Chapter 15 #2
Eldravis moved within the frame of a troll—originally of Terra Monstrum.
Smaller than Tigon, but still formidable, with thick limbs and fists made for pulverizing.
Valkotha, on the other hand, had taken a formicidra: tall as an abaddon, with a spindly insectile body.
His head resembled that of an ant, crowned with twitching antennae and serrated mandibles.
Wispy wings jutted from his back, pulsing faintly.
The imperfections of their stolen flesh mattered little.
Even though they looked haphazardly pieced together, when the time came, they’d show their prowess.
No doubt they’d been training in these bodies for years.
They remained silent. But the expression in their glowing eyes, glinting with deadly hope, spoke volumes.
They bowed before Zarathos as he repeated the ceremonial phrase, then moved aside to sign their oath agreement, the mist curling after them.
“And finally, from Kingdom Aeria we have Xaphoron, the Weightless Dagger and Balafur the Thunderclaw.”
The windows along the side of the chamber exploded inward, wind howling through the room as the curtains snapped and billowed like sails in a storm.
From the skies above, the two sky-stalkers for Aeria descended, wings slicing the air as they landed with practiced, deadly grace.
Both were armed to the teeth, weapons strapped across their backs and sides, and each bore the warrior crest of their kingdom, a skull wreathed in broken, jagged wings, sewn over their hearts. A mark of the elite.
They bowed in unison, and Zarathos recited the ritual line.
“We look forward to the opportunity to prove ourselves in combat,” said Balafur, the gargoyle, his voice rough as stone.
“May the most deserving demon win the Demon Trials,” Xaphoron added, his storm-colored eyes glowing with a pale, near-white light.
They both looked at Zarathos. He saw it in their expressions. They didn’t believe the most deserving demon sat on the throne before them. Not a threat. A vow.
Zarathos rose from his seat, letting the silence stretch just enough to draw every gaze.
Then he spoke, voice low and sharp as a blade.
“Do you know whose bones adorn this throne?”
Xaphoron’s eyes narrowed, but Balafur answered. “That is your father’s throne, so I’d assume the extinct races, the ones he wiped out, shapeshifters and incubi.”
The answer was most likely correct, though Zarathos hid the way it unsettled him. “And who else?” he demanded, as if testing a child.
“Your half-siblings,” Xaphoron offered.
Zarathos forced a cruel smile over his face. “My half-siblings. Twenty-four of them whom I bested to become the demon arch king, and now I sit on their bones.” He bared his teeth at kingdom Aeria. “And you don’t think I can do the same to you in some meager Demon Trials?”
“Except.” Xaphoron’s gaze flashed in challenge. “You did not kill your half-siblings. It was your father.”
Zarathos spread his wings and stepped up to Xaphoron.
He couldn’t back down. “You don’t think I can lift my hand against anyone I choose?
Even someone close to me? You don’t think I haven’t done it before?
” A part inside him trembled at his own words.
At the truth of them, but he buried it, only letting the anger and fire manifest. “I, Zarathos, proved myself worthy of the crown out of all my siblings, and I’ll do so again. ”
“We’ll see,” Xaphoron growled.
Without another word, they departed off to the side.
He refused to show how much the things he had spoken drained him as he moved back and settled on his throne while the pairs of champions signed their own contracts.
Despite Zarathos’s display of power, he knew Kingdom Aeria would be as hard as hell to defeat in the trials.
Damn. He wished he had gotten at least one of them in a bargain.
“As a reminder to all champions: the oath you’re signing binds you to the agreement that no powers may be used during the opening ceremony or in any trial, except the final one,” the announcer said.
“That means, Your Majesty, you must decide whether to summon your wings before each individual trial begins and, if you do, to keep them present throughout.”
“I am aware,” Zarathos said as languidly as possible.
The announcer bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Any who breaks this rule will trigger the contract’s retribution—a swift and brutal death.”
Zarathos was fortunate that potion use didn’t count as a natural ability. It was a loophole. A detail he wasn’t sure the council had overlooked, or simply chose not to address.
He gazed over the champions, signing their binding agreements. Four out of ten wasn’t ideal, but it was better than none. But with most of the trial council also against him… he didn’t like those odds.
But in the end, if he claimed the scepter, none of it would matter. Zarathos would be unstoppable. Regardless of how exposed the vampress made him feel, it would all be worth it… if she could secure the one thing that would guarantee his victory in the Demon Trials.