Thunder rumbled overhead as the circle was drawn.Runes glowed with blood-light.And in the silence between seconds, the demon arrived.
He did not walk—he cracked into existence.
His name was Drekh'Azul, once a rune-smith of the Nine Hells, banished for forging weapons that hungered. His arms bore ancient sigils carved in pain. His eyes were smoldering embers, and upon his back he carried a casket of black metal chained in living bone.
"You summoned me," Drekh'Azul rasped. "And brought thestral bone… and basilisk fang. But what I offer is older still—Whispering Iron. Fallen from the sky. Dripping with starfire and madness."
He opened the casket.
The metal screamed in the minds of the weak.Malthazar stood still, unaffected.
"Good," the demon growled. "You are worthy."
They worked under moonless skies.Black flame lit the forge.The basilisk fang was carved into a conduit core, runes etched in blood and seared with demonfire.
The thestral bone was steamed in Acheron oil, hollowed and fused with iron that whispered things in languages long dead.
Every rune, every breath, every scream from the wand's core was deliberate.
Malthazar chanted in Enochian.Drekh'Azul answered in Infernal.
When the wand was sealed—when its pulse aligned with Malthazar's own—it opened its eye. Not a literal one, but a soul-bound presence, coiling around his own essence like a serpent.
Ssspeak… the wand hissed in Parseltongue.My flesh… is fire. My soul… is yours. Command me.
Malthazar smiled.
The ritual was complete.
The Wand's Whisper
That night, the wand called to him. Not with sound, but instinct—a magnetic pull south, across hills and graves and whispering woods.
He followed in silence, gliding through shadows.
He arrived at a forgotten crypt, buried beneath dead roots and moonless sky.The sigils on the door wept blood under his gaze.
"Vampires," he said softly."Good."
The Den
Inside, the vampires hissed, rising from stone slabs and silk shrouds.They were pale and beautiful and cruel, their fangs bared, their claws gleaming.
At their center stood a tall, feral being draped in black velvet and bone rings. His name was Vornax, a vampire who drank the blood of warlocks.
"You dare enter my sanctum, boy?" he growled. "You reek of brimstone and stolen power."
Malthazar's wand twitched in his fingers, almost eager.
Burn them. it hissed in Parseltongue.
He raised his hand.
Hellfire exploded.
Not ordinary fire—living flame that screamed like banshees and devoured light. It consumed three vampires instantly, leaving only their shadows etched in stone.
The others fell back, shrieking.
Vornax lunged with speed like lightning—but Malthazar did not flinch.
He swung his wand like a blade, and a serpent of flame erupted, coiling around Vornax's throat.
"Submit," Malthazar said.
Vornax struggled—but the Hellfire only tightened, burrowing into his skin, marking him with burning runes.
"I… yield…" Vornax choked, falling to his knees.
The rest of the vampires bowed, their eyes wide with terror and awe.
"From this night forth," Malthazar declared, voice echoing with dark resonance, "you serve me. Your fangs, your shadows, your immortality—they are mine to command."
The vampires knelt, and the crypt trembled.
The Wand of Whispering Iron pulsed with satisfaction, its eye half-closed in pleasure.