my affairs."
Paradonia kept silent.
"Though I must confess," he continued, "she was not quite so agreeable in the beginning."
The fallen knight began to circle her, his torn mantle sweeping across the polished marble.
"She harbored certain attachments. Family. Royal obligations. A gullible husband. The usual sentimental rubbish. Such things can be terribly distracting when one has more pressing matters to attend to." His grin stayed wide, displaying his sharp, decayed canines.
"Fortunately, I have always possessed a talent for putting things in their proper and rightful place."
The demon lords regarded her with varying degrees of curiosity.
"An elf," one remarked dismissively. "You summoned us to show us an elf?"
Brymthos gave a soft, rasping laugh.
"Oh, no. I would never insult your intelligence with something so ordinary."
He turned towards the gathering, cradling his hands behind his back.
"Before we begin, I would like to remind you of something. Something I suspect has been overlooked during your rather comfortable occupation of this place."
He began walking towards the centre of the chamber.
"Tell me, my lords. What do you know of the Obsidian Fortress?"
A few of the demons exchanged glances.
"Enough to know that it belongs to hell."
"That its halls have sheltered our kind since its fall."
"That it is the last remnant of an ancient kingdom."
Brymthos nodded approvingly.
"Quite correct. And yet, remarkably incomplete."
He stopped beneath the great vaulted ceiling and lifted his gaze.
"You see, the fortress was never intended to rest beneath these infernal skies. It was not conceived from the fiery, volcanic pits of hell, nor were its foundations ever meant to be buried under the darkness of this realm."
His voice grew softer.
"Once, it belonged to the heavens."
Then the murmuring of the night court began to fade.
"Long before the kingdoms you now recognise, long before the royal bloodlines upon which you so eagerly bestow your allegiance, the Obsidian Fortress floated amongst the celestial reaches. Its black towers stood suspended in the great skies of old. Its foundations were untouched by the corruption of the lower realms."
He slowly extended his arms.
"Imagine it. An entire kingdom floating above creation. A fortress that commanded the skies, inhabited by beings whose power was so extraordinary that even the gods could not simply dismiss them."
He paused.
"Then it fell."
The lich's words echoed through the chamber.
"It pulled them from celestial heights. It crashed down into the depths of hell. Its towers shattered. Its foundations broken and inhabitants scattered. And what remained?"
He looked towards the assembled lords.
"You."
A few demons shifted in their seats.
"You found its ruins. You claimed its chambers. You made yourselves comfortable amongst the remains of a civilisation that existed long before your ancestors drew their first breath."
His grin became more pronounced.
"And, in time, you began to mistake yourselves for its rightful masters."
One of the demons leaned forward.
"Careful, lich. You speak as though we owe our position to you."
"On the contrary," Brymthos replied pleasantly. "I believe you owe it to an extraordinary stroke of fortune."
A low rumble of displeasure passed through the demon lords.
Brymthos merely laughed.
"Do forgive me. I have always found history rather amusing. Particularly when those who inherit the spoils of another's downfall begin to believe they were destined for them."
He turned away, his attention returning to Paradonia.
"But perhaps there is an opportunity to correct that unfortunate direction of history."
He extended one skeletal hand towards her.
"An opportunity to reclaim something that was lost."
The chamber quietened.
"Allow me to introduce you to the reason for my optimism."
Paradonia felt the weight of his attention before she understood what he intended.
"This creature," Brymthos announced, "is descended from the Enkari"
The response was immediate as the night court suddenly stirred.
"The Enkari?"
"Impossible."
"That bloodline was extinguished over a series of millennia."
"An elf?"
Brymthos raised his index finger.
"Ah, ah. Let us not become hysterical. I assure you, I have not mistaken an ordinary woodland creature for an ancient sovereign who was once considered second to god."
He turned to Paradonia.
"Have I, my dear?"
She lowered her gaze.
"Splendid."
He directed his attention back to the court.
"The Enkari were the bloodline responsible for the creation of this very fortress you reside in. They were its architects, its original sovereigns, and the very source of power that allowed it to float amongst the heavens themselves."
He allowed the information to settle.
"And this little descendant of theirs carries a trace of that very blood within her."
Paradonia looked at him.
Enkari?
She heard the name before, perhaps in some old account or fragment of forgotten history, but it held no particular significance to her. She came from a family of war clerics. She knew nothing about her family tree beyond that point.
Brymthos noticed her expression, and his grin widened.
"Oh, my dear. Did you really believe the war clerics accounted for everything that you are?"
He reached for her hand.
"How dreadfully incomplete your education has been."
He then turned her palm upwards. Paradonia stiffened as she saw the slender blade in his skeletal grip.
"Do try not to move."
He drew the blade across her palm, and a sharp sting travelled through her hand. Blood welled from the cut—crimson and unmistakably elven. Yet, as it surfaced, something else emerged.
Gold.
Fine specks of gold shimmered through the pooling crimson, catching the green light of the chamber. They were faint, almost imperceptible, but their presence was undeniable. Brymthos held her hand up.
"Look closely."
The demon lords leaned forward in unison.
At first, there was little more than curiosity. A few regarded the blood with suspicion, while others appeared unconvinced.
Then one of them rose.
His nostrils flared.
Another drew a slow breath.
The change in the room was almost abrupt.
The scent was unmistakable.
It was not the ordinary fragrance of elven blood, nor the familiar metallic sweetness of a demon's wound. It harboured something that stirred memories buried beneath countless generations. It was a presence that had existed before their kingdom, before their thrones - before the very foundations upon which they now stood.
"By the old gods."
"That scent."
"Enkari."
The word spread through the room like a whispered curse.
Brymthos never stopped grinning.
"Ah. There it is."
He slowly turned Paradonia's palm towards the gathering, allowing the minor, expanding golden rivulets in a swell of bright red to become more exposed to the ambient emerald light of the court.
"You see, my lords, I have not brought you a mere elf. Her bloodline is responsible for the creation of this very fortress. The lineage of the ancient ones. "
Another demon lord rose from his seat. Still unconvinced.
"How can you be so certain?"
Brymthos almost looked offended. Almost.
"Becuase I have spent a considerable amount of time investigating precisely what she is. And unlike some of you, I have not forgotten the scent of the golden bloods."
He released her hand. A few drops of crimson and gold fell into the black stone tiles.
"Her blood can stir what has long been dormant."
The chamber became restless.
"The fortress."
"Impossible. It has been dormant for centuries. Even the royal family could not restore it."
Brymthos raised his nectronic finger again. Purposefully.
"You are indeed correct. They could not."
He let that distinction hang in the air between them all.
"Perhaps they simply lacked the necessary understanding."
He looked at Paradonia again.
"She may possess what they never did."
The lich spoke carefully. Each word chosen to an art. He knew precisely what her blood could accomplish. He knew that the golden traces were merely evidence of an ancient lineage, diluted by generations of elven ancestry. He knew that the fortress might answer to her blood to a degree - that its dormant mechanism might stir, that its ancient power might briefly return.
But he also knew what the other demon lords did not.
That a descendant didn't necessarily mean an heir. And the obsidian fortress could only be raised into the heavens by a full-blooded Enkari. The elf was not such a creature. Brymthos had no intention of sharing that particular detail. All the lich needed was for the night court to be in his favour - to be on his side.
"Envision it," he continued, now facing the demon lords. "The ancient foundations groaning beneath our feet. The gates opening once more. The long, combined dormancy of phoenix and draconic power returning to those who understand what it means to possess it." He paced across the chamber, from left to right.
"How long have you watched this place decay? How long have you accepted the scraps of a kingdom that once commanded the skies?"
His voice became almost affectionate. The demon lords exchanged glances again. The lich stopped before the largest of the thrones.
"Consider what I am offering you."
He bowed his skull, the gesture almost mocking in its display of elegance.
"I am not asking you to surrender your territories. I am not asking you to abandon your ambitions. Quite the opposite."
He lifted his head.
"I am offering you the opportunity to stand beside the one who shall restore this fallen kingdom to its former glory."
"And what of the royal family?" One of the demons asked.
Brymthos laughed. A dreadful, rasping sound.
"The royal family?"
He turned, his mantle sweeping behind him.
"How very loyal of you to think of them, even now."
The demon lord's expression darkened, and he curled his lip into a snarl.
Brymthos continued regardless.
"Tell me, what has your loyalty to them brought you, after all these years? What have their crowns and titles accomplished? They have poached the remains of a kingdom they neither created nor understand. They cling to their positions, expecting the rest of us to remain obedient while they squander the very power that should belong to the night court."
He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist.
"I have seen what becomes of those who place their faith in the undead crown. I once served under the lich king, Malachor. I wore his insignia. Carried out his commands and fought for the preservation of his kingdom."
His voice dropped, and so did his hand.
"And what did loyalty earn me?"
Silence.
"Exile."
For a moment, something darker crept into his expression.
"I have since learnt that loyalty is rather an expensive virtue. Particularly when offered to those who have no intention of rewarding it."
He spread his arms.
"I have no intention of making the same mistake twice."
"And you expect us to believe you can restore the fortress to its former glory?"
Brymthos glanced at the elf.
"I expect you to witness it."
He gestured to her wounded and bleeding palm.
"You shall all witness its awakening yourselves. And when you have seen what I have accomplished, I suspect your loyalties will become considerably easier to arrange."
"What do you ask in return?"
Brymthos's smile remained. Knowingly. It was almost painful.
"Your allegiance."
A pause.
"Your support. Your armies, should the need arise. And, above all, your willingness to recognise that the time has come for a new era - for a different kind of sovereign."
He lowered his head again in a mock bow.
"Nothing unreasonable, I assure you."
"And the throne?" One finally asked.
The lich became still.
For a brief moment, the theoretical amusement disappeared.
Beneath the hood, his dead eyes gleamed.
"What of it?"
"Do you intend to claim the Obsidian Throne?"
The lich slowly straightened.
"Naturally."
He spoke the word with such effortless certainty that it almost sounded like a statement - a historical fact.
"I have no intention of spending another century watching lesser creatures occupy positions they are incapable of appreciating."
He scanned the heads of every demon in this room deliberately, and his grin returned.
"I have no intention of remaining a servant," he corrected himself in a sly manner.
The night court stirred with conversation. Some of the demon lords appeared intrigued. Others were more cautious, weighing the risks of abandoning their existing allegiances. A few continued to regard Paradonia with an intensity that was borderline uncomfortable. One got up from its throne and approached her. He was an enormous creature, his dark skin marked by ridges of hardened scales. His horns curved backwards from his skull, and his eyes glowed like embers beneath his heavy brow.
He stopped before her, looming over. Standing at the height of seven ft. Casting his shadow over her lithe frame.
"May I?"
Brymthos gave a little elegant gesture.
"By all means."
The demon lowered his head, drawing in the lingering scent of her blood.
His expression changed.
"It is genuine."
A ripple of unease and tension passed through the collective.
"The blood of an ancient one."
The grinning lich inclined his skull.
"Indeed."
The hulking demon lord stared at him.
"Then you may have found something truly invaluable," he commented in a gruff tone.
Brymthos threw his head back and cackled.
"Oh, my dear fellow."
He glanced at Paradonia and gently took her wrist.
"I assure you. I have known that for a very long time."
Paradonia looked down at his hand. The golden colorations began to vanish under the crimson. Her palm throbbed, and the cut continued to bleed, though she did not attempt to pull away. She didn't understand what was happening. The elf couldn't understand why the demon lords were staring at her as if she were something other than an elf, or why the mad lich seemed so pleased with this revelation.
But she did understand one thing.
He had not brought her here to introduce her. He brought her here to display her - as a pawn to be used for his grand schemes, but Paradonia already knew this. Nothing had changed in that sense. She knew that whatever he was planning in that skull of his, she had no say in the matter.
"Now, my lords. I believe we have much to discuss."
He released her wrist and parted his arms in an open embrace. His tattered, singed mantle opened wide.
"Shall we begin planning the first phase of execution?"