In the heart of Volerun, the headquarters of the Black Dragons had become a terrifying cathedral to chaos. What once stood as a symbol of ancient power now reeked of rot and corruption. Dark magic thrummed through the stone walls, charged with malice and dread. The seven witches chosen by Irene thrived in this environment, embracing rituals that grew more grotesque with each passing day.
In the main chamber, a newborn's wail pierced the thick, oppressive air. The baby lay on a stone altar, its tiny body wrapped in bloodied cloth. Around it stood the witches, their black robes billowing like shadows, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Seraphina, the eldest and most twisted of the coven, held a dagger high, the blade dripping with crimson light.
"Sanguis vita est. Sanguis potentia est," she whispered, her voice eerily calm.
The others echoed her words in a haunting chant as the ritual began. Seraphina's hand came down with swift precision, the cry of the infant silenced in an instant. Blood flowed freely, pouring into a basin etched with dark runes. One by one, the witches dipped their fingers into the liquid, bringing it to their lips, drinking the life force as their eyes glowed a menacing red.
With each sip, they grew stronger. Their powers surged, filling the room with a suffocating aura of dread. The air shimmered with malevolent energy as the witches' dark transformation was complete. Outside the chamber, those who once questioned the rituals now watched with hollow eyes, their minds long since corrupted by Asmodues's influence. His dark magic twisted their thoughts, turning evil into righteousness and cruelty into devotion.
In his own realm—a dimension created by Irene but now ruled by him—Asmodues watched it all unfold. His throne of obsidian overlooked a landscape that writhed with life, but not the kind of life mortals would recognize. Creatures of nightmare slithered and crawled across the ground, their twisted forms a reflection of the chaos that had taken root. Shadowy figures with wings and claws circled above, their screeches echoing in the distance as they devoured weaker beings.
Asmodues sat, his massive form slouched lazily on his throne, wings stretched out behind him. His face, carved from darkness itself, was both alluring and terrifying. Sharp, angular features, crowned by a pair of curling horns, framed a smile that hinted at endless cruelty. His eyes—two bottomless pits of black, tinged with a faint crimson—glowed as they watched the suffering in the mortal world.
"Magic is dying," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling growl. "The gods are no more. My dominion grows."
Yet, despite his triumph, his joy was incomplete. His most prized servant, Irene, was gone. His smile twisted into a sneer at the thought of Azriel—the mortal who dared defy him, who had killed his queen.
What gave him such power? Asmodues pondered. His curiosity festered, soon turning into rage. He stood, his massive wings casting shadows that seemed to swallow the realm. "Azriel…" he hissed the name like a curse.
From the shadows emerged his most powerful servants—the Seven Archdemons. Each stepped forward, their forms terrifyingly beautiful, and oozing with dark power:
Moloch, the embodiment of wrath, with burning eyes and hands capable of summoning fire from the depths of hell.
Belphegor, master of sloth, whose presence alone drained the energy of those around him, rendering them helpless.
Leviathan, a serpent of envy, her whispers eroding the minds of those she encountered.
Asmodeus, a twisted figure of lust, who entranced even the purest with just a glance.
Mammon, the lord of greed, his touch turning wealth into decay.
Beelzebub, the devourer, whose insatiable hunger consumed anything living or dead.
Lucifer, pride incarnate, his beauty and arrogance unrivaled, even among the damned.
Asmodues's eyes flicked over each one, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Bring Azriel to me," he commanded, his voice dripping with malice. "I want him alive. But if you must… kill him. I will know what force lies within him."
The Seven bowed, their forms disappearing into the shadows, off to hunt the one who had dared defy their master.
Far from the twisted rituals of the Black Dragons, Azriel journeyed across a barren wasteland, his body heavy with exhaustion, his heart weighed down with grief. The silver necklace hung around his neck, cold against his skin, a constant reminder of Elysian's absence. He had been walking for hours, his legs aching, his mind clouded with memories of the one he loved.
Eventually, he found shelter in a cave nestled among jagged rocks. He collapsed near the entrance, trying to calm his racing thoughts, but Elysian's face haunted him. Why couldn't I save him? The question gnawed at him, over and over.
He clenched the necklace in his hand, whispering, "Why, Elysian? Why am I not strong enough?" Tears filled his eyes, but before he could break down, a noise echoed from deeper within the cave. It was faint, but unmistakable—the sound of crying.
Azriel tensed, his senses sharpening. He rose slowly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword as he crept toward the sound. What he found sent a chill down his spine.
A woman, frail and gaunt, knelt on the cave floor, her hands trembling as she cradled an infant. Around her huddled five children, their faces gaunt and hollow from hunger. The eldest, a girl no more than ten, stared at her mother with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"We have nothing left," the woman sobbed, her voice broken. "No food, no water… no hope. Asmodues will save us. I know he will… but only if…" Her voice trailed off as she looked down at the infant in her arms.
Azriel's blood ran cold as he realized what she intended. He moved to stop her, but before he could act, the woman raised a jagged knife and, with shaking hands, butchered the baby.
Blood poured onto the cold stone floor, and the children screamed in terror, huddling closer to one another. The woman, now drenched in her child's blood, began chanting in a voice that sent a shiver through Azriel's soul:
"Libera me, Asmodues. Precor te, accipe sanguinem meum. Da nobis fortitudinem et salutem."
(Free me, Asmodues. I beg you, accept my blood. Grant us strength and safety.)
Thunder cracked outside the cave, and from the shadows, a dark figure materialized—its form twisting in the air, wings unfurling, eyes glowing with a malevolent light. "Your petition has been heard," the figure whispered, its voice like a death knell. "You and your children shall be brought to the kingdom of Asmodues."
Before Azriel could intervene, the shadowy figure wrapped the woman and her children in darkness, carrying them away in a flash of light. The cave fell silent, save for the dripping of blood.
Azriel stood frozen, disbelief coursing through him. How can a mother… He stared down at the blood-soaked stone and felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. The Black Dragons were still operating, even without Irene. Innocent lives were being sacrificed, and dark magic was spreading faster than he could stop it.
Gripping the silver necklace tightly, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Elysian." A desperate thought crossed his mind. Could I bring him back?
But there was no time to dwell on the thought. Azriel had heard of the House of Avalon, a group of powerful sorceresses in the East. If anyone could help him, it would be them. But doubt clouded his mind. Hasn't magic died? What power could they have? Still, he had no choice.
As he stepped outside the cave, shadows began to stretch toward him, forming figures that blocked his path. He tensed, recognizing the danger.
From the darkness emerged seven figures, each cloaked in shadow, their beauty unnatural, terrifying. One stepped forward, eyes gleaming with malice.
"I know that aura," the demon sneered. "You're a descendant of the dead witches."
Azriel's heart pounded. The archdemons had found him.