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Among the desolate mountain peaks of western Drasritor stands a lonely keep. High within its tallest tower is a room lined with the darkest richest marble. Furnished with more art and treasure than some kingdoms can claim.
This late at night, it is illuminated only by a massive fireplace built into one of its walls.
Beside a four poster canopy bed large enough to accommodate giants. Is a lavishly cushioned and upholstered high back chair.
“How did it come to this?” The seat's dignified occupant broods. “Did we fail?”
This occupant is a demon. No tail or wings, but well trimmed and decorated horns rise behind its ears in elegant spirals.
His apparel is tidy and neat. A black suit that would not look out of place in the most expensive Parisian store. Its refined elegance, at odds with the wearer’s inner worrying.
“What will become of us?”
The demon frets as he again looks at the room's only other occupant. She lies on the bed upon blood stained sheets. Wrapped in medicinal leaves from head to toe. The Ruin of Calador, Lady Khirsa Zuzzoros.
The elderly demonkin recalls the panic that struck when his Lady suddenly appeared in the grand hall. Missing an arm, leg, tail, wing, and much of her flesh. Collapsing in a pool of her own blood with organs spilling across the floor.
He again feels pride over how quickly his staff responded. Immediately applying high level healing magic to keep her alive while she was examined.
The diagnosis is bleak. There was not a drop of mana left in her and the injuries were caused by ancient magic pushed far beyond its caster's limits. Healing magic would not be near enough. Transplants were the only way to save her.
Carefully moved to the laboratory, treatment began.
A hundred slaves would be sacrificed and she still died several times. Now? All he can do is wait.
Of course his Lady did not disappoint.
“Jorgun.” Spoken weakly but firmly.
“Yes, my lady.” He was out of the chair and by her side in an instant.
Her voice is raw. It's a new throat after all.
“How many?”
He knew what she meant.
“One hundred and one.” Jorgun would never lie to his Lady.
“Tsk.” Khirsa’s tongue clicks and teeth grind. “I was a fool. An arrogant fool.”
“Please, my Lady Zuzzoros, you need rest.”
Sharp, but gentle purple eyes focus on her faithful manservant. Fortunately neither had to be replaced this time.
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“How long?”
“It has been four eight-hours since you arrived in the great hall.”
“Too long.” Teeth again grind in frustration and she mutters. “The ancient scroll said that defiling the ritual would weaken the hero. So why was a monster summoned?” Slowly lifts her new hand to look at it. “Was that Sorcerer King wrong? Or was it a trap?” The mistress of the keep laughs, then groans from the pain. “What a disaster.”
The chamberlain asks hesitantly.
“So, Tourin now has a hero and Lord Ignith is dead?” He becomes confused as he hears her laughter sharpen.
“Oh, Urnithun is dead. His wonderfully thick skull bashed into pulp. But Tourin did not gain a hero.” The lady sighs as she remembers. “They got a father. A very, very, angry father.” Her voice turns almost wistful. “He tortured that royal half-breed oracle for hours. And hated every moment of it. Such frightening willpower. He is certainly no hero.”
Jorgun is confused.
“What does this mean, my Lady?”
The demoness closes her eyes.
“This means I need rest. Events will become chaotic soon. Message the army immediately. Use the relay towers. Withdraw at once.” Shakes her head. “If they encounter that monster before we can prepare? Our losses will be ruinous.”
The official trembles a little. His Lady, almost, never exaggerates.
“Then I shall dispatch assassins?”
“No. He is no puppet like the Aquecian heroes.” Her hand reaches upward as if trying to grasp something. “Tourin may be holding a viper to its chest. I know something of the world he comes from. And the more he learns of them? The more disgusted he may become.” She is laughing again. “Do not send assassins. Send… assistance. He may prove a far better Demon Lord than Urnithun ever was.” Another sigh. “Now go. I must rest, and plan.”
As the demon walks away to carry out Zuzzoros' orders, he recalls what his Lady said.
“Stronger than Lord Ignith?”
While it's true that you don't have to have demon blood to be a Demon Lord? Almost all do. In Drasritor, it doesn't matter how clever you are. It doesn't matter how pure your bloodline is. All that matters is strength. Whether physical or magical. Even his brilliant Lady has always needed a strong partner.
Once Urnithun's death becomes known, the leaders of her army will turn on each other. And with the strongest contenders all dead in Sanriel Cathedral? The infighting over succession will be even bloodier than usual.
At best, a suitable candidate will quickly appear for the Lady to groom and control. At worst, the neighboring demon lords will sense weakness and attack. Resulting in a two, three, or even four, way battle for the territory.
This might give Tourin years to recover and rebuild but there is no helping it. The Demon King's war against Aquecia has stalled due to their heroes.
Tourin was his Lady's gamble and it had paid off. Plunder from the wealthy human lands filled vaults and fresh slaves filled farms and mines. But now it might come back to bite them as neighbors greedily eyed her new riches.
“Maybe she can manipulate them into attacking Tourin instead.” Mumbled the elderly demonkin.
Irzezath, Jorgun (male, demon, drasritorn)
Zuzzoros, Khirsa (female, demon, drasritorn)