The darkness pressed in around me, thick and suffocating, as if the air itself conspired to trap me. My bare feet touched cold, uneven stone, and I realized I was in a vast, empty chamber—a void without walls or light. The silence gnawed at my nerves, until I felt it—an oppressive presence that made my skin crawl.
I wasn't alone.
A deep, steady rumble echoed from the abyss, like the earth groaning under unimaginable weight. Slowly, a figure emerged from the void—towering, monstrous, and radiating sheer dominance.
Astoroth.
He loomed like a twisted war god forged from nightmare. His body was a grotesque tapestry of muscle and sinew, his massive frame encased in jagged, charred armor fused with what looked like bone. Crimson veins pulsed beneath cracked, ash-colored skin, glowing faintly with molten light, as if his very blood burned with power. Blackened horns curled like a crown atop his head, jagged and cruel, framing a face carved from malice itself. His eyes burned with infernal rage—bottomless pits of molten fire that flickered with the promise of annihilation.
Then he spoke.
"Thalia."
His voice was like a landslide—deep, guttural, and hoarse, grinding through the stillness like iron dragged across stone. My breath hitched despite myself.
"I have conquered countless kingdoms... decimated hundreds... yet here I stand... having lost three of my own... because of you."
His molten gaze bored into me, each syllable weighed down with hatred. His fists clenched, claws flexing like he was itching to tear through me.
"Three... power sources... taken from me."
"Power sources?" I forced myself to ask, though my voice wavered.
Astoroth let out a terrible, guttural laugh that shook the very ground beneath me. The sound clawed its way into my bones.
"I killed two of them myself—Sloth and Gluttony." He leaned forward, his twisted grin stretching wider, exposing jagged, sharpened teeth slick with dark ichor. "Their meat... tasted good. But the aftermath... that was the reward."
He straightened, his burning gaze locking onto mine, unwavering.
"When a demon... devours another demon... we become... more."
I felt my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat as the realization sank in.
"I ate them... and I became what you see before you." He stretched his massive arms, as if reveling in his overwhelming strength. "Imagine... if I consumed... three more."
My hands clenched into fists, though I could feel the tremor in my fingertips.
"I would be... unbeatable."
The air grew heavier, and the darkness seemed to pulse with his rage. Then, his expression twisted into something far more sinister, his molten eyes narrowing as his voice dropped into a deadly growl.
"Yet..."
The single word cracked through the darkness like a thunderclap, reverberating through my chest.
"You killed them." His voice rose, thunderous and apocalyptic. "Wasting their bodies—letting them vanish into the void—when they could have been mine!"
He took a menacing step forward, the ground splintering beneath his feet. My knees nearly buckled, but I held firm, swallowing back the wave of nausea clawing its way up my throat.
"You will pay... for that." His voice dripped with finality, each word a curse etched into fate.
"For all actions... have consequences, Thalia." His molten eyes burned brighter, locking onto me like a predator savoring its cornered prey.
"I... am your consequence."
I jolted upright, gasping for air as if clawing my way back from the abyss. My heart pounded in my chest, still feeling the crushing weight of Astoroth's presence.
A sharp sting burned on my cheek where someone had slapped me.
Blinking the dark haze from my eyes, I saw Susan standing over me, arms crossed, her brow raised with mild irritation.
"For God's sake, Thalia," she huffed. "You're a ridiculously heavy sleeper. Thought I'd have to summon divine intervention just to wake you up."
I brushed my hand over the burning spot on my face, groaning. "Did you really have to slap me?"
She shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "You were thrashing around like you were being electrocuted." She paused, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction. "What happened?"
Astoroth. His name lingered like a venomous brand in my mind.
"He was in my dream," I admitted, my voice still rough. "It... felt real. His power was overwhelming... like being choked just by existing near him." I clenched my fists, trying to push the memory of his molten eyes from my mind.
Susan nodded slowly, her expression unreadable as she smoothed out a pristine, dark cloak she'd brought for me. The rich fabric shimmered faintly in the room's dim light—sturdy, regal, and clearly prepared for today's battle.
"Kill him," she said firmly, handing me the cloak. "And you can sleep for good."
I took it from her, my fingers tightening around the fabric.
She tossed me a towel with a flick of her wrist. "Now, go take a bath and get ready. We'll be waiting for you in the grand hall."
Before I could reply, she was already halfway out the door, her cloak sweeping dramatically behind her.
I exhaled slowly, still fighting to steady my breath. The echo of Astoroth's last words rattled in my mind like a death sentence.
I am your consequence.
I clenched my jaw, tossing the towel over my shoulder as I rose to prepare.
Today, I would become his.
The grand hall stretched before us, silent and heavy with expectation. The air was cold, untouched by the sun that still lingered beneath the horizon. Flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows across the pristine marble floor.
We knelt before King Alden, his weathered face etched with solemn determination. His golden crown gleamed faintly in the dim light, a beacon of authority and hope. Behind him stood his royal guard, unmoving like statues of iron will.
All of us knelt—Sir Cedric, Susan, Sihir, and me—our heads bowed in reverence and readiness. All but Rowan. He stood tall, his lance resting at his side, unmoved by ceremony or custom. His piercing gaze locked onto the King, unreadable as ever.
King Alden rose from his throne, shoulders square despite the weight of countless burdens resting upon them. His voice resonated through the hall, steady and commanding:
"Today," he declared, "we march toward destiny."
His gaze swept over us, heavy with meaning.
"For years, we have fought tooth and nail—against monsters, men, and forces that defy reason. But never have we faced an enemy as merciless, as destructive, as Astoroth."
A ripple of tension pulsed through the hall at the mention of the demon's name.
"This is the last battle," the King continued, his voice unwavering. "Today, we either end this war—or perish in its flames."
I felt my breath hitch, the enormity of what lay ahead pressing down on me. I glanced sideways. Sir Cedric's expression was resolute, steel forged by countless battles. Susan's hands were clasped tightly together, her lips murmuring a silent prayer. Even Sihir, eternally bored and untouchable, silence, her piercing blue eyes uncharacteristically focused.
The King's gaze settled on us. "You are the best we have—the only ones who can stand against the tide. Each of you has bled, fought, and survived when others would fall."
He raised his hand toward the vast chamber doors, now shrouded in shadow. "Through those gates lies your fate. Your story. Make it one the world will remember."
Silence stretched for a breathless moment. Then, in a clear, resolute voice, King Alden spoke the final command:
"Rise."
"And kill Astoroth," King Alden commanded, his voice thunderous, unyielding. His words ignited a fire in our chests.
We surged to our feet, shouting with every ounce of defiance we had. The sound echoed through the hall, shaking the very walls—a collective vow from those who had nothing left to lose but everything to fight for.
The heavy doors groaned open, revealing the dark, frost-covered world beyond.
We moved in silence, grim purpose weighing down every step. The cart waited for us near the palace gates, two massive draft horses stomping impatiently against the icy ground. The chill bit deep, but no one seemed to notice. Our minds were already on the battlefield.
Susan lingered behind.
I turned, feeling her presence before I saw her. Her soft smile held something more—a quiet understanding of what lay ahead. Before I could speak, she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace.
"Stay alive," she whispered. "I'll be waiting."
I squeezed my eyes shut for a breath before stepping back. "You too."
She offered a teasing smirk. "I always do."
With a nod, she disappeared back into the palace's shadows.
The cart rolled forward, the horses trudging through the frozen dirt. No one spoke. The air was thick with anticipation, the silence punctuated only by the creak of wooden wheels and the distant howl of the wind.
Rowan adjusted his lance without a word. Sir Cedric sharpened his blade with steady precision, his face locked in quiet determination. Sihir stared out into the distance, her hands glowing faintly with unreadable magic, lost in thought—or perhaps in something darker.
I clutched my staff tightly, feeling its familiar weight ground me as the icy wind bit at my face. My breath fogged in the frigid air, dissipating like fragile hope.
We were heading toward the end. Toward Astoroth.
Toward fate.
After a long silence filled only with the steady crunch of the cart's wheels against the frosted dirt, I found myself growing restless. Endless trees blurred past, their leafless branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The creeping anticipation was getting under my skin.
"Why do you never kneel to the King?" I asked Rowan, breaking the silence.
He didn't even glance up. "I'm short already."
We all burst into unexpected laughter, the tension loosening, if only for a moment. Even Sir Cedric let out a deep, genuine chuckle, shaking his head.
But then his expression turned thoughtful. "As a dwarf… do you ever feel useless when fighting something big?"
There was no hint of mockery in his voice, only honest curiosity. Rowan rested his hand on his lance, tracing its worn hilt with familiarity.
"Sometimes," he admitted, "if they're too big, the only real target I have is their foot." His lips curled into a wry smirk. "But for most creatures, the foot is their balance. Take that from them, and they fall just as hard as anything else."
Before I could respond, Sihir finally spoke up from where she lounged in the cart's corner, her arms crossed. "So… what's this spell you're so proud of? The one that can wipe out Astoroth's forces?"
Gods. I wish she'd just stay quiet.
Still, I answered, though my gaze remained fixed on Sir Cedric instead of her. The rising sun caught the edges of his armor, making him look almost… noble.
"It's called Supernova." My voice steadied as I explained. "Raw, unfiltered mana, condensed into a massive orb. When released… it incinerates everything in its path."
Sihir arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression tinged with something unmistakably envious. "Must be nice to have a mana pool that deep—to just unleash something like that without a second thought."
I bristled but kept my tone calm. "I can only use it twice before passing out. Three times… if I really push myself."
Sir Cedric frowned, considering. "And… it will really decimate Astoroth's forces?"
Before I could answer, Rowan spoke instead. His voice carried the certainty of experience.
"I watched her kill a demon with it," he said simply. "With my own eyes."
He adjusted his lance, resting it against his shoulder as if the memory still lingered. "Yes. It can decimate an entire army."
"What about your spell?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay even. "Think you can really take down Astoroth? You'll be our key… our final weapon. If you fail—"
Sihir's eyes flared with something fierce and unyielding as she cut me off sharply. "I never fail."
The air around her practically crackled with restrained energy. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and for a brief moment, I swore I saw flames burning just beneath their surface.
"Your mana pool might be bigger," she admitted with a cold, calculating tone. "But when it comes to raw magical power?"
Her lips curled into a smirk. "I'm leagues above you, Thalia."
The mocking edge in her voice grated against my nerves, but I held my ground, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Sir Cedric and Rowan exchange a knowing glance—one of caution, or maybe understanding. Neither spoke, but I could feel them bracing for whatever storm might unleash.
"My spell…" she continued, her voice dropping into something almost reverent. "It's pure destruction. Concentrated, relentless, absolute. I unleash everything."
Her hand lifted absently, fingers tracing faint, glowing runes that shimmered in the air for just a heartbeat before vanishing. "Nothing has ever survived it. No one ever walks away to tell the story."
Her tone was icy, but her conviction burned hot. This wasn't just arrogance—it was certainty.
For the first time, I truly understood why people called her the strongest mage on the continent.
And for the first time… I hoped they were right.
Rowan leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the edge of the cart, his expression thoughtful but wary. "What do you know about Kazareth and Veythra?" he asked, his tone sharp. "They seem to be… problems."
Sir Cedric let out a grim chuckle, shaking his head. "Problems is putting it lightly." His gaze darkened as he adjusted his gauntlets, his voice dropping into something more serious. "They're Astoroth's two strongest knights… his deadliest weapons."
His expression grew hard, etched with something that looked almost like regret—or maybe experience.
"Kazareth… The Rotting Plague." He clenched his jaw as though tasting something bitter. "He's not just a warrior… he's a walking disaster."
I frowned, leaning forward. "What do you mean?"
"He's death given form," Cedric continued. "Wherever he steps, the earth itself dies. Grass withers, trees rot, even stone crumbles into decayed ruin. The land becomes a festering swamp of disease and corruption."
His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword. "He's skeletal… barely human anymore. His armor is rotting and fused to his flesh, pulsing with veins of necrotic energy. He carries a twisted halberd… rusted, but still deadly enough to cleave through enchanted steel."
Rowan grunted. "Let me guess… he's got tricks."
Cedric nodded. "He breathes poison. Thick, toxic mists follow him—blinding, choking… killing. And the worst part…" He hesitated, voice tightening. "The dead don't stay dead around him. Soldiers who fall rise again as his thralls. If he's not properly destroyed… he reforms."
A tense silence followed as the weight of his words sank in.
I took a steadying breath. "And Veythra?"
Sir Cedric's mouth twisted into something colder, harsher. "The Blood Tyrant."
His eyes seemed distant, like recalling a nightmare burned into memory. "Tall… terrifying. Crimson-tinted skin, warpaint etched into her face like ancient battle sigils. She's both warrior and executioner."
He leaned forward, voice dropping lower. "Her strength grows with every drop of blood spilled—hers, yours… it doesn't matter. Every wound she inflicts fuels her like a living sacrifice."
Rowan's grip on his lance tightened. "So, a monster who can't be outlasted."
"Worse," Cedric said grimly. "She commands the battlefield. Her war cries turn soldiers into berserkers… boosting their strength and driving them into a killing frenzy."
I swallowed, already imagining the chaos she'd unleash.
"She can control blood," he added, almost reluctantly. "Forming spikes, whips… weapons. If you get wounded near her, you might as well have handed her a blade."
"Sounds delightful," I muttered bitterly, my mind already spinning through strategies.
"There's no 'fighting fair' against either of them," Sir Cedric finished grimly. "They're not just soldiers… they're forces of war itself."
I shuddered, picturing Kazareth wading through his death-soaked swamps and Veythra towering over battlefields drenched in blood. The thought gnawed at me—they used to be like us.
"How… how do people become like that?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Sir Cedric's gaze turned distant, the hardened edge in his features softening just slightly. "Kazareth… he was once an elf warrior. Thrown into a pit of poisonous swamps, abandoned to die slowly." He shook his head. "I don't know who cast him there… or why. But he rotted in that cursed place until the land itself claimed him."
My stomach twisted at the thought. Poison didn't just kill him—it remade him.
"And Veythra?" I pressed.
His expression darkened further. "She was an orc warlord—a conqueror who lived for the thrill of battle. Until she was conquered… by Astoroth."
Rowan grunted, his tone as grim as Cedric's. "I reckon he saw something… useful in her."
"Useful…" I repeated bitterly. "So he made her his."
They nodded in grim silence.
I let out a slow breath, my mind swirling. How does someone fall so far? Kazareth, a proud elven warrior, left to rot in agony. Veythra, a warlord broken and reforged into something worse.
How much suffering does it take to twist a soul into something… monstrous?
The thought stuck with me, cold and relentless, like claws dragging down my spine.
The cart shuddered to a halt, and I climbed out, boots crunching against frozen dirt. A cold wind howled across the barren expanse, tugging at my cloak, but I barely felt it. My eyes were fixed ahead.
The battlefield stretched endlessly below us—a vast, war-torn valley scarred by trenches and craters. The ground was a chaotic patchwork of churned mud, shattered earth, and blood-soaked grass. Rivers of dark-red water twisted through the ravaged plain like corrupted veins.
Two massive armies clashed in brutal waves. On one side stood the Kingdom's forces—a resolute wall of armor and steel, their banners still held high despite the relentless onslaught. Soldiers fought with grim determination, shield walls tightening as enemy waves crashed into them like a raging tide.
But it was the other side—the enemy—that turned my blood cold.
Astoroth's army was a grotesque amalgamation of nightmares made flesh. Towering hulking brutes covered in jagged black armor swung massive cleavers, cleaving men in half with a single blow. Skeletal archers with hollow, flaming eye sockets launched arrows that burned with dark magic, searing through plate and bone alike.
Twisted beasts snarled and charged, monstrous creations of corrupted flesh stitched together by vile sorcery. I saw something that might've once been a horse—its torso split open, tentacle-like limbs writhing as it trampled screaming soldiers underfoot.
Closer to the front, packs of shrieking fiends scuttled on too many limbs, their elongated claws flashing in deadly arcs. Their mouths split open into grotesque maws that laughed as they tore through anything in their path.
The air reeked of ash, sulfur, and rotting flesh. Screams of the dying mingled with the clash of steel and the guttural roars of Astoroth's war-beasts. A dark haze loomed overhead, thick with smoke and unnatural storm clouds swirling like an open wound in the sky.
Even from this distance, I could feel the darkness radiating from the enemy forces—an oppressive, suffocating aura of pure malice and bloodlust.
Rowan stepped up beside me, his expression carved from stone, but I saw his knuckles tighten around his lance.
"We're late," he muttered.
I nodded slowly, still transfixed. It wasn't just a battle—it was a slow, inevitable slaughter.
We are losing.
To be continued...