Daemon and the commander rode side by side through the bustling streets of Aurelian. Caldrin, Daemon's black stallion, moved like a phantom, his hooves light against the cobbled road. Nyxtriel rode silently behind him in human form, her pale eyes scanning the city like a hunting beast waiting to strike.
The atmosphere was calm. Too calm.
Patrolling soldiers saluted as they passed, bowing toward the commander. Their eyes lingered on Daemon, wary and curious — a stranger riding beside their war hero.
"Did the duke say where exactly we're supposed to meet him?" the commander finally asked, his tone clipped.
Daemon tilted his head lazily. "He didn't. Just said I'd be 'met.' Sounds like he prefers theatrics. But I've got a feeling someone will come find us."
The commander muttered under his breath, clearly not thrilled with the vague arrangement. Riding beside Daemon made his skin itch. He hadn't hidden his disdain — and Daemon hadn't asked him to.
As they passed through the heart of the city, Daemon's gaze wandered. Shops opened, children laughed, a couple shared bread on a corner. It reminded him of something distant. Of a time before the betrayal.
In his past life, he too had ridden through streets like these as Varyndor's golden commander. He used to laugh, drink, train men who would one day shove a sword in his back. His fingers twitched around Caldrin's reins. He let out a quiet sigh.
"It seems they really respect you," he said, nodding toward the saluting soldiers.
"They should," the commander replied. "I've led most of them into battle. They know who bleeds for this kingdom."
Daemon smiled thinly. "That's admirable. But... are you sure they'd never turn on you?"
The commander stiffened. "I'm not just sure. I know. I've earned their loyalty. I've fought with them. Watched them grow. They're not traitors."
Daemon's eyes gleamed. "Mm. That's good. Loyalty is rare. But let me offer some advice... just because it's free."
The commander shot him a side glance.
"You seem like the noble type. Straight-backed. Justice in your veins. But when things turn dark and trust me, they will ,you'll see how easily loyalty crumbles. The ones who look up to you now will be the first to dig your grave."
The commander's jaw clenched. "You talk like you've lived through that."
Daemon chuckled, the sound low and amused. "Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't." He flicked the reins slightly. "But if I had, I'd say... you never forget the weight of a friend's blade in your spine."
Nyxtriel didn't speak, but the corner of her mouth twitched something close to a smile. She knew her lord's words weren't just poetic. They were memories disguised as warnings.
The trio rode in silence, the city's ambiance shifting as they ventured deeper into the outskirts. The once bustling streets gave way to narrower alleys, where shadows loomed and the air grew thick with tension.
Daemon's eyes narrowed as he noticed subtle signs: a lack of civilians, the sudden stillness of the environment, and the faint glint of steel from concealed positions. Nyxtriel, ever observant, leaned closer.
"Father," she whispered, "we're being watched."
He nodded subtly. "I see it too."
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead a messenger garbed in the duke's colors.
"Commander Rhodes, Sir Daemon," the messenger addressed, "the duke awaits you in the clearing ahead."
The commander, eager to conclude the meeting, urged his horse forward. But Daemon held back, placing a hand on the commander's arm.
"Wait," Daemon said, his voice firm. "This feels off."
Before the commander could respond, arrows whizzed past, embedding into the ground where they had stood moments before. From the rooftops and alleyways, masked assailants emerged, weapons drawn.
"Ambush!" Nyxtriel exclaimed, drawing her blade.
The commander, caught off guard, scrambled to defend himself. Daemon and Nyxtriel moved in tandem, their coordination seamless as they repelled the attackers.
After a fierce skirmish, the assailants retreated, leaving behind a shaken commander.
As the dust settled from the ambush, a group emerged from the shadows Duke Elias flanked by three nobles.
"Hello, Daemon," Elias greeted, a smirk playing on his lips.
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "This game of yours... You think this is amusing, Duke Elias?"
Elias chuckled, feigning innocence. "I didn't intend to attack you. That rat over there decided to follow you, so I aimed to remove the pest."
A noble, a Marquis, stepped forward, anger evident. "What's so funny?" he barked at Daemon.
Daemon paused, surveying the surroundings. They were surrounded.
"Sir Daemon?" the commander inquired, uncertainty in his voice.
Daemon's eyes glowed red. "Nyxtriel."
"Yes, Father," she responded.
"Eliminate the assassins and that noble over there."
"We can't—" the commander began, but before he could finish, Nyxtriel transformed into her sword form, pulsating with demonic energy.
With a chilling whisper of steel, Nyxtriel vanished from Daemon's side—her form erupting into a flash of crimson light as her blade ripped through the air.
SHHK!
The first assassin didn't even scream. His head hit the dirt with a dull thud.
THNK! SLASH!
Two more fell before their swords even left their scabbards, blood splattering like rain across the stones.
"What the hell is—!"
The Marquis barely had time to react before the ground split beneath his feet.
"Damn it! I won't allow you to kill him!" Duke Elias shouted, drawing his blade with a flash of silvery steel, managing to intercept Nyxtriel's next strike.
CLANG!
The collision echoed like thunder. Sparks burst. The force pushed Elias back a step—his boots scraping hard against the stone.
Nyxtriel didn't speak. Her form shimmered—and multiplied.
CRACK! WHOOMPH!
The pressure was suffocating. The air itself trembled as the ground around her feet split.
"Shit!" Elias hissed, dropping to one knee as the massive phantom form of the sword pressed down like a mountain.
"I—I can't move...!"
"Duke Elias! Are you abandoning me?! HELP ME!" the Marquis cried out.
Elias spat blood and turned, retreating in a blur of steps. "Save yourself!"
The Marquis tried to flee. "Wait—WAIT—!"
BOOM!!!
The sword dropped like divine judgment. A shockwave erupted—obliterating the Marquis and the soldiers in one strike. Stone walls cracked, towers groaned and collapsed. Screams rang out as civilians outside the battlefield felt the quake. Blood painted the ground. The scent of ash filled the air.
Then—silence.
Thick. Heavy. Burning silence.
"You bastard!" the commander finally snapped, stumbling forward in a daze. "You killed innocent people too!"
His hand lashed out, grabbing Daemon by the collar.
"I'll have to kill you to protect the kingdom!"
Daemon's eyes, still glowing red, locked onto him—calm. Cold. Unforgiving.
"I'm tired of being disrespected by someone as low as you," Daemon muttered. "Didn't I warn you... I'd cut off your arm?"
Before the commander could blink, Daemon raised two fingers.
SWOOSH—SLICE!
Nyxtriel's blade flew past in a flash.
"AAAGGHHHHH!" the commander howled, falling back off his horse, clutching the stump where his arm used to be.
"You demon! YOU MONSTER!" he screamed, voice broken with agony.
Daemon stood over him, calm and untouched, letting the blood soak the dirt beside his boots.
"No," he said quietly. "This is mercy."