The demon king shifted with agonising slowness, his immense head tilting down to regard them. His mouth parted, stretching impossibly wide into a voiceless scream that vibrated through the stone beneath their feet.
‘We have passed through your lands,’ Thanatos announced, his voice calm, yet edged with urgency. ‘We seek a soul. A witch named Allegra.’
The king lifted a skeletal hand and pointed one elongated finger downward, towards the unseen depths beneath them.
Thanatos cursed under his breath.
‘What does that mean?’ Mal asked, stepping close, her fingers curling around Makaria’s hand to keep her near. The weariness that had gripped her bones had fled, replaced by sharp instinct.
‘She’s not here,’ Thanatos replied grimly. ‘We have to keep going.’
‘How?’
He gestured towards a door, half-hidden in shadow behind the king’s unmoving feet, carved into the very base of the throne.
‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘Before he changes his mind.’
Without hesitation, Mal tightened her grip on Makaria and followed. She spared a glance up at the king, awed by the sheer immensity of him. How small and inconsequential they seemed in his presence. Then her gaze drifted one final time across the barren wasteland of Belphegor’s domain, a realm where timeand ambition had long since turned to dust.
Thanatos shoved the door open with a grunt, revealing a yawning abyss beyond, black as pitch, void of sound or end.
‘No shoving,’ he said with a sardonic twist of his lips. ‘Ladies first.’
‘Afraid of the dark, are we?’ Mal quipped, raising a brow.
‘No, Melinoe,’ he replied, stepping close enough that she instinctively backed into the doorway. His voice dropped into something softer, dangerous. ‘The only thing that frightens me… is you.’
And before she could summon a retort, he gave her a wicked smile and pushed her backward into the dark.
He lingered only long enough to offer a cheeky wave.
I’ve never met a god worth calling good. They are all vile creatures, every last one of them.
But there are two, in particular, whom everyone should watch with caution.
Eris and Enyo.
Sisters born of ruin, who breathe only to destroy. They delight in pain, thrive in despair, and leave devastation in their wake. It is they who stir the fires of war, who spill blood without mercy, who let chaos reign over the world like a crown they wear proudly.
Tabitha Wysteria
Vera drifted into the modest dining chamber nestled within the temple, now serving as the witches’ makeshift seat of power. The capital of Fireheart had finally crumbled, its once-proud defences reduced to smouldering ruin. Across the land, witches and warlocks were spilling outward like wildfire, razing towns and villages in a tide of ash and vengeance.
She crossed the room with languid ease, selecting a goblet from a golden tray and filling it with wine. One sip drew a curl of distaste to her lips, far too sweet for her liking. She didn’t bother acknowledging the shadowed figure already seated at the table, though the sight of the two naked drakonians flanking himlike statues of living marble made her lips curve with amusement.
‘What now?’ he asked, his voice edged with the kind of impatience only immortals ever truly mastered.
Vera tilted her head, resting a hip against the long table. How dreadfully hasty.
‘I did what your sister commanded,’ he went on, the violet of his eyes glinting with veiled ire. ‘I found you a body.’
She glanced down to her own form with casual indulgence, a small, knowing smile touching her mouth. Yes. This one would do rather nicely. The vessel was youthful, the flesh supple and unspoiled. Mid-twenties, perhaps, glowing with health. Her skin was a rich, warm brown, luminous beneath the lamplight, and her golden-white hair tumbled in elegant waves down her back like strands of moonlight spun with sun. Yes, the goddess liked this body very much.
She imagined the pleasures it might soon indulge in. Satin sheets, whispered moans, skin slick with desire. Her smile deepened. Yes. She couldn’t wait to put it properly to use.
‘And has my sister not aided you in conquering these lands?’ Vera said, her voice honey-smooth as she swirled her goblet of golden-red wine, watching the liquid catch the dim light like fire trapped in glass.
‘She’s down south,’ Hagan grunted, his voice rough as gravel. ‘What you see here was my doing.’
