The traitor barely had time to plead before the blackened steel of Malvoria's sword split him from shoulder to hip.
His scream died in his throat, his red eyes wide with shock as dark blood poured from the gaping wound.
A wet, sickening sound followed as his body collapsed onto the damp forest floor, steam rising where his lifeblood met the cold earth. The towering trees of the shadowed woods bore witness to the execution, their twisted branches reaching overhead like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.
Malvoria stood over the corpse, her grip firm on the hilt of her blade. Blood dripped from the obsidian steel, staining the dead leaves at her feet.
Her breath was steady, her pulse calm. There was no hesitation, no remorse. The demon before her had made his choice. He had whispered secrets—hers—to the wrong ears.
She had been patient. She had allowed him to live long enough to confess.
That was mercy enough.
Malvoria lifted her sword and flicked the blood from the blade, spattering the nearest tree with crimson.
Her sharp gray eyes, cold as storm clouds, flickered toward the demons who stood nearby—her personal soldiers, their armored forms barely visible in the mist that coiled through the undergrowth.
"Clean this mess," she commanded, her voice as smooth as silk yet laced with iron. "Burn it. Let the crows feast on what remains."
The soldiers bowed their horned heads, obeying without question. They did not tremble before her. They were not foolish enough to.
Without another glance at the traitor's corpse, Malvoria raised one clawed hand, her long black nails gleaming in the moonlight.
Dark energy crackled at her fingertips, the air distorting around her as heat radiated from the spell. The next moment, she vanished in a swirl of shadow and fire.
The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and molten metal. High above, chandeliers of black iron flickered with violet flames, casting eerie light upon the towering obsidian pillars that lined the hall.
The walls were adorned with ancient banners, their deep crimson fabric embroidered with golden sigils of her house.
A grand mural stretched across the ceiling—a depiction of demons conquering lands, of kings kneeling, of civilizations burning.
At the far end of the room, upon a throne carved from the bones of fallen warriors, Malvoria sat.
Her dark armor gleamed under the firelight, the jagged edges of the pauldrons giving her a silhouette both elegant and monstrous. She rested one elbow on the armrest, fingers tapping against her jaw in irritation.
She was not in a good mood.
Her mother, Queen-Mother Veylira, stood before her, draped in flowing black robes that shimmered with silver runes.
Her fiery hair, the same blood-red as Malvoria's, was pulled into a thick braid that coiled over one shoulder.
Despite her years, Veylira was still a striking woman—regal, poised, and with a presence that could unnerve even the most hardened warriors.
"You're cruel," Veylira said, her voice calm but laced with quiet disapproval.
Malvoria tilted her head, feigning curiosity. "Am I?"
Her mother sighed, stepping closer. "Killing traitors is necessary, but there is a difference between justice and cruelty. You don't simply punish the guilty, Malvoria. You make an example of them."
"As I should," Malvoria replied smoothly. "Fear keeps them in line. Mercy is a weakness I have no interest in indulging."
Veylira shook her head, exhaling as if she had expected nothing less. "It has been ten years since you seized the throne, daughter. Ten years of war, of conquest. And yet, you have no companion."
Malvoria's expression did not change. "Why would I waste my time with that?"
"You are the Queen of Demons. You must think of the future. A ruler without an heir—"
"I will take a bride only if she is worthy," Malvoria interrupted, her tone firm.
"Power runs in blood, Mother. I will not allow weakness into my lineage. If I am to take a companion, she must be more than a political tool. I will not bind myself to anyone unless I know our offspring will be strong."
Veylira's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Then you'll be pleased to know I have found some prospects."
Malvoria arched a brow. "You amuse yourself with this, do you?"
Her mother only chuckled, then gestured toward the side of the room. A pair of demon attendants stepped forward, carrying a massive, leather-bound tome.
They placed it on a table of polished obsidian, opening it to reveal pages filled with portraits. Women—some demons, some mortals—sketched in exquisite detail.
Veylira turned the pages slowly, her fingers gliding over the parchment. "Each of these women possesses strength, beauty, and power worthy of consideration."
Malvoria leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning the images with mild interest. A demoness with raven-black wings, her gaze sharp as daggers.
A sorceress from the human lands, rumored to wield lightning itself. A warrior queen, standing in armor adorned with the bones of her enemies.
None of them intrigued her. None of them felt right.
Until her mother stopped on a new page.
A young woman, sketched in delicate lines. Long silver hair cascaded down her back, her striking violet eyes staring forward with a quiet yet undeniable intensity. There was strength in that gaze, a fire waiting to be unleashed.
Veylira's lips curled into a smile. "Princess Elysia of Arvandor."
Malvoria did not move. Did not speak.
But something inside her stirred.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips.
"Interesting."