Becoming the Demon’s Bride (A Deal with the Devil #1)
Prologue
Xandril
The determination of my loyal men sends a surge of pride and gratitude through me. We stand bloodied and exhausted, the clash of steel and shouts of battle closing in behind us, leaving only a moment to catch our breaths and prepare for our final stand.
I’ve lost count how many times I wished it wouldn’t come to this, that the king I serve and the land I treasure could overcome this corruption and decay, but the time for wishing is over.
It’s time for action. Jaw clenched, smoke stinging my nose, I face my company of Wardens for what might be the last time.
“The king may be in a sorry state, but we can’t underestimate him while he holds power over the reach,” I say, making sure to project confidence.
These men trust me with their lives, with their futures, and I will no doubt fail some of them.
Years on the battlefield have taught me that I’ll fail even more of them if I show a sliver of uncertainty.
“Stick to the plan. Watch for our signals,” I say with a nod to my second-in-command, Valenar. “Take a moment to petition your gods, seek their blessings, or make your peace.”
The men break out into murmurs and invocations while I steel my nerves.
“You ready?” I ask Val. I’m sure he’s able to see through my mask of calm, but there’s no shadow in his eyes to mirror the reservations in mine.
He smirks, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a weight only he can feel. “You know me well enough by now—I never take the easy way out.”
“It should be you,” I say under my breath.
“Not this again…”
“You truly think the reach will be better served with deformed bastard on the throne than you?”
He scoffs. “You may not see it, but you’re exactly what this reach needs.
” No matter how many times we circle the topic, he refuses to bend.
It’s not like him to be so rigid, but he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of claiming the throne for himself.
It’s never even been a question as far as he’s concerned.
Reaching into his coat, he pulls out a piece of parchment, folded and sealed with wax. “If things go wrong for me…” he says under his breath, passing the letter to me. “Get this to my family. It’ll explain how to find them.”
I stare at the letter, fighting the urge to crumple it. Val’s never talked about his family—I don’t even know what reach he’s originally from—so I don’t take this lightly, but I can’t do this without him.
Nostrils flaring, I tuck the parchment into my belt and shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it, but don’t expect me to deliver it. You’re making it out, Val. Whether you like it or not.”
The pause between us is heavy enough to bring an army to its knees.
With a signal to my men, I ready my sword. “It’s time.”
I’ve rehearsed this march to the throne room so many times, I’m sure I could do it in my sleep, yet every turn and fork brings with it a flash of hesitation.
Magic hangs heavy in the air, and there are suspiciously few guards around to slow our advance.
We’ve studied their numbers and movements long enough that I know the small group we encountered at the gate is far from all the resistance we should encounter.
At last, we see why. The bulk of the king’s guard is posted in the hall outside the throne room, crowded shoulder to shoulder, their shields forming a wall between us and our goal.
“For the reach!” Valenar cries, leading the charge into the fray. He’s precise, surgical in the way he picks off one weak link, then another, his blade carving gaps through the front lines for me and my wardens to push through.
Valenar’s tactical strikes help, but the resistance is fierce.
I block one blow, then another, advancing two steps for every one they push me back.
This is where my years of battle-hardened experience outweighs the endless drills the royal guard perform.
These guards know how to fight, but they have never seen the blood of their brothers and sisters spilled before them.
It gives us the edge we need to disrupt any cohesion they might have had.
“Go!” Val shouts. “We’ll handle these. Get to Farandir!”
For a fraction of a breath, I hesitate, his letter suddenly burning hot against my waist. Then he’s turned away, already locking blades with another guard.
“Forward!” I call for my men. It takes half a dozen of us to batter the door down, splinters exploding into the throne room ahead of us.
We stand frozen for an instant, the shock of seeing the corrupted ruins of the throne room affecting us all.
The throne tree, once a symbol of power for the entire reach, stands gray and withered, roots pulsating with dark energy.
The scent of decay hangs heavy in the air, and a noxious haze mixes with the unnatural cold.
Are we too late? Has it rotted beyond saving?
I take the first steps forward, each breath a puff of mist. The once-great king is slumped on his throne, eyes sunken, sharp bones pushing against skin stretched too thin.
Black veins spider over his skin, and lifting his head seems to be an effort.
His hollow gaze meets mine, and the air crackles with raw, untamed magic.
“It’s over, Farandir,” I announce, voice steady and cold. “Surrender, and your death will be quick.”
Farandir exhales a rattling breath, hands trembling as his gaunt face twists into a sneer. “You think you can take what’s mine?” he asks, his commanding voice laced with malice. “This land will rot before it bows to the likes of you.”
The throne tree shudders, and the room rumbles violently as the few remaining leaves fall around me, crumbling to ash. Dark, corrupted roots shoot up from the ground, twisting and writhing, closing in to surround my men. The miasma thickens, decay clogging my senses.
The roots strike first.
They surge through the floor near my boots, rising up to strike like serpents.
They try to bind me, try to constrict me, and I cut them all down, praying the throne tree will forgive me.
Another aims for my throat, and I dodge, rolling out of the way.
My wardens face the same struggles, making no headway as another wave of tendrils emerges from below.
This has to end now.
I slash my way through the tainted growth, cold deepening with every step forward.
Farandir lifts his bony hand, magic surging, and I’m overcome with the wrongness of it.
It’s more than cold, more than frost; it’s rotting and infected.
The once-majestic roots blacken, exuding a putrid, foul sludge that seeps into the ground while the king’s demented laughter echoes.
My men cry out, horrified as their weapons corrode in their hands, panic spreading through them like a disease, leaving them vulnerable and exposed.
Our reinforcements could not have better timing. Torn between saving my men and finishing the mission, Valenar and the rest of our company break through like sun after a storm, sparing me the choice.
“Good to see you alive!” he shouts my way.
“Yoo too!” I answer, bolstered by the sight of my second alive and well.
“His magic is feeding off the tree—cut him off!” he calls. In the next moment, he ignites a couple of oozing tendrils, and disappears behind the wall of flames.
Tightening my grip on my sword, I hack through Farandir’s corruption, each step growing heavier. I can’t stop. Can’t give up. If Farandir isn't stopped, this corruption will destroy the entire reach, and my men depend on me to end this nightmare.
Farandir roars when he sees I’m still advancing.
With a guttural snarl, he sends a desperate surge of magic, a maelstrom of dark roots, ice, and rot.
I turn into the storm, the hardened armor of my back taking the brunt of the blow.
In the last moment, with only steps between us, I see something flicker in the endless voids of the king’s eyes—fear?
Relief? Maybe my own guilt and regret, haunting me amid the battle's chaos.
Without a moment to consider any of it, I cleave through the final defensive roots and plunge my sword into Farandir’s chest.
For a heartbeat, it’s as if time stops. Then, the thread holding Farandir’s magic to the reach snaps.
His contaminated roots convulse like a dying animal, then slither away, back into the floor.
The throne tree lets out a long, groaning creak, and a single brittle leaf drifts down, turning to dust at my feet.
The king is dead. But the battle isn’t won yet; chaos erupts outside the throne room as Val calls for back-up.
Without the fuel of the corrupted roots, the wall of fire is nothing but smoldering embers, and I don’t even register the heat underfoot as I rush to the aid of my men.
In the hall beyond, loyalists with nothing left to lose launch their frenzied attacks. I push to the frontline, raising my blade and planting my feet.
“Hold the line! This isn’t over yet,” I call out.
Shoulder-to-shoulder with Valenar, I’m almost convinced things might turn out all right.
We fight together as a unit, two sides of the same blade.
He’s fluid and precise, while I’m brutal and efficient.
Together, we’re the deadliest soldiers the Emerald Wardens have ever seen, and the king’s guards don’t stand a chance, no matter how worn-down we are.
Val flourishes his blade as he fights off another guard. “That all you got?” he taunts, not seeing the loyalist lunging in from his blind spot.
There’s no time to warn him. No time to think. I just move, putting myself between Val and the attacker. The blade meant for him sinks into my side, and the world narrows to that sharp, burning sensation.
Valenar has another quip on the tip of his tongue when he cuts the guard down, but his gaze falls on me.
His expression morphs to panic, neither one of us looking away from the dark blood seeping through my fingers where I’m clutching my side.
Dashing toward me before I fall, he’s the only thing to keep me upright when I stagger.
“Xan,” he says, fear bleeding into his voice. “Why’d you do that? You idiot. Just…just hold on, okay?” Looking around frantically, he searches through the dwindling fight. “Can we get some healing over here?”
“No,” I rasp. “We’re not done yet.” Not until the fighting is over.
I won’t let my men think I’ve abandoned them.
Clutching my side with my off-hand, I lift my sword, booming to the hall, “Farandir is dead! Long live the reach!”
My men answer with a rallying cheer, the sight of seeing me upright, wounded but unbroken, giving them the second wind needed.
As the last loyalists surrender, the hall plunges into silence, only the labored breathing of the survivors filling the void. The excitement of battle ebbs, and relief brings me to my knees.
The pool of my own blood surrounding me makes me wonder if it wasn’t relief that brought me down.
Valenar drops to my side, clutching my wound where my hand has fallen limp. “Xan, stay with us. We’re not done,” he says, low enough for only me to hear, but with more urgency than I’ve ever heard from him. I wish I could see what a great king he’ll make.
I blink slowly, the ghost of a smile curling my lips as I pull his letter from my belt. “Told you,” I say, pressing it into his hand.
The hallway dims, then goes dark entirely, and the last thing I hear is my second-in-command calling my name.