Cedric's gaze flicked toward her, then back to the King. "I know her reputation, my King. But she's just one mage, and I am just one knight. Against Astoroth's forces, even we won't be enough."
The King's voice remained calm but firm. "Together, you must be."
As we approached, Sir Cedric's sharp gaze flicked toward us, and he dipped his head slightly in greeting when his eyes landed on Susan. "Lady Susan," he said with a low, formal nod. She responded with a casual wave, her irreverence seemingly natural and unapologetic.
King Alden, on the other hand, didn't bother to hide his distaste. His lined face tightened as his piercing gaze fixed on Susan. "A corrupted priest," he said, his tone heavy with disapproval. "How does that even make sense? A corrupted priest? It's a contradiction in terms."
Susan didn't flinch at his words. Instead, she dipped her head respectfully, her voice steady and composed. "Your Majesty, the title may not sit well with you, but I've worked tirelessly to atone for my past. I've saved more lives since then than I can count."
The King's sharp eyes narrowed, his expression skeptical. "Atone? And yet, you wear that title as though it's a badge of honor. A corrupted priest in my court." His voice carried the weight of disappointment, as if her very presence was an insult to his reign.
Before Susan could respond, Sir Cedric stepped in smoothly, his voice measured but firm. "She's useful, Your Majesty. I've seen her in action. And that... was in her past. Let it go." He held the King's gaze steadily, a silent plea for reason in his tone.
King Alden sighed, leaning back in his throne. His eyes, though still critical, softened marginally as they shifted from Susan to the rest of us. He studied Rowan first, then Eryon, and finally me, his scrutiny sharp and deliberate.
"And who," he said slowly, his voice carrying a regal authority, "might you all be?"
Rowan's voice rang clear and confident. "The reinforcement that you might need," he said.
Eryon and I immediately dropped to one knee, a gesture of respect that came instinctively in the presence of a king. But Rowan? He stood tall, unmoving, his lance steady in his grip. The King's brows furrowed at the perceived slight, his expression hardening.
"With all due respect," King Alden began, his voice sharp, "but I don't even know who you are. You're just a dwarf with a lanc—" He stopped abruptly. His face changed, a flicker of realization crossing it. Then, he clapped his hands together, his voice rising in sudden recognition.
"You must be Rowan Hale!" he exclaimed, his earlier annoyance forgotten.
Eryon and I stood again, exchanging a quick glance. The King's reaction spoke volumes—Rowan's reputation had reached even this place of power. King Alden stepped down from his throne, his interest piqued. I could hear the soft rustle of movement from beside me; Eryon, shifting uncomfortably. Nervous? Perhaps.
"Yes, yes," the King said, his tone lifting with excitement. "You are indeed the reinforcement I was hoping for. And who is it behind you?"
I was about to introduce myself, my mouth already opening, when Eryon moved.
It happened in a flash. He launched himself forward, his axes glinting in the light as he aimed directly for the King's neck.
There was no time to think, no time to react. I braced myself for the sickening sound of flesh meeting steel, for the sight of blood painting the pristine throne room.
Thunk.
Instead of slicing through, Eryon's axes collided with a radiant golden barrier that shimmered into existence before the King. Susan's shield spell.
The air grew deathly still, the sound of Eryon's strained breathing filling the space. And then, chaos.
Rowan was faster than I could comprehend. In one swift motion, his lance struck Eryon's hands, disarming him with surgical precision. I barely registered the metallic clatter of the axes hitting the floor before another movement drew my eye. Sir Cedric, calm and deadly, stepped forward in a blur. His massive blade swung with deliberate precision, slicing clean through Eryon's legs at the knees.
Eryon fell. Hard. His scream pierced the air, raw and agonizing, as blood pooled beneath him on the polished marble floor.
My mind raced, but I couldn't make sense of it. What just happened?
Eryon. The man who had saved my life more than once, the man who had sworn vengeance against Astoroth. Had he just tried to kill the King?
Why? What reason could he possibly have? My heart pounded as my gaze darted around, searching for answers. And where was Moara? I hadn't seen her since Solrise. Was she involved in this madness too?
Questions clawed at my mind, but none of them came with answers. Only chaos. Only blood. Only Eryon's anguished cries echoing in the grand hall.
"Step back, my King," Sir Cedric commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. King Alden wasted no time, retreating behind the circle of soldiers now closing in on us. Their blades gleamed with deadly intent, pointed squarely in our direction. My grip on my staff tightened instinctively, the tension in the air palpable.
But my focus wasn't on the soldiers surrounding us. No, my eyes were locked on Eryon—or what used to be Eryon.
He lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him from where his legs had been severed. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and yet, there was something off.
So very, very off.
A low, bubbling laugh escaped him, chilling and discordant. "Almost," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice warping, deeper and more guttural than before. "Oh, so close. Gosh... I almost had you, Alden."
His head twisted unnaturally, as if the muscles in his neck no longer obeyed the rules of anatomy. He threw it back, laughing with an abandon that didn't belong to the steady, stoic man I thought I knew.
"Almost," he repeated, dragging the word out as his body began to shudder.
At first, it was subtle. A twitch in his fingers. A ripple across his skin. Then the changes began in earnest.
Eryon's hands contorted, the fingers elongating and warping into claw-like appendages. His flesh darkened, twisting into an ashen gray marred with jagged black veins that pulsed like living corruption. His torso swelled grotesquely, the sound of bones cracking and reshaping filling the air as his limbs stretched unnaturally.
From his back erupted spiked tendrils, slick with some foul ichor that dripped onto the marble floor. His face was the last to change, and as it did, the sight froze the breath in my lungs.
His jaw unhinged, stretching impossibly wide, revealing rows of serrated teeth that gleamed like shattered glass. His eyes burned with an unholy golden light, devoid of humanity, brimming with malice. A crown of jagged black horns jutted from his skull, completing his monstrous transformation.
Finally, he rose, towering above us even without legs, his body supported by his writhing tendrils. He spread his grotesque arms wide, his voice echoing with unholy resonance.
"Allow me to properly introduce myself," he said, his grin splitting his face almost in half. "I am Sylvor, the Demon of Deception."
I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, my breath shallow as I stared at the creature before me.
This wasn't Eryon. This wasn't the man who had saved my life, who had fought alongside me.
This was something else entirely. Something vile. Something that had been hiding in plain sight all along.
I stood there, frozen, as the truth settled heavily on my chest. Eryon… no, Sylvor. All this time, everything he told me—his mother, his village, his quest for revenge against Astaroth—it was all a lie. I had believed him, trusted him. I had let him fight alongside me. How could I have been so blind? The thought tore at me, shame coiling in my stomach like a snake. I'm supposed to be better than this, supposed to see through deception. Yet, I didn't suspect a thing.
I'm such a stupid girl. The words echoed in my mind, louder than the murmurs of the soldiers and the King's sharp commands to stand back. My grip on my staff tightened, knuckles white with the force of it. I wanted to scream, to curse myself, but my voice was lodged somewhere deep inside.
A shadow streaked through the air above me, and before I could react, Sir Cedric leaped high. His massive sword gleamed as he brought it down in one impossibly smooth motion. The blade cleaved through Sylvor with a sickening finality, splitting him clean in two.
Sylvor—if that even was his true name—let out a distorted, gurgling laugh that grated against my ears. His grotesque form crumbled, first into cracks of darkened flesh, then into a fine, gray ash that drifted away on the air, leaving no trace of the demon who had stood before us moments ago.
The tension in the room was palpable. My knees felt weak, and my heart thundered against my ribs. I was still frozen. All I could do was stare at the spot where Sylvor had stood, his laughter still ringing in my ears.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Susan. She stepped toward me and gently grabbed my hand, her touch light but steady. I glanced at her, her expression a strange mix of worry and understanding. She didn't say a word, but her presence was grounding, keeping me from spiraling deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
I glanced at Rowan, who, predictably, looked as calm and unbothered as ever. He adjusted his lance, as though Sylvor had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. How he managed to stay so composed, I would never understand.
The tension shattered as Sir Cedric turned to face us. His massive sword, still dripping faint traces of dark ash, was now pointed directly at Rowan and me. His voice, steady and commanding, carried across the room.
"You two just brought a demon into the King's palace," he said, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. "What's your defense?"
My throat felt dry, my mind racing for an answer. What could I even say to that?
Susan's grip tightened around my hand, her voice calm but unwavering as she spoke. "She's with me, Sir Cedric. I'm sure that's a good enough defense for you."
Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, even Sir Cedric hesitated. His sharp eyes flickered toward Susan, then back to me, before he finally stepped back and lowered his sword. The tension in the room eased slightly, but not for long.
From his throne, King Alden shifted, his expression as firm and unreadable as stone. "Guilty until proven otherwise," he said, his voice low and steady, but with an edge of authority that couldn't be argued. His soldiers closed in tighter around him, their armor glinting faintly in the golden light.
The King straightened in his seat, his eyes piercing through me like a blade. "For the time being, you are better off leaving this palace. Come back later, once you've proven you're not compromised. I cannot afford to have demons lurking within my walls."
I wanted to argue, to protest, but his words made too much sense. The shame of having Sylvor trick me into this very place still burned in my chest, and the truth was, I couldn't deny what he said. It was better this way—for now.
With a heavy heart, I turned to leave. Rowan followed behind me.
"Stop," the King said suddenly, his voice sharp enough to halt me mid-step. "You can stay, Rowan. You are the reinforcement I needed."
Rowan's head snapped toward me, his gaze conflicted. He looked like he was about to speak, to object, but I shook my head. "Stay," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. This was the best move. He could do far more good here than he ever could following me out of the palace.
He hesitated for another second, then let out a frustrated grunt. Turning on his heel, he strode back toward the King, his lance resting against his shoulder.
As I walked toward the palace doors, the weight of the situation bore down on me. In the corner of my eye, I saw her. Sihir. She was lounging lazily in her chair, but her smirk was anything but subtle. Mocking. Gloating. My blood simmered at the sight of her, but I kept walking.
It's better this way. That's what I told myself.
I pushed the heavy doors open, stepping into the crisp evening air outside the palace. The cold bit at my skin, but it was nothing compared to the ache growing in my chest.
I stormed out of the palace, my steps heavy against the pristine stone streets of the capital. The sunlight glinted mockingly off the golden rooftops, casting a brilliant glow over a city that suddenly felt suffocating. My chest burned, and my hands clenched tightly around my staff as I made my way through the bustling streets.
The city was alive, vibrant, with all its finely dressed merchants, its bustling vendors shouting about fresh bread and exquisite fabrics. Children played in the narrow alleys, laughter ringing out like bells. It all grated against my nerves. How lovely. A perfect little paradise where no one has to think too hard about the horrors lurking beyond their walls.
I glanced at a couple walking past me, their arms looped together, smiling as if the world wasn't falling apart just outside this bubble of privilege. My mind spiraled, replaying everything that had just happened in the palace. Eryon—no, Sylvor. I had walked alongside a demon, fighting beside him, trusting him. I didn't just fall for a lie; I rolled out a red carpet for it. Stupid, stupid girl.
The rage bubbled up again, hotter this time. My nails dug into the smooth wood of my staff as I passed by a street performer juggling colored flames. A small crowd clapped and cheered. Isn't that nice? A neat little trick. Nothing dangerous about that. No demons with chains hidden in the shadows, no grotesque transformations, just a harmless mage juggling fire for a coin. Why couldn't I be like that?
I pushed through a crowd gathered around a bakery, their chatter filling the air with idle talk of pastries and morning tea. Didn't they know there's a war at their doorstep? Didn't they care that their knights were out there dying while they nibbled on sugared cakes? No, of course not. Why would they? They lived in blissful ignorance, safe behind their sparkling walls, protected by people like Sir Cedric.
I stopped in front of a fountain in the city square, its crystal-clear water sparkling under the sunlight. A carved statue of some ancient hero stood in the center, holding a sword aloft as if in triumph. I stared at the face of the statue, wondering what they'd accomplished to earn such a place of honor. Bet they never got tricked by a demon. Bet they didn't watch the supposed ally standing beside them turn into a snarling monster while they stood there like an idiot, clutching a staff like it was a child's toy.
The people around me blurred into meaningless shapes as my thoughts spiraled deeper. I should've known. I've faced demons before. I've fought Envy. I've killed Greed. And yet, I couldn't see through a single lie. My mind replayed every moment with Eryon—no, Sylvor. The way he'd spoken about his mother, his supposed vengeance against Astaroth, the pain he pretended to carry. How convenient, the perfect story. Of course, I believed it. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to think I wasn't alone in this fight.
I sat on the edge of the fountain, staring into the water. My reflection rippled with every toss of a coin from passersby. I caught a glimpse of my face, the bags under my eyes, the lines forming at the corners. Maybe I do have gray hairs, just like Sir Cedric. Perfect. A perfect little reminder of how much of a fool I've been.
My reflection twisted in the water, and for a brief second, I thought I saw him—Sylvor's mocking grin staring back at me, his jagged teeth glinting in the water. My heart lurched, and I blinked, splashing the water with my hand. The image was gone, but the burn of his laughter echoed in my head.
I need a drink, I though. So I went into the pub, I didn't even read the name of it.
The pub was dimly lit, the faint glow of hanging lanterns barely illuminating the faces of its patrons. Shadows flickered across the walls, merging with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. I stumbled to a stool at the bar, my staff clutched tightly in one hand as if it were the only thing keeping me upright.
The barmaid, a stern-faced elf with tired eyes, raised an eyebrow at me. "What'll it be?"
"The strongest you've got," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. She studied me for a moment, then turned away to prepare something. Moments later, she placed a glass in front of me, a deep amber liquid swirling inside. The scent was sharp, almost medicinal. I didn't care. I threw it back in one gulp.
It burned, hard and fast, searing my throat and settling in my stomach like molten fire. My head swam almost instantly, and I welcomed the sensation. I signaled for another.
And another.
The burn dulled my thoughts, pushed away the echo of Sylvor's laughter, the mocking grin, the hollow, twisting rage in my chest. I drank until my reflection in the glass was nothing but a blur. For the first time in what felt like years, I felt... nothing. No demons, no failures, no mocking voices. Just the comforting haze of drunkenness.
This must be why people drink. I thought. I couldn't blame them.
At some point, the barmaid tugged my arm. "C'mon, out you go," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. I groaned, blinking sluggishly as she guided me outside. The air was cold, biting at my flushed skin, and I stumbled forward, clutching my staff for balance.
The streets were quiet now, the once-bustling capital subdued under the weight of the night. Lanterns hung low, their light barely cutting through the creeping shadows of the narrow alley I found myself wandering into. My steps faltered, my vision swam, and the world tilted just enough to make me feel unsteady.
Then I saw him.
At first, it was just a figure—tall, confident, leaning casually against the damp brick wall of the alley. But as my eyes adjusted, the golden hair glinting under the faint light and that perfect, too-perfect smile came into focus.
"Hello there, Thalia," he said, his voice smooth and rich, like honey laced with poison.
My heart plummeted, the haze of alcohol doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of recognition. I knew that voice. I'd know it anywhere.
Lucian.
To be continued...