Twenty Years Ago…
(You know, ignoring that whole time-jump thing…)
Covered in bruises and blood (and bleeding, still, on the red earth) the pale little boy with black hair crawled beneath the shadow of a black rock. The sky was vermillion. The sun, black. It looked like it could have been the outback, but it wasn’t.
Still, there were worse places to die.
When the monstrous canid found him, the little boy was too tired to scream. Little Lachlan could only assume this was the ‘devil dingo’, Kurpana. The Aunties had told the children back home that the dark spirit had once terrorized the lands around Uluru. Maybe he had come to finish what the other kids, who had bashed Lachlan and left him for dead, had not.
The demon’s eyes were black as coal, and shining–Lachlan could see himself in them.
“You are dying,” the demon said in a low, gentle, growl. “You are lost in this world, and you are dying. I would not have you die alone, little one, for I am alone too.”
And then, the demon reached out its paw and touched the shivering, student child’s cheek.
“I have been cast out by my own kind, for trying to challenge their king and failing. By rights, I should die too. But–”
Then, the demon’s eyes grew wider. He growled to himself, curiously. “How fortuitous. The blood you have spilled, boils and brims with enchantment. You are a magus. And a dark one at that. No doubt, that is how you were cast away to this realm, Gehenna. But this is no realm for mortal kind. And certainly no realm for children. I can save your life, little one–but at a cost.”
With trembling, chapped lips, the young Lachlan asked. “Anything. What do you want?”
“I offer an accord–a pact that shall bind our souls together til death takes one of us and breaks our mortal contract. My power shall become yours. Your power shall become mine. You shall be reborn. You will become the boy who rises from the dead.”
Trembling, delirious, dehydrated, dying, young Lachlan’s lips formed into a smile. “That…sounds…bloody awesome.”
“Who did this to you, child?”
“Ricko Lambert and his pack of drongos,” Lachlan seethed. He winced. The pain was immense. Not the worst he’d experienced, of course. Wasn’t as bad as the time his mom’s boyfriend knocked out one of his teeth.
The enormous demon scratched his chin. “Hmmm. Perhaps this Ricko should meet me. That may deter him from bothering you in the future. The mortal realm has long intrigued me. I would like very much to taste its air.”
“C-can you hurry up,” Lachlan said through his teeth. “It’s getting dark.”
“Where is it you come from?” The demon said, as it laid its paw on the children’s bloody shirt.
“Alice Springs,” the boy said. “In Australia.”
“Hmm. Australia. What a strange word.”
The shadows around Lachlan grew longer, and the air colder. He felt something icy enter his heart. The pact had begun.
“What is your name?” the demon asked. “I will need to know your name to finalize the pact.”
“Lachlan,” the scared, shivering boy said. “Lachlan Jago. It’s a shit name, eh?”
“Well met, Lachlan. I am called Braxius, Sixth Scion of the Lineage Ta'ghathuul, formerly of Clan Iradium.”
“...How about, just Brax?|
“Very well, young one. Then, this pact is finalized and you will be healed. Now, let us bring Hell back to Earth…”
Twenty years later, Daemian–Lachlan–walked the same dry, endless red plains that he had inadvertently warped himself to, all those years ago. Then, Brax had come to rescue him–save his life really. Walking along and hugging his elbows in the bitter Gehenna cold, Daemian was determined to pay back the favor.
He was going to get his demon back.
“Uh…where are we again, boss?”
Scully had followed Daemian–rather insistently–through the dimensional gateway, into gloomy, twilit, and beautiful melancholy world where demons dwelled. The skeleton servant tagged along the dark magic, stopping only to collect his skull, which would occasionally fall off of its own accords and going tumbling down the red tract.
Deadboy craned his neck towards the black sun, and sighed. “Gehenna, mate,” he said, with finality. “Also known as The Expanse, Makai, or…Hell.”
Scully creaked back. “Hell, boss!? But…but I don’t have an evil bone in my…bones!”
Daemian had no time to indulge his skeletal servant. The dark magi punk kicked the dirt with his boots. “The ‘Hell’ where unlucky c***ts burn for all eternity or get tortured is an invention of the church. Gehenna is just the realm where demons live. Of course, humans who end up here do tend to…well, get tortured and tormented by demons.” Daemian shrugged. “We’ll probably be fine. We just gotta’ nab Brax and Victor and get the hell out..of hell.”
Scully, apoplectic, slunk forward. “But how do we get out? There ain’t nothin for miles around!” Scully stared across the great chasm to their left. A series of strange dunes, interrupted by the croal-like, crystalline growths of violet and black, stretched as far across the horizon as Scully could see. Sinewy carcasses, and enormous rib-cages belonging to twisted beasts of no earthly discretion, emerged from the dust like long forgotten ruins,
Scully’s teeth chattered. “And I thought I was big boned,” he said, pointing to one of the mountain-sized remnants in the distance. “I dunno, boss, this place gives me the creeps.”
Daemian looked out across the expanse. Flakes of gold, like snow, drifted down from the sky. There was no wind. No noise, either, save for a low, omnipresent hum that seemed to emanate from the earth itself. Or perhaps it was the black sun in the sky that sung.
The hunky Australian sucked his teeth. “Yeah…it’s very….H. R. Giger. With a dash of Moebiu, and that Polish guy whose name I can never pronounce.” He shrugged. “I find it kinda’ beautiful, actually.” Daemian nodded to his shadow, an extension of himself, which slithered along the ground ahead. “Those fuckers couldn’t have taken Brax and Victor far. We’re bound to find one of the clan cities?”
“Clan?” Scully asked.
“Gehenna is ruled by seven clans, or tribes, who elect a Principality and send them to the demonic capital of Pandaemonium–and they’re a lot more bloody useful than our human politicians. The ‘seven deadly sins’ were said to be inspired by each of the clans.” Daemian smiled wickedly. “Which is awesome. Brax is from Clan Iradium–the Demons of Wroth–and the most brutal of the bunch. And I guess our ol\, horny mate’s dad was from Luxerian, the naughty demons.”
“You think they’d live in a place like that?” Scully asked.
Took Daemian a second or two to realize his servant was pointing ahead. Daemian called his shadow back and then peered into the hazy, red mist at the demonic architecture laying at the bottom of the slope. Spindly towers set amid bulbous domes. Strange, biomechanical machines floating about. Avenues flanked by odd statues and eerie arches. This was a demonic city alright.
“Uh, boss?”
“Not now,” Daemian said, leaning forward to try and get a lay of the land. His cut-off tank top from his favorite band, Fetus of God, was still far too much clothing for this dry heat (though it was still more temperate and cool than the outback).
“But boss…”
“WHAT!” Daemian shouted, doing a 180, and ready to lob Scully’s block off yet again. “Oh…”
Three giant demons–of Brax’s clan–stared Deadboy and his servant down. The largest one, with wolfish features, licked his lips.
Daemian wasn’t about to show fear. “You look like furries at an S&M convention.” He sniffed.
”Not that I’m complaining.”
The white-eyed wolf tightened his claws. “Our clan has agreed to permit your kind use of the shadow corridors–within the proper boundaries. But you are on our territory. You have breached the truce. And now, you will come with us.”
—
The cell resembled the jaw of a dragon, or some draconic being anyway, with the bars tilted inward as teeth. El Amante had been in worse confinements. Granted, he had never shared a cell with a sentient pile of gelatine and eyeballs (and tentacles). It was so damn humid and hot inside the confines that El Amante had stripped down to just his mask and underwear, giving them an appearance of a wolf-headed bodybuilder in a sauna.
The pile of goo eyeballed him. Multiple eyeballs in fact.
Victor smiled at his lock-up mate, and gave him a friendly nod. “What they have you in here for?”
“S’nalthhgat fwn kyth!”
“Er…Spanish, English, or some Portuguese, brother, that’s all I got.” He scratched his head. Can’t say I didn’t see this coming when I agreed to help Daemian. If I get out of this, I hope the other guys don’t get angry with him. He really does try his best…
Victor couldn’t care less about his own safety. He knew he’d be fine. One way. Some way. It was Brax and Daemian that worried him. Whatever had come through that portal, whatever had been summoned, had come in with intention–and it had not been Daemian's doing at all. Victor’s glyph had picked up his energy–fear was rarely expressed by the punkish dark mage. Fear of others safety, less so.
Which told Victor everything he needed to know, which was that this wasn’t Daemian's fault, and that they were both in deep, demonic doo doo.
Victor leaned forward on the strange, fleshy furnishing, and sighed. “Happy Halloween,” he said to himself. Then, his ears perked up at the sound of footsteps. His jailers were no doubt returning. The pale Hierophant had only told him he was in no danger, and that he would need to be confined until ‘certain matters could be resolved’. Perhaps whatever deminics politics needed dealing with, a negotiation had last been reached.
The demon who appeared outside was not part of the Hierophant's entourage, and much like Victor, he too was masked. Tall, statuesque, with regal robes and a wide-brimmed hat, the imposing figure reminded Victor of the Phantom of the Opera–specifically, the part when the eponymous ghoul infiltrates a masquerade party in the guise of the Spectre of Red Death.
With his startling appearance, lavish purples and red robes, waist-long, raven colored hair, and skull-mask, the demon could have easily passed for an extravagant luchador.
The masked creature studied Victor, for a moment, before he spoke in a clear, musical, resonant voice. “They put you in a cage!?” he said, as if talking to an unfortunate friend who’d gotten themselves thrown into the drunk tank. “With a shoggoth, no less!!?”
More confused than ever, Victor turned to his squishy companion. “Is that…a slur?
The sound of a latch dropping clued Victor into the state of affairs. He was being let go. The demon threw open the ‘jaws’, and motioned for Victor to come out. The sentient pile of gelatin did not appear interested in leaving with him.
The muscular man wasn’t about to go trusting strangers–not in this environment. It had been some time since Victor had resorted to his childhood, street-wis instincts, but he did a ‘scan’ on the demon just to be sure of his intent…
Or rather, he tried to. No sooner had Victor activated his empathic glyph, did he feel his energy redirected back at himself. He winced and cradled his head.
“There will be no need for that,” the regal demon said, more like scolding a child than any genuine expression of anger or threat. “You have no reason to trust me of course, but as it were–I don’t happen to very much like your jailers, or the bloviating ingrates who decided to take advantage of the loopholes partitioning our worlds. What they’ve done to you is tantamount to kidnapping. Base level desperation unbefitting of the Children of Lilith. Yet, here we are.”
Victor had no idea what the helpful demon was prattling on about, of course, but he suspected he would find out shortly enough. “You’re…letting me go?”
“You deserve your dignity,” the demon said. “Unlike your mortal realm, we Luxerians do not take the measure of one’s blood into account. You are of our kind, no matter the circumstances of birth. Yet, it seems our brutish, war-mongering kin do not share the same values.”
Victor stepped outside, with hesitation, keeping a watchful eye on the robed demon all the while. “When you say…’our kind’?”
“Well, you are half human, that is plain to see. As it were, you have been unfairly drawn into a conflict of which you should have no bearing.” The demon motioned for him to follow down the dark corridor. “Follow. I will lead you to the exit.”
Victor had no choice. He tailed his rescuer–but he made sure to keep his glyph attuned to all other elements. Even so, the aura of this place, the energies he felt, were far unlike anything Victor had ever experienced.
“I would ask about the mask,” the demon started, leading Victor up a staircase that appeared to be an assortment of stone arms–more demonic decore, “but that would be quite hypocritical of me, no? I am known as Crimson. I am a Luxerian. Or was, rather.”
“An Incubus?” Victor asked.
The demon glanced sideways at Victor–it was impossible to tell his expression (mouth concealed by mask) but his eyes sparkled. “Very good. I assume the dark magus that brought you here had primed you? My understanding is that your magi seldom approve of demoniacs and necromancers.”
“The magi in question is my friend,” Victor said. The walls in this part of…wherever they were (some fortress, no doubt) were engraved with hundreds of eyeballs. Victor sensed they weren’t just mere decorations. “The beings who came from the portal. Who were they? That bald one is…creepy.”
“Oh, Steve?”
“...You have to be kidding me.”
“Oh, they call themselves the Hierophant, these days,” Crimson said, bursting into a fit-full of laughter, “Pretentious twat. In summary, you and your friend–and your friend’s soul-bonded kindred–have been pulled into a conflict. The clans of Luxerian and Iradium have maintained a tenuous truce, and had been co-ruled by a member of Luxerian for some time.” Crimson sighed. “Until the Luxerian’s previous king, Asmodin, up and vanished. I am told he had his reasons. Unfortunately, he could n0opt have foreseen what would have happened. The leader of Iradium made a power-play and was challenged by one of his brothers. He was meant to be executed, but he chose exile. Now, the old king is dead and the faction ruled by the Hierophant wants to settle a rising dispute by finding a blood-heir to both clans, lest all Hell break down.”
Victor understood...somewhat, but he failed to understand what this demonic war of succession had to do with Deadboy, Brax, and himself.
Crimons continued. “In spirit, the Hierophant’s intentions are noble. They merely want to restore equilibrium and preserve the integrity of both clams.”
“Love and War,” Victor said. “A combination of which I am familiar.”
“What I don’t understand,” Crimson said, turning abruptly to face Victor, “is why on Gehenna they swept you up into this. You seem to me an innocent bystander.”
Victor scratched his neck, trying to recall what the Hierophant–or Steve–had said. “He said that he had not come for Daemian, but me. And then they bowed.”
Crimson was inscrutable. “Impossible. They must have done so for Braxius. He is the one that the previous leader banished. And he is the one who can stake a claim for the throne.”
“Brax!” Victor spat, perhaps a little too loudly considering the circumstance. “But nooo! Brax just wants to hang out on Earth, bake, and spellbreak!”
“Spellbreak?” Crimson asked. “One of your human sports? In any case, it seems you were falsely identified as one of Clan Luxerian, but our kind are not above taking human lovers and–for better or worse–breeding with them. What has been done to you is an inconvenience, and if you were perhaps younger our kind might try and rear you in the ways of our people. But you most likely have a life, a lover–”
“Yes,” Victor said, eyes going heart-shaped. “Inaci! My Iggy. I love them very much.”
“Then all the reason to return you to your realm and get you far and away from this mire.”
“But I can’t, Crimson! Not without finding Brax and Deadboy–er, I mean Daemian. Would they be inside this place too?”
Crimson folded his arms to his chest. “Perhaps, child, but I would not let you ruin your chance at leaving this place. Whatever the Hierophant and the would-be-ruler of Clan Iradium intend for you and your friends…it will not end well. These things tend to end in Trials by Combat.”
Victor stood proudly and flexed his muscles. “Well, I am no stranger to combat! However, I am more of a lover than a fighter–and my first duty is to protect my friends. If you can think of where they might be held, please tell me.”
Crimson stared at the spirited wrestler for a moment. “Well, these robes conceal more muscle than you’d assume, friend. Would I fight alongside you. However…lover that I myself may be, II gave up fighting long ago. I run. You would be wise to do the same.” Crimson tilted his wide-brimmed hat to an alcover, an elevator operated by a lever (skull-shaped, naturally. “If your friends are anywhere, they’re in the lower reaches of the Hold. Find them, and then return as quickly as you can. My presence here must go undetected, but I may be able to get you out of the city bounds. Your dark magus can open up a shadow corridor then, and return you to Earth.”
Victor nodded, turning to leave. Before he did, however–a strange tug at his heart made him about-face. This Crimson, of the rich tongue (and impeccable fashion sense) radiated a warmth and kindness that Victor had come across in most humans, let alone demons. He was a good one, and Victor didn’t need to tap into his glyph to see it. Victor dared to place his hand on Crimson’s shoulder. “Thank you, friend. You are very kind.”
“Kindness is all I have to give these days,” Crimson said. “I have made countless mistakes. Been a slave to my passions and impulses, and have naught else to show for it but this mask.”
“And why do you hide your face?”
“I could easily ask the same of you–but I shall not. Suffice to say, we both have our reasons. Now, friend, go. Harken to your companions' side…while you still have the chance.”
Victor let go, and stumbled over to the lift. He threw back the lever, opening the doors, and stepped into the strange compartment. A depression on the ground triggered the lowering mechanism.
“By the by,” Crimson called back, as the lift began to descend, “where does a strapping mortal such as yourself hail from?”
“Hmm?” Victor looked back, just as the lift lowered past the sight-line out to the corridor. “I’m originally from a small town in Mexico. You probably wouldn’t know it.”
Before the floor vanished completely from sight, and Crimson too, Victor thought he heard his rescuer gasp. Victor paid it passing notice, before his concerns returned to finding Daemian and Brax.
Fortunately, it seemed he would not need to look far. For as soon as the elevator cage swung open, Victor was greeted by a familiar sight—that of the ghastly, grinning, pale face of The Hierophant. Behind them, chained and manacled, Brax, Daemian, and Daemian’s dermatologically challenged minion, stood side-by-side–looking more like three miscreants sent to the principal's office than the hostages of the forces of Hell.
“Hello, esteemed guest,” the Hierophant said, hands outstretched in malevolent victory. Behind him, two massive, muscular demons waited in the wings.
Victor sighed. “Typical.”
Daemian grinned, ear-to-ear. “Guess who got captured!”
“Good to see you alive,” Victor said, smiling generously at his pals. “Daemi! Braxy! …Skeleteon man!”
Damian shrugged. “No wockas–not my first stint in the clink.”
“Same here!”
“Hahaha…look at us badboys.”
“Oh please, pero like half the GSA at this point. You should hear what Colt told me about him and John Henry’s time in New Orleans--”
With an angry snarl, The Hierophant cut the reunion short. “THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR CHISME–THIS IS THE TIME FOR SUFFERING.” The spindly hellion slowly regained his composure. “No hellish torture could be worse than spending another moment with you himbos. NOW…it has been decided by the council. Braxius, the Betrayer–for your attempt to elude punishment at the hands of the previous king, you will face trial by combat.”
The Hierophant’s words echoed ominously off the dungeon’s stones–but Daemian and Victor just looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure,” Daemian said. “That’s cool.”
The Hierophant blinked. “WHAT?”
“Mate, I break light tubes over my own head and then CHEW them–you think I’m any stranger to the ring? If you don’t have at least a flog, a mace, an iron maiden, and a flaming table—you’re not really impressing me much.”
“And I will perform and give it my all for any audience!” Victor said, valiantly bouncing his pecs. “No matter the amount of eyes on their faces or the horns on their heads! I shall bring my Heavenly body to the Underworld, and chico–Hell is gonna get hotter with this stud here!”
And to illustrate that point, El Amante did a little bachata dance on the spot. Skelly tapped his finger bones against his ribs to drum up a beat.
In all their thousands of years or orchestrating misery and woe, The Hierophant had never been subjected to such torment as these two idiots and their antics. “CEASE YOUR PELVIC SORCERY, CAMBIAN! IT SHALL NOT WORK.”
“Talk is cheap,” Daemian spat. “Who’re our opponents gonna be?”
The Hierophant’s eyes burned with vicious glee. “As fate would have it, the lord who would mete out punishment is none other than the candidate for the current rule of Clan Iradium.”
A demon of few words, this revelation snapped Brax out of his silent contemplation. “Grr…you mean Ralgar, the Bone Eater?”
Daemian snort-laughed. “What a fuckin’ stupid name.”
“You two shall face him,” the smug Hierophant said, leering at Brax and Damian. “I would not sully the dignity of the heir to Clan Luxerian. Certainly not for a Wrathling’s sake.”
“Heir?” Victor asked, pointing to himself. “The only thing I am heir to is the dynasty of proud luchadors who had the strength and courage to step into a ring!”
“Oh, not so, my sweet Prince of Hell…”
This was a whiplash for Daemian. He finally put the pieces together. “Mate, I’m the motherfucking Prince of Hell, not the one-man Solo Las Mujeres roadshow over here. Are you saying Victor–a literal golden retriever in the body of a porn star–is heir to a CLAN OF GEHENNA!?”
Victor grinned. “Apparently!”
“Your confines here in the Hold are nothing short of a disgrace–but that was the terms decided on by the Wrathlings. As son of Asmodin, you shall be made ruler of Clan Luxerian.”
Til now, Brax had remained the coolest head in the room–but no longer could he contain his rage. “ENOUGH!” He growled, startling everyone in the cramped dungeon. Even the Hierophant flinched at the roar, and raised his hands to conjure up a discus of blue light–a demonic defense. “I am the one who fled, all those years ago. These sins are engrained upon my flesh, not the flesh of the innocent.”
The Hierophant judged that Brax would not lash out, and dismissed the conjured bolt of magic. The smirk returned to their sallow face. “But is there nothing sweeter, Wrathling, than the suffering of the benign? Or is this flaw of yours–this human compassion–what cost you your glory so long ago?”
Daemian had never seen Brax so agitated. He was nearly foaming at the mouth! “Now I know what you are,” the giant demon said, looming over the master of ceremonies. “You are one of Clan Supervians. I should have known, from the stench of pride and vainglory. You have no business interfering in the moiety of Wrath and Lust!”
“The well-being and balance of the demonic realms is the business of Clan Suipervian–no matter what those tepid representatives of the High Council in Pandaemonium say. My task is nothing short of bringing equilibrium. And that is why you must die, Wrathling–and why the halfling must ascend to his father’s absent throne!”
Hell had been nothing compared to the wash of complicated emotions that threatened to drown poor Victor under the turning tides of fate. “My…father. My real father.”
The atmosphere was humid, yet surely Gehenna must have frozen over when Daemian presented himself as the voice of reason. “Mates, this is giving me a headache. Hierophant, this shit doesn’t involve us mortals–and like it or not, Brax and I are soul-bound. He left his clan years ago. None of this involves him. Or us.”
Then, the air did truly grow colder. The Hierophant raised his ovular head. “Such arrogance. You would do well among the Supverians, child.” The Hierophant stuck out a long fingernail and pressed it against Daemian’s throat, drawing forth a silken trickle of blood. Daemian didn’t so much as flinch.
Which irked the High Priest even more. “Little boy, who revels in his own pain and the pain of others–you have no idea what my kind are capable of; misery beyond your wildest dreams.You, foolish magus, DARE threaten me with your magics? The Pact of Non-Interference between our realms is an authority that not even I would rise to challenge, but lest you forget that YOU threw open the gates between worlds, unintended or no. This Wrathling here is not your pet, nor your companion–he is a TRAITOR TO HIS KIND! And I will turn your skin inside out before I sacrifice the stability of our people just so you maggots can cavort upon the Fell Goddess’ useless creation!”
“ENOUGH!”
It wasn’t Brax who had shouted, this time. Nor was it Daemian, who removed his neck from The Hierophant’s nail. He looked over at Victor, slick with sweat and heaving with rage. In a flash, he had gone from defender of love, to some lupine version of an Aztec war god.
Daemian pulled his
Victor held out his hand, and behind his mask, his eyes flashed violet purple. Til now, The Hierophant had remained unbothered. Now, even they were compelled to tilt their head in respect–and yet, a smile crossed their lips. Daemian knew right away that The Hierophant’s chastising was twofold: both threat, and a means to awaken Victor’s demonic side.
It should have been obvious to Daemain from the getgo. The aura that radiated from Victor was beyond human. His beautiful hair, matteed by sweat, floated behind him in the air. “I am NOT YOUR KING,” he bellowed. “This war is of your own kind’s doing, and my blood makes no difference here. Hear me, Hierophant! I have a life, and people I love, on Earth. I have been in your realm for two hours and I have enjoyed NOT A SECOND OF IT.”
The Hierophant’s leather-clad henchman reacted, charging forward to put themselves–as walls–between their master. The leader of the demons held up a patient hand. They would allow Victor to state his peace.
The luchador seethed with righteous fury. “Many know of my compassion, Hierophant. More know of my power. Yet very little know of the destruction I can wreak in the blink of an eye. My magic can break your brain. My strength can break your spine. Is the realm of Gehenna prepared to find out what I’m capable of when you threaten my loved ones and then me?”
Scully’s lower jaw hung from his skull in awe. Daemian mirror him. “D-damn, Vicko. You ARE scary.”
It was a stalemate. The demons stared down the opposing party. Victor glowed furious fuchsia. But It was Brax who interceded. “Victor. My mortal companion…this is my burden to bear. I am the one who ran. Perhaps it is time to face my fate.”
Victor’s glow dulled, if only a little. “All this talk of fate exhausts me,” he said, softly. His threatening light dimmed, returning him to a calmer state of being. He laughed, sadly, to himself. “Is it not almost Halloween? Isn’t this when we’re meant to don the identities that suit us? That make us happy? I am not your missing heir, Hierophant, no matter what runs in my blood.”
“Fucking oath,” Daemain said. “I won’t let you hurt my mates.”
“Y-yeah!” Scully squeaked. “What the boss said!”
“You have spent far too much time among the mortals, my liege,” The Hierophant shot back. “You have forgotten your royal blood. Long have I toiled. Long have I spent countless hours–and sacrificed many–to ensure peace among our peoples, and I will not have it ruined by a cowardly exile, an heir who shirks responsibility, and an AUSTRALIAN.” He spat, and his saliva sizzled on the stones. “Very well. You have left me with no choice. You all will face trial by combat.”
“And as so-called heir to Clan Luxerian,” Victor started, “I shall state the terms of the fight. Don’t think I haven't caught on to your rules, demon.”
The Hierophant looked ready to fire back with another holier-than-thou argument, but perhaps the mortals had indeed worn them down. “Very well, impudent heir. Choose.”
Victor looked over at Daemain and winked. “What else?” he said. “You demons have magick. So do we. So, let’s make it a spellbreaking match!”
To Be Continued...
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