Chapter 15
Zarathos
Zarathos sat in his empty throne room, his claws scraping against the armrest of his throne.
The seat itself was an immense structure adorned with wicked, twisting spires and carved from the bones of long-dead creatures.
Thrones came and went with the rise and fall of arch kings.
His father had pieced together this current rendition.
Zarathos tried not to dwell on the crimson-stained skeletal remains that ornamented his seat, as if they’d been pulled from the bodies of his father’s enemies and added to the throne while they were still in the last throes of life.
Knowing his father, that was more than likely.
The room in which he sat was a vast chamber, its jagged stone walls coated in a slick, blackened sheen, absorbing centuries of darkness. The ground was uneven, covered in cracked, fiery obsidian tiles.
He lifted his head, the weight of the twisted silver crown pressing down, as thoughts of Aryana crowded his mind. She’d even seen the part of his memories about his name. That had been the worst of all. Every day with the vampress felt like a fresh threat, another piece of himself laid bare.
And yet, when it was over, the way she looked at him… not with hate or disgust. No, it was something else.
What was it? Pity?
Not quite.
There’d been a kind of understanding in her eyes. Had she realized, in that moment, the same thing he had the first time her blood surged through the needle?
That even with such different lives, they were also remarkably the same, and that tied them together. Maybe more than the Bloodbound mark etched into Zarathos’s arm. He had spun the vampress into his life, and now their fates were intertwined.
As the great doors to the throne room burst open, he straightened in his seat. He had nearly forgotten about the meeting, having been entirely absorbed in dealing with his vampire princess.
The trial council entered in their flowing crimson robes, followed by a small demon with short spikes curling over his scaled head and back. He walked up to Zarathos and bowed. “Your Majesty, I am the council-appointed announcer for the trials. If I may?”
Zarathos nodded. “You may begin.”
The creature unfurled the scroll, his movements slow and deliberate, as he cleared his throat and turned to face the council. They stood in two stark lines, the space between them heavy and silent, stretching toward Zarathos’s throne resembling a dark omen.
“When I call the name of each champion, they shall present themselves before the arch king and then a member of the council will escort them over to the tables to sign their oath agreement.”
Zarathos masked his grimness with a facade of apathy. Today the other champions, each vying to take his throne, would sign their contracts and bind themselves to the rules of the tournament.
He was to oversee it all.
“From the Kingdom Inferna,” the announcer projected in a raspy voice. “Lentira the Ash-caller and Noctyssa the Hollow Mouth.”
A shadowed hush crept into the chamber, dimming the light like a veil. Two women emerged with the unmistakable grace of the underworld.
They moved with a fluid, lethal poise. The only color on their dark forms came from the glint of the daggers strapped to their bodies and the elongated scythes they held in hand.
They were mirror images of each other, draped in cloaks that seemed spun from the shadow itself, short horns jutting from their foreheads, and eyes like pits of endless night, swallowing the light from the room.
Only a single detail set them apart—Lentira’s hair was so pale it appeared almost ethereal while Noctyssa’s was a deep raven black.
Women rarely competed in the trials. Their presence was a message to Zarathos and every kingdom watching.
Inferna would honor their alliance. They wouldn’t challenge him for the crown.
At least that is what they pretended. But their move was calculated.
Too clean. Too visible. And he knew better than to underestimate them.
Lentira, with her deadly shriek, and Noctyssa, whose breath-stealing touch had ended legions. Both were legends in their own right.
Every contestant in the trials would be a terror.
But he had nothing to worry about from these two. He inclined his head and said the traditional line that was expected on this occasion. “May you fight with ferocity and without mercy to your last breath.”
After bowing. Noctyssa placed a fist against her chest. “Long live Kingdom Inferna and all those who seek her welfare.”
He ground his teeth. He avoided such blatant displays. They could easily alienate the council. He met Noctyssa’s gaze. “Move along.” The two champions stepped to the side and the members of the council from Inferna joined them, presenting them with their oath agreements.
“Next from Terra Monstrum, Tigon Shatterhand and Prince Kaelroch the Molten Vein,” the announcer said.
The ground trembled, a web of fine cracks splintering across the uneven stone floor as the champions of the earth-walker nation entered.
Tigon lumbered through the doors first, ducking as he came in.
It was probably the only reason King Salen hadn’t assigned a full giant to the trials.
They wouldn’t have fit inside the castle.
Prince Kaelroch stalked in close behind, his massive frame radiating heat and his bull’s eyes locked on Zarathos with unflinching intensity.
Curved horns jutted from the sides of his head, catching the light with a dull sheen.
The scent of scorched earth and smoldering rubble clung to him, thick, heavy, and unmistakable.
Their stone-forged armor groaned with the weight as they struck it with clenched fists, a wordless challenge echoing through the hall.
Zarathos suppressed a dangerous smile, but couldn’t resist the bait. His gaze settled on the son of King Salen. “So glad you could make it, Prince Kaelroch,” he said coolly, “even after your father’s tragic accident.”
Kaelroch snarled, veins across his arms and neck lighting up in a molten red-gold. He lunged, but Tigon caught him with his massive hand.
“Save it for the arena,” the half-giant rumbled. Violence radiated from him like heat from a forge. Zarathos felt a flicker of unease. He was glad he had a bargain with this one.
“You do not command me. Release me, filthy half-brute,” Prince Kaelroch spat.
Tigon obeyed. The champions might arrive in pairs, and may strategize together on behalf of their kingdom, but once inside the trials, allegiances could shatter. Only a lone victor would win in the end.
Prince Kaelroch growled low, dragging his mace across the stone floor before slamming it down with a thunderous crack. The room trembled again, but he didn’t strike.
Zarathos had rattled the nest of Kingdom Terra Monstrum, and Kaelroch would be watching for his moment.
“May you fight with ferociousness and without mercy to your last breath.”
The prince spat on the ground before stalking to the side.
“From the Kingdom Misophae,” the announcer said, unfazed by the threatening display. “Rebos the Spliceborn and Dravrek the Ravager.”
The pair stepped through the entrance to the throne room—a half-basilisk and a werewolf, both slick with blood along one side of their bodies.
Heavy chains hung from their necks, not as bindings, but as a statement.
They were Misophae. Outcasts, half-bloods, the broken and discarded of demon kind.
Their shackles, once symbols of subjugation, were now worn as trophies. Like threats.
Gasps rippled through the chamber as several demons caught sight of the shards of glass embedded in the skin above their collarbones—a brutal, near-fatal ritual meant to protect against hostile enchantment. Few survived the procedure. Fewer still emerged strong enough to compete in the trials.
The blood slicking their forms was fresh. Human blood. It dripped from their flesh and clung to their weapons, trailing behind them and seeping into the floor, filling the fractures left by Terra Monstrum’s entrance. The cracks resembled veins, pulsing with dark promise.
Zarathos eyed Rebos, the half-basilisk. Human above the waist, serpentine below, his scaled body slithered along the stone in cold silence. Zarathos had struck a bargain with him not long ago. Rebos gave no sign of it.
Although not forbidden like those with the trial council, these deals wouldn’t gain him favor with the council.
He’d let them suspect nothing.
Zarathos nodded to the two champions. After Rebos, Zarathos’s luck ran out. The rest were coming for his crown. “May you fight with ferociousness and without mercy to your last breath.”
“Next is Eldravis, the Spirit Crusher, and Valkotha the Harrower from Kingdom Spiritu Malignos.”
Zarathos fought to keep his apathy in place. He didn’t have bargains with either champion from the last two kingdoms, though not for lack of trying. What was worse, he suspected that both Kingdom Spiritu Malignos and Kingdom Aeria had banded together in their own attempt to bring him down.
The temperature in the room dropped, a chill running over Zarathos’s skin and going straight to his bones. A white mist floated eerily through the doorway and within its haze, he made out two pairs of orange glowing eyes.
Eldravis and Valkotha stepped forward, graceful and silent.
To compete in the Demon Trials, the spirits of Spiritu Malignos were required to inhabit the bodies of other demons, giving them physical form.
But the illusion never held perfectly. The faint stench of rot lingered around them.
Dark, jagged cracks ran through their borrowed flesh.
Their movements sagged in places they shouldn’t, their eyes blinked just a second too slow.
These bodies weren’t theirs and everyone could see it.