Autumn, 304th Year of the Imperial Calendar

    Demon Lord Daenocte Dai’Knollaran watched as the final wall fell. The human army, and the summoned hero at its helm, would be upon them soon. They descended the dias, a crown of cypress and lilies adorning their head. Black robes swathed the mage’s small form, contrasting the bone-white hair that fell to the floor.

    Vespite, their most trusted aid, took their hand and guided them to the last few steps. He was huge, towering above all but the dragonkin usually in their midst. His midnight black hair fell to his mid-back, his eyes an inhuman amber. His pupils were square, and the space around his irises golden– betraying his true nature.

    Beyond the high walls of the palace, five of the Demon Lord’s seven keepers lay dead.

    A tear dripped from the corner of Daenocte’s eye, but they did not reach up to wipe it from their cheek. The red bead fell to the tile, a small patter in the otherwise silent room.

    “Leave me,” Daenocte murmured.

    Vespite shook his head. “I will not.” His hand tightened on the hilt of the blade at hip: a cruel thing, made of blood and a thousand human souls. Its menace glowed in the din of the throne room.

    Daenocte turned to him, and cupped his face. Still standing on the final step before the throne room, Daenocte could reach him. “Please,” they whispered. “We have lost this war. I will not have you here as I die. You needn’t join me in death.”

    Vespite kissed one of the palms on his face. “I will stay with you to the very end,” he vowed.

    Daenocte loved his loyalty, even as they hated him for his foolishness. “You’re going to make me weep,” they accused.

    The man in front of them smiled. “I will make it up to you when we meet again.”

    The Demon Lord closed their eyes, relishing the warm touch on their face. How long would it be this time? How long would they have to wait? All alone in that horrid place… The thought made them shudder.

    As though he could read their thoughts, Vespite soothed, “I will find you, as I always have.”

    “Things will be different, next time,” Daenocte promised. “Next time will be the last.”

    “Yes,” Vespite agreed. “We shall not rely on the gifts of gods who would abandon us. We will claim victory with our own strength.” He smiled. Sharp, red teeth and serrated fangs. They brought Daenocte comfort. “The gods have forsaken the laws left by Chaos. I swear, on my name and my blood, I will write new ones in the next age.”

    “And how will you do that?” Daenocte asked wryly.

    Vespite’s smile grew. “I shall draw them in ichor.”

    Daenocte believed him. How cruel he was, in his love for his master. So cruel, he would kill the gods for a small child from the River.

    Feet moved quickly through the halls.

    They had mere moments.

    “Promise me something,” Daenocte whispered.

    Vespite didn’t hesitate. “For you, my master? Anything.”

    Daenocte said, “Give them no mercy. Kill them all, my blade. Spare no man nor woman nor child. Slaughter them as they have slaughtered our people.”

    Vespite knelt. His forehead pressed into the back of the Demon Lord’s hand. “I swear it; on the putrid name of my father and the grave of my mother, I will obey your will. Until we meet again, I will forget mercy’s name.” His amber eyes flashed brilliant silver for a moment.

    The doors crashed open, and the boy from another world stood with his foot raised. He grinned. “Finally, we’re at the final boss!” he declared. Daenocte didn’t like him; his smile and his strange clothes and his glowing blade made their stomach churn. “Demon Lord!” the boy cried, “Face me! One-on-one!”

    Vespite turned. He strode toward the human’s hero and his little group of friends. “You have not yet earned that honor,” he said.

    Their blades clashed.

    Magic of nox and lux exploded; day and night fighting for the right to live.

    The hero lost his arm.

    Vespite lost his head.

    The Demon Lord Daenocte Dai’Knollaran drew on their magic. Grief made them strong. Tears of blood dyed the earth. The battle was long; spanning an entire day. By the time it ended, the hero would never walk the same, and Daenocte laid waste to the boy’s companions.

    It was only fair; he deserved to know loss.

    “Give up,” the boy said, his blade resting against Daenocte’s throat. “It’s over.”

    Without limbs, Daenocte could not move. They just laughed. “Not yet,” they said. “Heed my warning, pitiful otherworlder: When the crimson moon rises over rivers of blood; I will rise again.”

    The hero raised his blade.

    Daenocte closed their eyes and embraced the darkness.

 ~ ~ ~ 43 Years Later ~ ~ ~ 

Autumn, 347th Year of the Imperial Calendar

    In an abandoned land, where magic-ruined soil and the shattered pieces of a castle cradled the spirits of the dead, a lone figure clawed himself from an early grave. Black soil clung to his decaying flesh. Blood crusted each of his fingers and toes.

    He breathed deep, ruined lungs healing beneath the light of the crimson moon.

    Muscle and sinew spread over the bones first.

Skin seeped to cover raw flesh.

    Amber eyes blinked open.

    The Blade of the Demon Lord strode from the ruined palace. He did not mind the birds that fell from the sky, nor the wailing winds. He did not pause to speak to the rioting dead, nor examine the ruins of his home.

    Vespite the Damned began his quest with nothing but the promised taste of revenge on his tongue and an oath guiding his steps.

    This time, they would win.