Scarlet and sapphire spider lilies bloomed in the palace gardens, their vivid hues striking against the cool morning air. Beyond the high stone walls, a dark veil stretched over much of the empire, filtering the harsh sunlight that threatened the demons who thrived in the shadows. To them, daylight was a curse—a searing affliction that burned their flesh and left wounds that took far too long to heal. The current Emperor, a master of magic, had cast the veil that shielded the realm, securing both reverence and loyalty from his kind. Under his rule, the noble lords—creatures of the night—could exist without fear of the sun's wrath.
Yet, even within the safety of the imperial palace, dissent simmered.
"You cannot keep the servants in the dark!" Zavaikal's aide protested, his voice taut with frustration.
"That is exactly why I'm telling you," Zavaikal replied curtly, his frown deepening.
"Then at least inform His Evilness that you are leaving!"
"B-But, your Wickedness—"
"Silence." His sharp words cut through the aide's protests like a dagger through silk. He had no patience for drawn-out discussions.
Without another word, Zavaikal turned away, stripping off his formal attire in favor of something far more discreet—an olive-green doublet, sandy-hued breeches, and ankle-high snakeskin boots. His movements were efficient, deliberate. He fastened a belt around his waist and secured his prized dagger, its blade honed to perfection. Finally, he draped a black cloak over his shoulders, its fabric whispering against the air.
"Just that?" his aide asked hesitantly, eyeing his modest ensemble.
Zavaikal shot him a look—a silent rebuke that conveyed everything.
"And who will accompany you?"
"No one," he answered with a shrug before vaulting out of the window.
The aide barely had time to react. "MY LORD—!"
His words dissolved into the wind.
By the time he hit the ground, Zavaikal was no longer himself. In a seamless, bone-wrenching transformation, his form twisted, fur erupted along his skin, and his body reshaped into that of a great hound—Cerberus, his second nature. With silent precision, he merged with the palace guards, blending into the shadows between their patrols.
A familiar voice called out.
"Cero!"
Zavaikal—or rather, Cerberus—turned his massive head to see Draco approaching. He recognized the vampire instantly. His hounds, however, were never fond of him. Vampires reeked of the dead, and to a creature that relied on scent, Draco was no different from a walking corpse. On more than one occasion, his hounds had mistaken him for a revenant and had eagerly attempted to tear him apart.
Draco, ever undeterred, reached down to scratch behind his ears.
"Did you miss me?"
Cerberus growled and snapped at his arm, his teeth stopping just short of piercing flesh.
The vampire only chuckled. "Still holding a grudge, I see."
With an exaggerated flourish, he unwrapped a dirty cloth, revealing a selection of raw meat atop the grass. Slabs of human flesh—entrails, limbs, even a pair of lifeless eyes—lay before him. But Zavaikal was unimpressed.
"Apologies, my friend. They were out of brains and hearts this time. I'm sure Zavi has been feeding you well."
Cerberus froze.
"Zavi?"
His golden eyes narrowed, and a low snarl rumbled in his throat.
Is that what he calls me in front of others?
He had no time to entertain the thought. In one swift motion, he darted past Draco, disappearing into the underbrush.
Draco, caught off guard, fell backward, expecting an attack. Instead, when he opened his eyes, he saw another hound stepping out of the shadows.
His breath hitched.
Cerberus always had a scar under his chin.
This one did not.
Draco's eyes widened in realization.
"Oh no."
---
Flight to the Stygian Lands
Zavaikal slipped through a gap in the outer garden wall, emerging unnoticed into the world beyond the palace. He glanced at the sky, then back at the path behind him. No one had followed.
"A perfect day to fly."
Shapeshifting came with a price—a toll extracted from both mind and body. The longer one lingered in an altered form, the greater the risk of losing oneself entirely. It was a double-edged sword.
He braced himself for the agony that followed.
A shudder ran through his body. Feathers erupted from his skin. His limbs twisted, bones hollowing, reshaping. His vision sharpened, turning to gold as his body shrank, his consciousness bending and shifting to accommodate a new existence.
The raven took flight.
The winds carried him west, where a vast conspiracy of ravens cut through the sky. Some squawked at his presence, sensing the unnatural aura that clung to him, but none dared interfere.
The journey spanned three hundred miles, a day's flight even for a seasoned traveler. The higher he ascended, the colder the winds grew, battering his fragile frame with brutal force. Each mile gnawed at his energy, every gust of wind attempting to tear him from the sky.
Yet he pressed on.
Beneath him, the landscape shifted. The empire's heartland gave way to unwelcoming peaks, their jagged spines covered in eternal snow. This was the Stygian territory—his hound's domain. A land forsaken by warmth and untouched by mercy.
Zavaikal had not set foot here in over a decade.
The last time he had come was for Erebus. The boy had been little more than a peasant demon then, struggling to claim dominance over this savage land. At the age of twenty-one in demonic years—forty-one in human reckoning—he had fought to be recognized as its lord.
Despite the challenges, Erebus had secured his place. He had crushed the rival tribes that threatened the empire's borders. He had built a force of hardened soldiers.
And yet, to the nobles, he remained the beggar lord of an isolated land.
The wind's bite deepened, clawing at his fragile wings. His golden eyes burned with exhaustion.
Shelter.
He needed to find shelter.
With a final, agonized beat of his wings, Zavaikal veered off course.