Demonic Borderlands – Nightfall
The Holy Order's banners glowed under the crimson moon, golden armor glinting like false salvation. Their hymns of victory echoed across the scorched hills as they marched deeper into the infernal lands—blind, arrogant, victorious.
At their front, Lucian rode like a symbol of divine wrath, sword raised, blue eyes burning with certainty.
He believed this was conquest.
He believed he was saving the world.
He had no idea he was already buried.
Cliff Overlooking the Battlefield
Kael stood like a phantom above the fray, the wind tugging at his long black coat. Below, Lucian's forces carved their path forward—undaunted, unaware.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the scene like a painter admiring the first stroke of a masterpiece.
"They celebrate a death march," Kael murmured.
Nyx Velrath stood beside him, the moonlight weaving through her ink-black gown like living shadows. Her smile was sharp, amused, dangerous.
"You've grown into your cruelty, my love," she whispered, voice like silk and knives. "Watching fools choke on their own triumph… it's almost poetic."
Kael's hand rested casually on his blade, though his mind was already far ahead.
"This is not war. This is prophecy inverted. I will make the world watch its 'hero' shatter."
He turned slightly. "Are the shadows in position?"
Nyx's grin widened. "They've already fed. Supply lines are nothing but smoking trails. Scouts? Gone. Rear guard? Surrounded. Their faith?" She shrugged. "Fragile."
Kael's lips curled. "Good."
A kneeling figure emerged from the shadows behind them—one of Nyx's elite.
"My lord, the Holy Order is feasting. They believe the cities have fallen. They've stopped watching the dark."
Kael's gaze flickered like fire catching wind.
"Then it's time. Inform the Empress. We allow Lucian one last illusion of victory. Then we tear the world from beneath his feet."
Nyx raised a brow. "And how will you break him?"
Kael didn't blink.
"We will not kill his men. We will erase them. Let him wander through ash and silence. Let him pray to gods that no longer answer."
Lucian's Camp – Midnight
Laughter. Songs. Fires. The scent of roasted meat.
The Holy Order feasted like gods on high, wrapped in delusions of glory. Lucian stood tall at the heart of the revelry, addressing his generals.
"We press at dawn. The demons are shattered. Their defenses are weak."
One knight hesitated. "Sir, we've received no word from our scouts."
Lucian frowned. "They're late. That's all. We hold the advantage."
A scream tore through the night.
Then another.
Silence shattered like glass.
Black figures surged from the dark—silent, inhuman, precise.
Throats slit. Fires smothered. Horses panicked. The Holy Order's golden camp became a pit of writhing bodies and whispered death. No war cry. No trumpet. Just steel in the night.
Lucian spun, sword flashing as he cut down a phantom. Blood soaked his boots. He looked around, heart pounding.
A severed head rolled to his feet.
His commander's.
His hand trembled.
And then… he looked up.
Atop the Hill
Kael stood under the moon like a god carved from shadow and will. Black and silver. Crimson eyes burning. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
Lucian's breath hitched. "Kael…"
The Duke of Shadows raised a single hand.
The massacre began.
Tents ignited. Screams became choirs of agony. Every exit, every edge—cut off. Every paladin met only silence and blood.
This wasn't battle.
It was theatre.
Kael had written the script.
Lucian was merely the final act.
To be continued…