38. Kaisner
KAISNER
T he ancient stone walls of my private chamber seem to close in around us, their weathered surfaces carved with arcane symbols and forgotten incantations.
Flickering candlelight casts dancing shadows, illuminating shelves stacked with grimoires, jars of exotic ingredients, and artifacts brimming with untold power.
The air is thick with the heady scent of burning incense—a potent blend of myrrh and dragon’s blood.
At the far end of the room stands the altar, black as midnight. Its polished surface gleams with an unnatural sheen, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Resting atop it is my Book of Shadows, bound in nightshade-tanned leather, its silver runes shifting in the dim glow.
In the center of the room, the summoning circle dominates the floor. Chalk lines form intricate sigils, their edges pulsing faintly with otherworldly energy—power just on the verge of eruption. I stand at the edge, my pulse a steady war drum, each beat a countdown to what comes next.
Beside me, Clarissa is a vision in sapphire silk.
Her gown, chosen for this ritual, shimmers like the night sky, making her appear like a goddess caught between mortal and divine.
Yet, her beauty is marred by the uncertainty in her gaze, the tremor in her fingers as she clutches the pendant I placed in her hands.
A necessary precaution.
With practiced movements, I hold the amulet between her palms, closing my eyes as I murmur the activation spell. The words are dark, guttural, resonating from somewhere deep within me. As I speak, the runes etched into the metal begin to glow with an eerie pulse.
“This will keep you safe from any unexpected mischief,” I murmur, each word bitter on my tongue.
I despise that I’ve dragged her into this ritual—forced her into a game where the stakes are far beyond her understanding.
Yet, I cling to the certainty that my plan will hold.
That my magic— my will —is strong enough to deceive even a daemon.
Ordinary warlocks may falter, but I am not ordinary. I never have been.
Clarissa tilts her chin, allowing me to fasten the pendant. The metal warms against her skin, recognizing its new bearer.
“For protection,” I say, brushing my lips to her forehead. “And this…” I kiss her briefly, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “…for luck.”
She nods, trust shining in her eyes. My chest tightens, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing down like an iron vise. Azrakan’s whispers slither through my mind. Perhaps no charm can shield her from the cost of this ritual.
The blood must be freely given.
I push the doubt away, lock it deep inside. It’s too late for second thoughts now.
I step away, crossing to the altar. My Book of Shadows hums with latent energy as I flip it open, the pages fluttering eagerly as though alive. They settle on the incantation, the words already burning against my tongue before I even speak them.
A deep breath. A steadying exhale.
Then, I begin.
The first syllable rumbles through the chamber, thick with power.
The air shifts—denser, heavier—charged like the space before a lightning strike.
The candle flames stretch unnaturally, their golden glow turning an eerie blue.
Shadows creep at the edges of the room, twisting and writhing like sentient beings waiting to be unleashed.
Clarissa shivers beside me. I don’t look at her. I can’t afford to.
The book grows hot in my hands, unbearably so, but I don’t falter. I return it to the altar, the pages still shifting of their own accord. The silver runes on the cover blaze with a cold fire, searing against my fingertips.
The ritual circle pulses. Tendrils of dark smoke rise from the chalk lines, twisting into the air like hungry serpents.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—
The ground trembles beneath us. A low, guttural sound begins to vibrate through the walls, through my bones, through the very foundation of the mansion. It starts deep in my stomach and spreads outward, curling like a living thing within me.
The shadows congeal, thickening into a humanoid form. It towers over us, a being of pure darkness. Claws of shadow flex and curl, leaving trails of inky blackness in the air. Two slivers of burning red pierce the darkness—eyes, ancient and cruel.
A voice, like shattered glass scraping against stone, echoes through the chamber.
“Who dares summon me?”
I step forward, my stance strong. “I, Kaisner Drachenstein, have called you forth.”
The daemon shifts, its amorphous form undulating. Its jagged mouth stretches into something resembling a grin. “Ah,” it purrs, its voice slithering through us. “And you’ve brought me a gift.”
Clarissa stiffens beside me. Her hand finds mine, fingers tightening. I feel the tremor in her grip, the pulse of her uncertainty.
“She is not an offering,” I say firmly, though doubt claws at me. “She is here to assist in the ritual.”
The daemon laughs, a sound like ice splintering. “Is that what you told her, warlock? What pretty lies you weave.” It leans forward, pressing against the invisible barrier of the circle. “Did you tell her the true price of awakening your dragon? Of the blood that must be spilled?”
I don’t look at Clarissa, but I feel her gaze burning into me.
“What is it talking about?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I remain silent, too afraid of what might slip out if I speak.
Azrakan widens its grin. “Ah, I see,” it muses. “He hasn’t told you everything, has he? Poor, trusting little dragoness.”
“Enough,” I growl, forcing my voice to be steady. “I didn’t summon you for riddles. You know why you’re here. Fulfill your part of the bargain, and you’ll have what was promised.”
The daemon’s form swells, shadows stretching and thickening. “Very well, warlock. Let us begin.”
It raises its clawed hands, the atmosphere crackling with dark energy. The circle flares, the symbols burning white-hot, and the temperature in the room plummets. The stench of sulfur and brimstone fills the air.
Then, something shifts.
The pendant around Clarissa’s neck blazes—bright red, incandescent. The runes carved into its surface twist and writhe as if trying to escape.
Before I can react, the glow intensifies. A crack rips through the air. The amulet—the safeguard I crafted so carefully—disintegrates.
Ash. Dust. Nothing.
The daemon laughs again, louder this time.
“You fool!” it hisses. “Did you truly believe you could trick me? That I wouldn’t see through your pathetic deceptions?”
Panic claws at my throat. I miscalculated. The ritual is spiraling beyond my control. I never had any control.
How could I have been so blind? How could I have ever thought that any power, any glory, was worth the risk of losing her?
“Embrace your dragon, warlock!” Azrakan roars, its shadows surging forward. “I will claim what is owed!”
Heat erupts from my core. Power, fire, searing through my veins. My skin prickles, then burns as obsidian scales ripple across my forearms, spreading upward.
My dragon, so long dormant, roars to life within me. I can feel its hunger, its desire, its overwhelming need to be unleashed. The need to complete the ritual is overwhelming. I’m so close to seizing my destiny?—
But then, through eyes rapidly changing, pupils stetching into slits, I see her.
Clarissa.
Her sapphire eyes are wide with fear. Fear of me.
The realization hits like a death blow.
If I take this power, if I let this ritual complete—Clarissa will die.
I won’t let that happen.
I clench my fists, forcing the fire down, forcing my dragon back. “No!” I growl.
The daemon snarls, sensing my resistance. “You cannot back out now, warlock!” It lunges toward her, claws extending?—
I move.
A blur of instinct and desperation, I throw myself between Clarissa and the daemon. My hand rises, fingers drawing on the depths of my power. Shadows coil around me, gathering like a storm. I call on them, shaping them into a solid, unyielding barrier.
The air thickens, the shadows expanding into a shield that flickers and pulses with dark energy. The daemon snarls, claws scraping against the wall of darkness. Its shadowed form presses against the shield, and I can feel the strain in the magic. It will not hold much longer.
Pain sears through me, white-hot agony, as the daemon’s wrath begins to burn through the thinning shield. The shadows quiver under its pressure, and I stagger back slightly, teeth gritted.
“Run!” I roar at Clarissa.
She doesn’t.
Instead—
I hear her footsteps racing, not toward the door, but to the altar. My heart lurches in my chest, dread and admiration warring within me as I realize what she’s doing.
Through the haze of pain, I see her seize the Book of Shadows, its worn leather cover gleaming in the infernal light. Her voice rises, strong and clear, as she begins to chant an ancient banishing spell.
Pride and terror rush through me. She shouldn’t know these words. She shouldn’t be involved in this magic. But her voice—her strength—ignites something within me. A spark of hope, a surge of strength.
I force myself to stand, pain be damned, and join her, our voices intertwining, rising.
A piercing howl rips through the air, Azrakan’s form writhing as the ritual circle burns even brighter, its runes flaring in defiance. The air crackles with energy, the scent of scorched sulfur thick in the room.
The ground trembles violently, books flying from shelves, their pages flipping open midair before slamming to the floor. Artifacts topple from pedestals, their ancient magic sparking and hissing in protest.
“You will pay for this, warlock!” Azrakan growls.
Its form begins to unravel, its edges fraying like smoke caught in a storm. The summoning circle flares, a final act of defiance, sealing the daemon’s banishment.
I stagger back, breath ragged, muscles coiled in anticipation of retaliation. But nothing comes.
For a fleeting second, relief floods through me. We’ve survived. Clarissa is still standing, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Alive.
The barrier held. The spell worked.
We won.
And then—agony.
The air splits with a sickening shlkt as shadowy talons spear through my flesh. A sharp, searing torment ignites across my shoulder, a sensation so sudden and raw that my vision flashes white. I barely have time to register the metallic scent of my own blood before my knees buckle.
A ragged breath escapes me, my body instinctively locking against the pain—then, with a brutal inevitability, I collapse.
Azrakan may be gone, but its parting gift is carved deep into me.
The last thing I see is Clarissa kneeling beside me, her face a portrait of horror and angst.
Then—
Oblivion.