The Grand Banquet erupted into chaos.
Silver goblets clattered against the polished marble floors, sending splashes of crimson wine skittering like bloodstains across a battlefield. Chairs scraped against the obsidian tiles, the sound like the scraping of bone against stone. Noble demons whispered in hurried, fevered tones, a rising tide of serpents, eyes wide with a mixture of fear, fascination, and the undeniable thrill of impending conflict. The air, once thick with the scent of roasted meats and forbidden wines, now mingled with blood—the blood that stained the messenger's torn armor, staining the marble floor beneath him like an omen, foretelling the storm to come.
Lucian had made his move.
Kael sat in his obsidian chair, a figure of calm amidst the storm. His fingers tapped a quiet, deliberate rhythm against the carved armrest—measured, unconcerned. He did not flinch at the chaos unfolding before him. In truth, it was nothing new. It was a prelude he had orchestrated, a piece of the grand game he had set into motion long ago. He had always known Lucian would fall. But to watch it happen—watching the once-proud hero abandon honor for rage, morality for ambition—it was a rare delight, a scene as delicious as it was inevitable.
At the far end of the hall, Nyx Velrath, resplendent in her blood-hued gown, raised her glass but did not drink. Her crimson eyes, glowing faintly in the firelight, watched the room with the cold silence of a predator. She had not spoken a single word since the messenger had stumbled in. Yet her silence, her stillness, was more deafening than any shout. It was the kind of silence that spoke of power—an ancient, suffocating power that could destroy kingdoms with a single breath.
Selene Nightshade, her silver hair a halo of ethereal beauty, stood with eyes darkened by stormclouds, as if she were on the precipice of something terrible. "How many troops?" she demanded, her voice like the crack of thunder.
The messenger gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His words came in fits and starts, choked by the very life that seemed to be draining out of him. "F-Fifty thousand… led by the Holy Order's elite Paladins. The northern strongholds… they're falling. We can't hold…"
A collective hush fell over the room. Fifty thousand soldiers—an invasion, not just an assault. An unstoppable force, meant to crush all that stood before it.
The Grand Duke of the Infernal Expanse scoffed, his golden horns gleaming like the sun on a battlefield. "So the Hero finally shows his teeth," he muttered, as if Lucian's actions were little more than a minor inconvenience, a hiccup in a grander design.
But Kael's voice cut through the noise, as sharp and precise as a blade drawing blood. "No. He shows desperation, not strength."
All eyes turned toward him, drawn to the smooth, almost casual tone that betrayed none of the tension that gripped the room. Selene, her brow furrowed in disbelief, was the first to speak.
"You foresaw this?" Her tone was sharp, demanding answers, as if daring Kael to admit the truth of his involvement.
Kael rose from his seat slowly, the motion deliberate. Not rushed. Not defensive. He was the calm at the center of the storm, the eye around which everything else spun. "I guided this." His voice was low, carrying an air of finality that left no room for argument.
Silence stretched across the hall, heavy and suffocating, like the moment before a great storm breaks. Even the firelight seemed to dim, as if the flames themselves were uncertain of Kael's words.
Kael's gaze swept the room, meeting the eyes of every demon present. "Lucian no longer fights for justice. He fights because he knows he's losing. His kingdom is crumbling. His faith is hollow. He needs this war—not to win—but to delay the inevitable. He is grasping at a future that will never come."
The Grand Marshal of the Demon Court, his face carved from centuries of war and manipulation, growled in protest. "So we let him burn our lands?!"
Kael's expression didn't change, his gaze unwavering. "No," he said, his voice colder now, like ice being dragged across skin. "We invite him deeper."
A collective murmur ran through the court. Selene's brow furrowed deeper. "You would let them advance unchecked? Allow them to infiltrate our lands, claim victory?"
Kael's lips curled into a slow, calculating smile—dangerous, sharp, and full of promise. "I will encourage it. Let them believe they are winning. Let them stretch too far. When morale swells, and their formation fractures, we will strike—not with swords, but with silence."
He turned, his crimson eyes locking onto Nyx. "Mother."
The Demon Matriarch's lips parted into a slow, delighted grin, her eyes glowing faintly as she gazed at Kael. "Say the word."
"I want the Shadows."
A gasp rippled through the room. The Velrath Shadows were legends, spoken of in hushed tones, wraith-like assassins who moved between shadows like whispers in the night, unseen and unheard until it was too late. The very idea of them was enough to send shivers down the spines of even the most hardened demons.
Nyx purred, her voice a low, seductive hum. "You always did ask for the most dangerous toys."
Kael's gaze did not waver. "Will you lend them to me?"
"You're mine," Nyx replied, her voice thick with dark affection. "What's mine is yours. They leave at dawn."
Selene hesitated, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "If you deploy them…" Her voice trailed off, her thoughts clouded by the magnitude of what Kael was suggesting. "This will no longer be war. It will be eradication."
Kael's tone dropped, becoming cold and final, as if he had crossed a line beyond which there could be no retreat. "Lucian declared war the moment he crossed the line. He abandoned righteousness. Now, he will know what lies beyond salvation."
No one dared to argue. No one even blinked.
Kael turned back to the bleeding messenger, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the trembling figure before him. "Tell our forces: do not retaliate. Hold the walls. Let the invaders come. Let them believe they've claimed victory."
The messenger staggered out of the room, still bleeding, but with the weight of Kael's command driving him forward. As the doors slammed shut behind him, Kael turned back to face the court.
His voice was steady, cutting through the rising tension like a sharpened blade. "Then… let them drown in fear. One commander at a time. One camp at a time. One breath at a time."
Nyx raised her glass in a silent toast. "To inevitability," she said, her voice smooth as silk.
Selene, her eyes still darkened by suspicion, slowly sat back down. "Do as you see fit, Duke Kael. But be certain of this—if you fail, the Empire burns."
Kael's gaze locked with hers. His crimson eyes were unblinking, full of an intensity that made the room seem to shift around him. "If I fail, there will be no Empire left to burn."
And with that, Kael turned, his cloak swirling behind him like a shadow made flesh. As he walked from the hall, his presence seemed to bleed into the darkness itself, as though he were becoming one with the very night. The game was no longer just unfolding—it had been irrevocably rewritten, and Kael was the one holding the pen.
The banquet was over.
The war had not yet begun.
But the first move had already been made.
To be continued…