The red room buzzed with power. Focused around a black obsidian table that split the capering lights of enchanted braziers. Demonic elders gathered, their cloaks whispering dry leaves, their eyes burning half-dark. Tyrion stood in their midst—one of the most ancient, horns curled like a crown, his body gaunt, regal.
The Demon King sat impassive at the far end of the table, crossed legs, sipping from a chalice of something far too thick to be wine.
Tyrion laid a clawed hand on the table. "Why is the offering still alive?"
The air in the room became strained.
"He is chaste. Innocent. His death was the requirement of the pact," Tyrion continued, voice distorted with contempt. "We don't keep sacrifices. We sacrifice them."
The Demon King smiled lazily. "Tyrion, Tyrion. Always so bloodthirsty."
"This is not a game, Vaeloth."
"No," Vaeloth—the Demon King—rose to his full height, voice deepening. "It is war. And we've been fighting it wrong."
Whispers swept through the council. Serava, dressed in raven-colored robes lined with veins of silver, arched a brow but said nothing.
Vaeloth descended from the dais, moving between his elders like a hunting animal. "You think we grow stronger by devouring their purity? No. We grow more feared, more hated—but not stronger."
Tyrion growled. "So then what do you want us to do? Lure them with mercy?"
Vaeloth turned on him. "No. Not mercy. Mastery."
The word hung on the air like a curse.
He began to pace back and forth. "We've been doing it wrong. Sacrifices aren't sustenance. They are opportunities. What if we didn't slay them? What if we converted them?"
There was a silence of shock.
Serava broke it. "You want to… convert the priest?"
Vaeloth's eyes glinted. "Not him alone. All of them, eventually. But this one is special. He resists. He struggles. He prays. And when he breaks, it will echo across realms.".
And how, Serava questioned, crossing his arms over the chest, "do you intend to do that?"
Vaeloth smiled. "I have a plan."
Lucien still crouched by the back wall, knees to the chest, chilled with cold and famine. His spirit, like his body, was frayed—but not ripped.
A knock fell. Not stern. Gentle.
He didn't answer.
The door groaned open, revealing a tall figure shrouded in charcoal grey. He moved in, his movements disconcertingly fluid, like drift smoke.
"My name is Kaelen," the figure spoke, soft voice, unadorned with the guttural rasp of other demons. "I have been tasked with… guarding you."
Lucien made no sound, but his eyes burned with silent calculation.
Kaelen sat on the ground a few feet off, legs crossed. "I'm not like the others."
Lucien snorted softly. "You're still a demon."
"That I am," Kaelen agreed, a cold, humorless smile playing across his lips. "But I was not born of fire. I was born of shadow. I do not hunger for the things they do."
Lucien looked up, wary.
"I don't eat. I watch. I wait." His voice was not arrogant or menacing. Simply honest. "I won't hurt you."
Lucien remained silent.
"I brought food," Kaelen said, setting a bowl of broth and bread in front of him. "No poison. No magic. Just heat."
The priest did not move.
Kaelen looked at him calmly. "You're starving. You won't live much longer."
"I'd rather die than serve your king."
Kaelen cocked his head. "That's precisely what he wants. But not how you think it is."
Lucien scowled. "I don't want your puzzles."
"I'm not giving them to you. I'm giving you survival." Kaelen moved away, his movements fluid. "I'll be back tomorrow. If you're not dead."
He emerged, darkness nibbling at his heels.
Later in the evening, Kaelen had gone to Serava's chamber, a sanctum wrapped in silvery mist. Serava was standing in front of a floating sphere, his sharp features illuminated by its otherworldly light.
"Well?" Serava asked, not turning.
"He's strong," Kaelen answered. "But the hunger is winning. His spirit flickers."
Serava finally turned to him. "Does he talk?"
"When forced to. He still prays."
Serava breathed out. "They all pray. Before they start whispering our names instead."
Kaelen nodded barely. "Vaeloth's plan?"
"Radical," Serava conceded. "But powerful. And deadly."
"He won't crack so easily."
"See that he doesn't die on us before we get the opportunity to attempt it, then," Serava said. "Keep him alive. Keep him breathing."
Kaelen's eyes stayed on him. "And if he attempts to kill himself?"
"Stop him," Serava said flatly. "Or the king will feed you to the flame-born."
Lucien knelt once more in his cell. His bones ached. His hands were clenched tightly and he mouthed prayers, his voice trembling and dry.
The door opened again—but this time, no knock.
Vaeloth entered, his very presence taking the air from the room. His boots clanked with every step.
Lucien did not look up.
"Praying again?" the king sneered. "How pious. Do you think your god is coming to take you away?"
Lucien did not respond.
Vaeloth knelt beside him, fingers running through Lucien's wet hair. "You reek of desperation."
Lucien pulled his head back. Vaeloth caught his chin in a firm hand, holding his gaze.
"Feed. Talk. Do you think I'll just grow weary of you and kill you?"
"Your killing would be a mercy," Lucien rasped. "Which is why I don't foresee it."
The king laughed coldly. "You're so smart, little priest. But you're not. You're mine now."
Lucien pulled back. Vaeloth let him go—for now.
Then, with slow, deliberate movement, he moved behind the priest and wrapped a hand around Lucien's throat—not holding, but resting there, a weight that promised control.
Lucien tensed, stiff under the contact. "Don't touch me."
"I already am," Vaeloth breathed in his ear, his warm breath against Lucien's skin. "And I'll do worse, if I please."
Lucien bucked hard, but Vaeloth grabbed him by the shoulder, hauling him back so that Lucien's spine bumped against his chest. His heart was raging in outrage, but he could not shake the iron strength behind him.
"You feel that?" Vaeloth whispered. "That helplessness. That fury. That's not your god. That's mine."
Lucien twisted, struggling against the firm grip, but Vaeloth only tightened his hold. One clawed hand slipped beneath Lucien's robe—not to wound, not yet—but to remind him that no part of him was untouchable.
"Let me go," Lucien hissed.
"No," Vaeloth said softly. "You're going to stay right here. And listen."
He pushed Lucien's face to his again, forcing the expression. Breaths mixing, their mouths inches away.
"You will break. You will beg," Vaeloth told him, voice oozing wicked intent. "And when you do. I will be the only god you know."
Another push and Vaeloth thrust him sprawling across the frigid, stone floor.
Lucien gasped, curling into a ball once more, voice gruff. "I'll never belong to you.".
Vaeloth stared down at him, expression unreadable. "We'll see."
And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him like a judge's gavel
END OF CHAPTER 3