As the sun reached its zenith, casting a golden glow over the kingdom, the air seemed to hum with an uneasy tension. The streets, normally filled with the bustling sounds of life, were now eerily quiet. A stillness hung over the crowd, a collective breath held in the face of a horrifying discovery. The warm light of the midday sun, which usually brought comfort to the people, felt almost mocking as it illuminated the lifeless bodies scattered haphazardly around the city square. Their broken forms lay like discarded puppets, once full of life, now devoid of it. The eerie symbol carved into their necks, a dark and twisted sigil, seemed to twist and writhe in the light, almost as though it were alive—like a living serpent, slithering across their cold skin, marking them with an ominous curse.
Thorne, a battle-worn palace guard with eyes that had seen too much of the world's darker side, surveyed the scene with an expression that was both disgusted and resigned. His weathered face was grim, the years of service etched into every line. His comrades moved with practiced precision, their faces drawn in tight, grim lines. They worked efficiently, covering the bodies with white sheets that gleamed in the sun, a stark contrast to the blood-streaked ground beneath them. The soft rustling of the sheets seemed strangely out of place amidst the grim scene, as if trying to cloak the death that hung in the air.
The onlookers, once eager and curious, had now become restless, murmuring among themselves. Whispers of dark magic, curses, and murder spread quickly through the crowd, carried by the wind and spoken in hushed, fearful tones. The people glanced nervously at one another, and their eyes darted back to the bodies, uncertainty swirling in their expressions. Thorne's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he scanned the sea of faces, searching for any sign of danger or malcontent. There was something unnatural about the way the crowd was reacting, as if the very air was thick with unease.
Once the bodies had been covered, the guards began to disperse the crowd, their voices firm but laced with a hint of unease. "Return to your homes," they urged, their words carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "Let the palace handle this. The king will deal with it."
Thorne watched as the crowd reluctantly began to break apart, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestones, leaving the square empty but for the guards and the shadow of the dead. His eyes remained fixed on the bodies for a moment longer, a deep unease gnawing at him. The symbol, that sigil, the same one they had seen before—he couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
---
Later, in the quiet of the palace, Maria's footsteps echoed in the long, winding hallway as she made her way to Tristan's chambers. Her heart weighed heavy with the burden of the grim news she was about to deliver. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she reached the door and knocked softly. Inside, Tristan and Ariadne sat together, their faces etched with concern. The tension in the room was palpable, as if the very walls of the palace were holding their breath, waiting for the truth to come.
Maria stepped into the room, her eyes locking onto Tristan's with a mixture of sorrow and urgency. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, she simply stood there, as if trying to steady herself, to find the courage to deliver the message. Finally, she spoke, her voice faltering as the weight of the news pressed upon her.
"Tristan... Ariadne..." she began, her voice strained. "I have terrible news." She paused, glancing at Ariadne before returning to Tristan, her gaze filled with dread. "There's been another murder."
Tristan's eyes shot up at the mention of the word "murder," his expression darkening. "What happened?" he asked, his voice low and tense.
Maria's lips trembled as she spoke again, her words feeling like stones dragging her down. "The guards found a body near the city gate. The symbol... it's the same as before."
The words hung in the air between them like a dark omen. Tristan's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as the realization hit him. "Was there a symbol on the body?"
Maria nodded, her face grim, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Yes. The same symbol. We don't know what it means yet, but we're all on edge. There's fear spreading through the city... and I don't think this will be the last."
Tristan stood up abruptly, his face hard with resolve. "Marie, you can leave the room. I need to think."
Maria's heart sank, but she nodded, stepping back as Tristan turned his gaze toward the distant window, lost in thought.
---
As the night descended upon the kingdom, cloaking it in darkness, the demon lord emerged from the shadows, his dark presence unfurling like a suffocating shroud over the city. His form was barely visible in the thick black cloak he wore, its fabric absorbing the faint moonlight and making him seem almost part of the night itself. Only his eyes glowed—a molten red, burning like embers from the depths of the underworld. The rest of his face was hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat, casting it in an eerie shadow that made him appear even more menacing.
He moved with a grace that defied his ominous appearance, every step measured, as if he were gliding above the earth. His black cloak fluttered behind him like a dark cloud, the edges of it stirring with an unnatural energy. It was as if the very air around him trembled in fear, and with every step, darkness itself seemed to grow heavier, swallowing the light in its wake.
The demon lord's gaze swept over the sleeping city, his eyes scanning the streets with an almost insatiable hunger. He carried a small black cloth, its texture soft and smooth, yet the scent it held was anything but pleasant. The fabric seemed to exude a strange, almost morbid aroma—sweat, fear, and something darker, something primal. He breathed in deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath his cloak, savoring the scent of human life that lingered in the air.
As he walked, the shadows seemed to deepen around him, as if they were drawn to his very presence. His footsteps echoed through the deserted streets, the sound of them pounding against the cobblestones like the heartbeat of some malevolent force. Every step he took seemed to pulse with intent, as though the very earth itself bent beneath the weight of his power.
Turning a corner, his eyes landed on a young boy, no more than twelve winters old, walking alone in the dimming light. The boy was small, his face dirty from the streets, his hair messy and wild as he wandered aimlessly, completely unaware of the danger that stalked him. The boy's eyes were wide with wonder, his curiosity untainted by the darkness that loomed just beyond the horizon. He hummed softly to himself as he walked, his small feet making light, rhythmic sounds on the cobblestones.
The demon lord's gaze fixed upon the boy, and an unsettling smile crept across his lips. His eyes flickered with dark hunger as he stalked closer, his movements silent as the night itself. The boy, sensing something amiss, turned around and locked eyes with the demon. For a moment, there was a strange stillness between them—a silence that seemed to stretch for eternity. The boy's expression changed from curiosity to sheer terror, but it was too late. The demon lord lunged forward, his fangs descending with a horrifying, unnatural speed.
The boy screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the demon's grip as he sank his fangs deep into the boy's neck. Blood poured from the wound in hot, pulsing waves. But instead of draining the boy's life, the demon reversed the flow, transferring his dark essence into the boy's veins. The boy's body convulsed violently as the transformation began.
His small form twisted, bones cracking and rearranging, his once innocent features contorting into something far darker. His eyes—wide, terrified—glazed over, losing the warmth of humanity, replaced by an empty, cold glow. The boy's body grew larger, more twisted, as the demon's power consumed him, turning him into something else entirely. His hands twisted and lengthened, razor-sharp claws emerging from his fingertips as his mouth stretched into a cruel, twisted grin.
The demon lord stood back, watching with satisfaction as the transformation completed. The boy—no longer human—rose to his feet, his movements jerky and unnatural, as if driven by an insatiable hunger. His eyes burned with an otherworldly fire, his small frame now a vessel for dark power. The demon lord's smile grew wider, his gaze gleaming with dark triumph.
"Now," he whispered, his voice dripping with malevolent satisfaction, "the hunt begins."
The newly transformed demon, his eyes now burning with demonic energy, looked around, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He flexed his claws, testing his newfound strength, and then set off into the streets, eager to fulfill his dark purpose. The city would never know what hit it.