In the middle of an shadowy chamber stood a demon, his form towering and sinister. His eyes glowed faintly, casting an eerie light across the dark room.
The room was silent but for the low hum of magic, vibrating through the air.
Without greeting, the demon spoke up.
[There may be a slight delay. An unforeseen variable need addressing.]
The man in the mirror raised an eyebrow and said in a mocking voice.
[A variable? I can hardly imagine what could have slipped through your meticulous plans.]
His surroundings revealing a lavishly adorned chamber—a place unmistakably within the heart of the Brackenmoors estate.
[Your daughter - the one bearing Brackenmmors blood escaped.] the demon said, its words dripping with barely contained fury. [It appears she does not take kindly to the lineage she was born into. ]
Before the man in the mirror could respond, the demon continued.
[I dispatched our people to retrieve her.] the demon paused [They are dead.]
The man in the mirror stood in silence, his eyes narrowing as he digested the demon's report.
And then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a slow, wicked curve that tugged at the corners of his lips.
[Well, well...] he murmured, his voice soft and amused. [So, she managed to kill them, did she? I have to admit, I'm impressed - even if those were nothing more than lowly imp souls.]
The demon's face twisted, its features darkening with rage.
[This is not a game, Veylin.] the demon snarled, each word a venomous hiss. [She had help. No untrained half-blood could have taken down my men, imps or not. Someone intervened.]
Veylin - the man in the mirror - laughed. A laughter of a man who found the situation far more entertaining than alarming.
[Perhaps] Veylin mused [I should have come myself instead of sending a half-human daughter.]
[This is not a matter to be taken lightly.] it warned, its voice resonating with the weight of a thousand curses.
[Oh, Morgral, Morgral, Morgral,] Veylin interupted [Always so serious, always so dull. I sometimes wonder if you're really an incubus. Your sense of urgency is almost charming, in a pathetic sort of way.]
Morgral's eyes narrowed to glowing slits, and the darkness around him pulsed with a barely contained fury but that was all he could only do so.
[Careful, Morgral.] Veylin drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. [Anger doesn't suit you. It only makes you uglier. And let's be honest—you're already quite hideous, aren't you?]
The taunt struck home, and for a moment, Morgral's shadowy form rippled. He drew in a slow breath, calming himself down, Morgral's form solidified.
[I lost several of my men because of your daughter's unexpected resistance. I request that you compensate for the lost of our kind.]
Veyline's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening.
[Very well, I will see what can be arranged. But do not expect much.]
The mirror broke into sharps and flew back into the box, sealing with a sharp snap.
Morgral slumped back in his chair, his face twisted with loathing.
[I despise incubi.] Morgral spat out despite the fact that he, too, was of their kind.
In this new age, only the incubi, succubi, and vampires managed to survive, blending into human society, hiding their predatory instincts with smile and politeness.
For many of the younger demons, they lived for pleasure, for the fun of the moment, enjoying the luxury human brought to them. Veylin, like many of his peers, found more amusement in toying with mortals than in seeking any grand restoration of demonkind.
Only when the carefree youngsters began to feel the weight of time—the first hint of mortality creeping into their thoughts—did they seriously join the cause.
He closed his eyes, his clawed hands coming together in a gesture of desperate prayer, calling to a name long lost to the world.
[Oh Great Mother Ereshar, the Soulbinder.] he murmured, his tone laced with longing [Please grant me strength to endure such dishonor. I will see to it that the age of demon comes back.]
A plea made to a god long silent. Once, Ereshar had ruled supreme, her laws written in the stars themselves. But all that had changed with the Divine war.
The terrible conflict between Goal--the god of light and reincarnation--and Eresahr, the god of demonkind, had rewritten the cosmos. Ereshar's laws, which allowed demons to take and consume souls freely, were erased from the heavens. Her dominion shattered and lost.
Once, under Ereshar's rule, death had been little more than a transition—an inconvenience. One could find a new body, consume more souls, and continue on, ageless and eternal. In this new world, ruled by Goal's laws, demons faced a terror they had never known. Death. True, irreversible death.
He did not know if reincarnation, the great promise of the new age, would extend to demons. Was it real, or was it a lie—a punishment reserved for their kind alone?
Morgral looked down at his withered form, his gaunt body a far cry from the strength he had once possessed. It was the same form he had been born into—a body of an incubus, one that now barely held the remnants of his former power.
Once, through relentless ambition and ruthless strength, he had carved his way to the rank of commander under Ereshar, the Soulbinder. He had worn bodies of unimaginable strength and dark beauty, each form a testament to his dominance and purpose.
A thousand souls—the last vestige of his former glory—remained to him.
He did not know if she still heard the prayers of her children, if she even existed anymore beyond the empty, forsaken constellations. But he prayed nonetheless, his voice barely more than a whisper.
[Guide me. Give me strength to do what must be done, for your sake... and for ours.]
Morgral took a vial of dark liquid. He drank it in one swift motion, his form began to twist and shift, blurring until he took on a new shape - a young man, with dark and long hair, sharp and defined jawline.
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Maids and servants bowed deeply, they trembled before a young man as he passed by them.
[Lord Gareth.] they murmured as one.
Morgral, wearing the borrowed face of Gareth, paid them no attention. His steps echoed through the grand halls as he made his way to the throne room.
Pushing the heavy doors open, he strode inside and took his seat on the high throne, his expression dark and commanding. His gaze swept over the half-human, half-incubi, and half-human, half-succubi lounging lazily in the chamber. Their relaxed postures and mocking grins only served to deepen his simmering irritation.
[Explain something to me.] Morgral began, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the chatter.
[Why am I only hearing about the disappearance of twenty-five of my imps a week after it happened?]
One of the half-incubi chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
[Oh, come now, Lord Morgral, they were only imps. Hardly worth all this brooding, don't you think?]
The half-succubi smirked, twirling a strand of her silken hair around her finger.
[It's not like they were crucial to your grand plans, right? Besides, who would miss them?]
[I WOULD!] Morgral yelled out, slamming his hand against the armrest of the throne.
The room fell silent, the mocking air dissipating instantly.
Morgral's jaw tightened, his fingers digging into the throne's armrests with such force it seemed the stone itself might crack.
His men—loyal warriors who had fought by his side for eons—were being disrespected, mocked by these half-breeds who had done little but hinder his carefully laid plans.
They were a necessary nuisance, part of a deal that gave him the resources to bring Carlanes to its knees. But their incompetence and arrogance pushed his patience to its limit.
Their arrogance stung more than their incompetence. Despite possessing both demonic skills and the power of Goals, they treated his cause as if it were a trivial game.
Enough.
[You have served your purposes.] Morgral said, his voice cold and final.
Morgral stepped forward, his borrowed face cast in shadow, the dim firelight twisting his features into something monstrous.
A magic barrier was lifted to make sure none can escape.
The half-breeds glanced at one another, panic flashing in their eyes. They grabbed tightly on their weapons.
But it was too late. The imps hosting inside human bodies advanced from their hiding spot, their movement coordinated, a testimony of their ageless experience.
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One of the imps, in the body of a broad-shouldered male half-incubus, flexed his hands, marveling at his new vessel.
[This body is something else.]
Another, smaller but no less menacing in the body of the female half-succubus, gave a sharp, testing twist of her new host's wrist.
[Yeah, I would say it equals to that of a higher middle class demon body that we once used before.]
Morgral observed them from the throne, his dark gaze sweeping over the fifteen newly turned soldiers, loyal and competent.
[So. what should we do about the one responsible for slaughtering twenty-five of my imps?]
One of the soldiers, now inhabiting the muscular body of a former half-incubus, stepped forward.
[We will find them, commander. No one kills our kind and escapes judgment.]
The female imp, wearing the sleek body of a half-succubus spoke up.
[This isn't so simple. Slaughtering twenty-five imps? That takes skill. Could it be they have the Goal of Demon Hunter?]
[They call them Heroes now.] Morgral said. he corrected, his voice edged with disdain. [But I doubt it. It's been ages since one with that cursed Goal walked the earth.]
[However, the timing is suspect.] Morgral continued
[The rebels have gone quiet just as this killer surfaced. That's no coincidence. There's a connection between the two, and I want it uncovered immediately.]
[Use your new abilities to their fullest. Find them, and bring me their heads.] Morgral commanded.
All 15 of the newly risen soldiers bowed deeply. As they rose, their forms began to shimmer, turning transparent, fading from sight - the same skill Sarah possessed.
As the shimmering forms of the newly risen soldiers disappeared into the shadows, another presence stirred in the chamber. A woman stepped forward, her every movement languid and deliberate, exuding a beauty both enchanting and unnerving. Her crimson eyes glinted with amusement, though her pout suggested dissatisfaction.
[Such a shame you have to dispose of the half-breeds, though Father. It's not often you find playthings as durable as they were.]
Morgral glanced at his daughter.
Tisandra's smile faltered for a moment.
[Oh well, I suppose I'll have to amuse myself elsewhere.] Tisandra shrugged.
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Tisandra descended into the dungeon, her steps echoing softly against the cold stone walls.
She stopped before an iron-bound door, reinforced with thick chains and glowing with protective runes.
With a wave of her hand and a whisper in a guttural demonic tongue, the locks released with a series of metallic clanks, and the door creaked open to reveal the chamber within.
Inside, a massive figure loomed, even seated on the cold stone floor.
The man's broad shoulders strained against the heavy chains binding him. His dark hair was matted, his beard unkempt. But in his piercing blue eyes still burned with defiance.
[Margrave Carlanes.] Tisandra purred, stepping into the room.
[Or should I call you my beloved husband?]
The man's jaw tightened, his chains clinking faintly as his muscles tensed.
In a haze of grief and ale, Bendrick Carlanes, the proud and formidable Margrave of House Carlanes, made the decision that would haunt him forever.
His wife—his true wife—Her death had left a void he could neither fill nor ignore, no matter how many goblets of wine he drained.
Then _she_ appeared. A newly arrived servant.
A woman who looked so much like her it made his chest ache.
Her mannerisms, her voice, even the faint scent of lavender she carried—it all called to his broken heart.
In his drunken sadness, Bendrick didn't question the impossibility of it. He didn't question the nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
He couldn't have known that marrying her would be the single worst mistake of his life.
For the woman who now bore his family's name, who stood in the halls of House Carlanes as his wife, was no grieving widow. She was no savior for his battered soul. She was Tisandra, daughter of Morgral—the demon who sought to bring ruin to all he held dear.
[You'll call me nothing, demon.] he spat.
[You're no wife of mine.]
Tisandra laughed, a melodious sound that echoed in the enclosed space.
[Oh, darling, such fire. You're far too entertaining.]
She sauntered closer, crouching to his level, her sharp nails trailing along the chains that bound him.
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.
[I need your help, my dear. There's someone meddling in our affairs—someone who's taken a liking to killing our imps. I suspect you might know something about it.]
He barked a laugh, dry and humorless.
Bendrick remained silent for sometime.
[Silent treatment?] she cooed, feigning disappointment.
[You wound me. But no matter.]
Tisandra lightly brushed Bendrick's chin, tilting his head up to meet her gaze.
[You seem a bit tired, don't you? Feeling heavy, perhaps?]
The potent drug she had slipped into his meal taking full effect.
His breathing slowed, his broad frame relaxing into the chains that bound him.
Closing her eyes, Tisandra the succubus, plunged her consciousness into the depths of Bendrick's mind.
The dreamscape began to form, using the fragmented memories pulled from the depths of Bendrick's mind.
A young girl, no older than twelve, laughed brightly as she tossed snowballs with Bendrick and his first wife. The land around them was blanketed in pristine white.
Bendrick's face was softer, unburdened, and full of life. His first wife stood beside him, her laughter blending with the child's as they played.
But then, the dream shifted violently. The white snow turned crimson, as the sound of battle roared to life. A land littered with corpses unfolded before Tisandra, the stench of death thick in the air.
There, amidst the chaos, stood the same girl—but she was no longer the cheerful child of moments ago.
Her eyes, once bright with joy, were empty, devoid of light or emotion. The insignia of the Duchy of Stormhowl was faintly visible on the shattered ruins of the settlement around them.
Tisandra recognized her instantly.
[Maria of Houndspire.]
[So, it's her. The lost wolf.]
Tisandra jolted awake, feeling the heavy weight of the dreamscape fading from her mind.
She took a shaky step.
Her breath came fast and uneven as she stumbled, catching herself on the cold stone floor of the dungeon.
Tisandra's eyes lingered on Bendrick's unconscious face.
They had shared a home, a bed, and even a child—a boy who had inherited his father's strength and his mother's cunning.
[Playing family was fun, wasn't it?] brushing a strand of dark hair from his brow, she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
She stood and turned away, her expression hardening as she walked toward the heavy door at the far end of the chamber.
As she closed the door behind her, sealing him away in the darkness of the dungeon, she couldn't shake the hollow ache that gnawed at her chest.
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Tisandra stood in front of the heavy wooden door of her father's chamber.
[Love huh?] she muttered under her breath, a bitter smile tugging at her lips.
[I think I understand what you meant back then now, Maria.]
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As Sarah phased into the astral plane, the world around her transformed into an ethereal, shifting mosaic. Colors bled into one another, and the ground beneath her shimmered like a liquid mirror. Trees became shadows of their physical counterparts, their roots stretching endlessly downward into an abyss. The air felt dense yet hollow, as though filled with whispers that didn't quite form words.
Moving through this strange realm felt like swimming through a weightless current. Her steps no longer touched the ground, but instead, she glided forward.
Her senses were heightened yet dulled—sounds were muffled, distorted, while faint glimmers of unseen energy brushed against her, almost tangible.
But then, amidst the swirling landscape, something caught her eye. another translucent human-like figure loomed in the distance.
Sarah's breath hitched, and without hesitation, she pulled herself back into the material world.
The shift was abrupt, like being yanked out of a dream. She stumbled, her heart pounding in her chest, and turned to Sigrid, who was watching her.
[There's someone else in the astral.] she said, her voice trembling.
But Sigrid's reaction was not one of shock.
The air in the room shimmered. A ripple passed through the space like a distortion on the surface of water.
Slowly, a figure began to take shape—translucent at first, then solidifying into a stunningly beautiful woman.
Tisandra's crimson eyes gleamed with amusement as she surveyed the room before looking at the two children in the room.
[Well, well, well. Either you're incredibly stupid, or you wanted me to find you.]
[Sarah and you must be Maria and Eldrin's kid. I can see the resemblance.]
Sigrid felt the subtle shift as his Goal's passive skill activated.
His senses sharpened, his body felt lighter, his muscle tensed up with the intent to kill.
[Relax.] Tisandra said, waving a delicate hand. [If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You're lucky it's me standing here and not my father's men. They'd have ripped through your little hideout without a second thought.]
Sigrid placed a hand over his chest and inclined his head in a polite bow.
[How rude of me. It seems my Goal may have sent the wrong impression. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sigrid Houndspire.]
[You must be the Demon Hunter then. Oh, forgive me—how outdated of me. I meant Hero. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Tisandra Bloodfang.]
[Tell me boy. Were you trying to get caught?]
[It was a gamble to meet you.]
Tisandra arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by his audacity.
[We can help you save your husband and children.]
Without warning, she raised a hand, tracing a sigil in the air. A shimmering barrier of magic formed around them, its glow pulsating faintly as it settled into place.
[Speak, boy.]