“Fall back to the wider section!” he roared, spurring his mount forward. “Spellcasters, form a barrier! Heavy infantry, protect their flanks!”
Whether the other demons heard him or simply caught a glimpse of the raw power crackling around him, they obeyed, falling into step behind the prince.
Aric turned his attention to the sky, where human wyverns and griffins wheeled in tight formation, searching for any sign of weakness. They were only fully visible as silhouettes where they blotted out the stars, but the winged demons had engaged them to the fullest, and it was hard for Aric to say who was shredding through whose ranks more. With a flick of his wrist, Malekith sent a plume of thick black smoke billowing into the air, shielding the demons below and sending the aerial units into momentary confusion.
Aric’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Malekith’s shadow magic dance across the battlefield. The demon forces were vastly outnumbered, but Malekith’s illusions were making them appear larger, more spread out than they truly were. It was a risky gambit, but their only hope of staving off an all-out massacre.
“Vivasaar, take your elementals and flank left. Shal’kar, I want your harpies in the rear to intercept any human reinforcements. Valthran, hold the line with me. We’ll keep the humans’ attention focused on our center.”
The other demon commanders looked momentarily taken aback at Malekith’s sudden assumption of command, but the urgency in his voice brooked no argument. With a series of gutteral barks and hisses, both Malekith’s and Vizra’s commanders sprang into action, rallying their troops to carry out Malekith’s orders.
Aric’s chest swelled with a surge of pride. Malekith was a force of nature, all raw power and feral grace as he guided the demon forces with ruthless efficiency. It was a side of him that Aric had only caught glimpses of before, but now, in the heat of battle, he was like a different demon, or perhaps more truly himself. Guarding his forces over pushing them to claim more lives—it was . . . a relief.
A loud horn blast signaled the demon forces to regroup, the thick black smoke of Malekith’s illusions parting to reveal the demon army arrayed before the humans, a dark tide ready to crash against their fragile shores.
Vizra gathered her elite warriors, her golden eyes blazing with a desperate, feral light. “Follow me!” she hissed, her voice carrying over the din of battle like a serpent’s strike.
They moved with inhuman grace, scaling the treacherous mountainside as if gravity held no sway over them. Aric’s heart pounded in his chest, a sickening dread building as he realized their intent. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes against what was about to unfold, but he owed it to the humans below to bear witness.
Vizra’s group crested the ridge, pausing for a heartbeat before they descended upon the human flank. They fell like living shadows, silent and deadly. The first screams rent the air, high and terrible, cutting through the clash of steel and the roar of magic.
Aric’s vision blurred, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he watched the demons tear through the human ranks. They moved with savage efficiency, each strike precise and lethal. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, staining the rocky ground and filling the air with its coppery tang.
He had known, intellectually, the brutality of demon warfare. But to see it, to hear it, to smell death and feart—it was beyond anything he had imagined. His people, his kin, were being slaughtered like cattle.
Bile rose in Aric’s throat, bitter and burning. He swallowed hard, forcing it back down. This was the reality of the war he had sought to understand, to end. This was the price of his choices, of his desperate gambit for peace.
A soldier fell, his scream cut short as Vizra’s claws tore through his throat. Aric flinched, feeling the phantom pain as if it were his own flesh being rent. He wanted to turn away, to shut out the horror before him, but he couldn’t. He owed them that much, at least—to see, to remember, to carry the weight of their sacrifice.
The human line buckled under the onslaught, their formation crumbling as panic spread through their ranks. Vizra stood at the heart of the carnage, her honeyed scales slick with blood, a terrible beauty in her savagery.
Aric’s fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The pain was a welcome distraction, grounding him in the moment. He had to endure this. He had to find a way to make it mean something, to ensure that all this death wasn’t in vain.
As the screams of the dying filled the air, Aric silently vowed that he would end this war, no matter the cost to himself. He would bridge the chasm between human and demon, to forge a peace that would render such slaughter obsolete. It was the only way he could live with himself, with the weight of the lives lost this day.
Aric’s eyes darted across the battlefield, searching for any sign of hope amidst the carnage. His gaze locked onto a group of human soldiers, their backs pressed against a sheer cliff face. Panic etched their features as demon forces closed in, cutting off any chance of escape.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Without thinking, Aric raised his hands, motioning frantically in the opposite direction. “Flank attack!” he shouted over the clamor of battle. “Human reinforcements to the east! Protect the flank!”
The demon soldiers nearest him hesitated, heads swiveling towards the illusory threat. Seizing the moment of confusion, Aric gestured frantically at the trapped humans, willing them to understand. Relief flooded through him as comprehension dawned on their faces. They inched along the cliff face, edging towards a narrow crevice barely visible in the rock.
Aric held his breath as the last soldier disappeared into the hidden passage. A mixture of guilt and triumph warred within him. He had saved them, but at what cost to his own precarious position?
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Aric turned, his stomach plummeting as he met the burning gaze of Karthax. The demon general’s massive form loomed over him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Aric schooled his features into a mask of cool indifference, willing his racing heart to slow. He met Karthax’s stare, refusing to look away even as cold sweat beaded on his brow. The demon’s nostrils flared, as if scenting the air for the stench of betrayal.
An eternity seemed to pass in those few heartbeats. Aric’s fingers twitched, his instincts ready to summon his magic if Karthax made a move, though he knew it wouldn’t answer him. But the hulking demon merely grunted, turning his attention back to the battle at hand.
Aric released a shaky breath, relief washing over him in a dizzying wave.
But his relief was short-lived. Vizra’s renewed assault had worked: the humans were retreating now, and the forces Malekith had called back up the pass now seemed premature in their retreat. A victory for Vizra, albeit a costly one. Although the demons had been pushed back into the mountain clearing they had entered into from the portal, it was with the human defenders’ ranks decimated.
The last echoes of battle faded, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. Aric stood amidst the aftermath, his eyes sweeping over the carnage that painted the mountain pass in shades of crimson and despair. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of fear.
Demon soldiers raised their voices in triumphant howls, the sound grating against Aric’s ears like rusted blades. Malekith moved through the battlefield, his face a mask of grim determination as he assessed the cost of their victory. Malekith’s eyes were shadowed, his jaw clenched tight as he took in the bodies strewn across the rocky ground—demon and human alike.
Vizra’s voice cut through the din, sharp and self-congratulatory. “Did you see how we crushed their flank?” she crowed, preening before her remaining troops. “They never stood a chance against our might!”
But beneath her bravado, Aric sensed a current of unease. He looked between the demon soldiers, catching fragments of hushed conversations that drifted on the wind.
“. . . could have been avoided,” one demon muttered, his words barely audible.
“. . . Malekith saved us,” another whispered, casting a furtive glance at the demon prince.
“. . . Vizra’s fault we were ambushed . . .” The words slithered through the ranks, a poisonous seed taking root.
Aric’s hands shook as he clenched them at his sides, guilt a leaden weight in his chest. He had played his part in this massacre, had helped orchestrate this “triumph” that felt more like ash in his mouth. The faces of the humans he had saved—and the countless more he couldn’t—haunted him, their accusing eyes boring into his soul.
He watched as Malekith drifted across the blood-soaked ground. In that moment, Aric saw his own turmoil reflected in the demon prince’s eyes—the weight of command, the burden of choices made and lives lost. A silent understanding passed between them, a shared knowledge of the true cost of this victory.
As the demon army began to regroup, preparing for the next phase of their campaign, Aric couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The seeds of doubt had been planted, promising a harvest of discord within the demon ranks. He only hoped that when the time came, he and Malekith would be ready to reap what they had sown.
The demon armies quickly set to work fortifying the trailhead of the pass where they’d taken the portal in to, establishing a base of operations to strike at Drindal anew once they were able to reestablish the portal and bring the rest of the forces through. Aric did his best to stay out of their way as the tents were raised, gruesome siege weaponry maintained, and felhounds fed with the limbs of the fallen. He wandered the camp’s perimeter, encountering watchful, suspicious glares all the while, but otherwise left in relative peace.
Finally, once the campsite began to die down, Aric slipped into Malekith’s tent, his footsteps muffled by the plush rugs covering the ground. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense and old parchment, a stark contrast to the stench of death that permeated the camp outside.
Malekith stood hunched over a makeshift war table, his lean form casting long shadows in the flickering magelight. Maps and battle reports were strewn across the surface, covered in scrawled notes and hastily drawn symbols. The demon prince’s face was a mask of concentration, his dark eyes scanning the documents with an intensity that seemed to burn through the paper.
Aric hesitated, struck by the weariness etched into Malekith’s features. The victory had taken its toll, leaving behind a palpable unease that hung in the air like a shroud.
“You should be resting,” Aric said softly, breaking the silence.
Malekith’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Aric with startling speed. For a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face before his usual mask of cool control slid back into place.
“There’s no time for rest,” Malekith replied, his voice low and rough. “Vizra won’t take this setback lightly. We need to be prepared for her next move.”
Aric moved closer, his eyes scanning the maps spread before them. “You think she’ll try to undermine us as we march onward to Drindal proper?”
A humorless smile tugged at Malekith’s lips. “I’d be disappointed if she didn’t. It’s what I would do in her position.”
Malekith’s fingers traced a path along the map, following the route of their planned advance. “She’ll be looking for any weakness, any opportunity to turn this victory against us. We can’t afford to give her one.”
Aric felt a chill run through him, remembering Vizra’s venomous words from earlier. “She suspects me,” he said quietly. “She thinks I’m the key to bringing you down.”
Malekith was silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table’s edge. “We’ll need to be more careful,” he said at last. “Vizra’s ambitious, but she’s not foolish. If she openly threatens you, it means she believes she has support.”
