The Devil's Growing Fury
The night was still, but the air was thick with tension.
Morris stood at the highest point of the Majestic Palace, the wind whipping around him like a violent whisper of the chaos brewing beneath the surface. The world stretched far beyond his sight, but he didn't need to see it—he felt it.
He felt everything.
The unease of the kingdom. The stirrings of rebellion. The shift in power.
And worst of all, he felt her.
Even now, miles away, Elowen's presence gnawed at him.
The way Derek had looked at her today.
The way she had allowed it.
The mark on her neck—his mark—was supposed to remind her. To tie her to him. And yet, today, her pulse had quickened for another.
The thought made his fingers clench into a fist, the air warping with heat as his anger simmered just beneath the surface.
A rustle behind him made him tilt his head slightly, but he didn't turn. He already knew who it was.
Ivan—his most loyal and most ruthless right-hand man—stood behind him, head bowed in deep respect.
"My Lord," Ivan greeted, his voice measured, calm, and deeply aware of the danger lurking in Morris's silence.
Morris finally spoke, his voice smooth as silk, but edged with steel.
"Derek is playing with my food."
Ivan remained silent, waiting.
Morris's golden eyes gleamed in the darkness, his smirk sharp and void of amusement. "I wanted to let them enjoy their illusions a little longer. A slow death. Pain so gradual they wouldn't even realize they were drowning in it."
His expression darkened.
"But it seems my pace has been too slow."
The air around them thickened, as if the very atmosphere trembled under his growing irritation.
His plan had been calculated—precise.
Get Elowen close to Derek. Gain her trust. Keep her blind to her true role in all of this. But now, Derek was taking an interest in her, and that was a problem.
A problem Morris had no intention of tolerating.
"Ivan," Morris commanded, his tone smooth but laced with unspoken threat.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Send word to the Southern Chief. Tell him that for now, they are to stay away from the border. Those fools have set a trap, and they will be holding a meeting tonight."
Ivan's head inclined in understanding. "Consider it done."
And then, just as swiftly as he appeared, Ivan was gone, vanishing into the night like a phantom.
Morris exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Derek was digging too deep.
The humans were getting too bold.
And worst of all, Elowen—his Elowen—was dangerously close to being discovered.
The hall was dimly lit, a suffocating atmosphere of power and fear clinging to every surface. The long, obsidian table stretched through the room, surrounded by figures cloaked in shadows, their forms barely distinguishable in the flickering candlelight.
Morris strode in without a word, his heavy black cloak billowing behind him, his very presence demanding submission.
As soon as he entered, the room fell into complete silence.
Every head bowed.
Every being stilled in fear.
Morris didn't slow. He walked with the measured grace of someone who knew no one here would dare oppose him. He took his seat at the throne-like chair at the head of the table, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest as he finally let his gaze sweep across the room.
His voice was quiet, but the weight of it filled every corner of the chamber.
"Speak."
The silence stretched for a moment before a deep, rasping voice answered first.
"My Lord, the humans have made their move. The King of the Golden Kingdom has decided to summon the Great All-Seeing Eagle. He wishes to know who infiltrated the border."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
The Great Eagle.
A creature whose sight was unmatched. One that, if allowed to complete its task, could unearth truths that Morris had no intention of allowing to surface.
For the first time, his smirk faded.
The humans were becoming desperate.
Too soon.
And desperation made them unpredictable.
Another voice spoke, this one softer but equally grave. "If they call upon the eagle, we will be exposed. Shall we eliminate the summoners before the ritual?"
"No," Morris said smoothly, but his tone was laced with lethal amusement.
The room stilled at his response.
"My Lord?"
Morris leaned back, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Let them call it."
A ripple of confusion spread across the table.
Morris chuckled, the sound low and deadly. "Let them believe they are close to the truth. Let them think they are unraveling the mystery." His gaze sharpened, his smirk darkening.
"And when they feel the most confident…"
His fingers tapped against the armrest once, twice—a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"That is when we will shatter their hope."
A few figures exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared question him.
"However," Morris continued, his voice turning colder, "summon back the wendigoes immediately. I will not allow our forces to be slaughtered needlessly. Stay away from the border."
"Yes, my Lord."
A dark hush fell over the room as his words settled in. The meeting continued with minor discussions—reports of spies, movements of enemies, whispers of treachery.
Morris listened, but his mind was elsewhere.
On a girl who didn't know what she was.
On a prince who was getting too close.
And most of all—on the slow, creeping realization that his plan was no longer his to control.
As the meeting dispersed, Morris remained seated, fingers steepled, his golden eyes burning with an intensity no one else could see.
The hunt had begun.
But who was hunting whom?
And would Elowen survive long enough to find out?