The blood moon rose over the shattered spires of Elrath's capital. Once a gleaming jewel of the kingdom, the city now choked on smoke and flame. The cries of the dying rang through the narrow streets as elemental drakes rained ruin from the skies. Their wings shredded the clouds, their screeches split the air like blades. Each one bore twisted, unnatural features—scales cracked with fire, fangs dripping acid, spines of ice jutting from their backs.
A fire-breathing drake swept low over the marketplace, incinerating a line of panicked citizens mid-run. Another followed, spewing toxic mist that left gasping corpses in its wake. Archers atop the ramparts let arrows fly in volleys, their faces grim with hopeless duty. The arrows clattered harmlessly off thick, enchanted hide.
Below, foot soldiers and knights fought to shield the common folk, forming living walls to usher survivors into the deeper strongholds. Screams echoed as a young soldier was snatched into the air, flailing until the drake crushed him in its jaws. Another knight—grizzled, eyes hard as steel—leapt from a tower onto a drake's back, driving his blade deep into its skull. The beast thrashed, slammed into a spire, and fell. Victory for a breath.
Then a second drake descended and ripped the knight in half.
In the heart of the chaos stood the main castle—its banners tattered, its gates cracked. Fires danced across its ramparts. The king had led a final charge hours ago. Now his golden armor lay in a twisted heap outside the north courtyard, trampled and smoking, his sword buried in stone.
Inside the castle, deeper in the sanctum, a lone mage stood surrounded by ancient stone and flickering torches. Her robes were torn, blood and soot staining the intricate runes. Her face was pale but set. Determined.
Lysira.
She stood over a scrying pool, watching as a final gate gave way outside.
"Milady," a knight said as he entered, armor scorched, one arm clutched to his ribs. Sir Renn. Loyal to the last.
"The king?" she asked without turning.
He bowed his head. "Gone. We held the eastern court as long as we could. The elemental drakes have breached the city wall. The last of our troops are falling back. If you know anything that can help us, do it now."
She closed her eyes. Her fingers trembled against the stone rim of the basin. "There's one option left. But you won't like it."
Another knight, a younger one—Sir Kaldr—stepped forward, blood streaking his temple. "We passed liking things three days ago. Do what you must."
Renn gave her a wary look. "You mean that spell? The forbidden invocation?"
She met his gaze. "Yes."
He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Then may the gods forgive us."
She turned and walked toward the sealed archway at the back of the sanctum. It took both knights to lift the stone slab. A narrow stair spiraled into darkness.
---
The ritual chamber had not been touched in a hundred years. Dust lay thick over the obsidian floor, broken only by the strange, metallic grooves inlaid into the rock. Glyphs shimmered with ancient power, faint and hungry.
Lysira shed her robes to the waist, exposing her arms. She drew a blade across her palm, blood dripping into the basin at the center of the circle. Her chants began low and steady, in a language no living soul dared speak. The torches dimmed. The air thickened.
Smoke curled from the circle. Her blood pulsed, burning along her veins. A wind rose inside the sealed chamber. The temperature dropped, then spiked, sweat glistening on her skin.
She fell to her knees, whispering the final words.
A crack split the stone floor.
He stepped through.
Not appeared—stepped. Like he had simply been walking somewhere else and took a detour through reality.
He was taller than she remembered from the texts. Pale as moonlight, with impossibly long white hair that shimmered like silver threads in the firelight. His coat clung to him like smoke, black and sleek, open at the throat. A sword rested at his hip—a long, sinuous blade of midnight metal that hummed with restrained destruction.
His eyes were molten gold.
"Who summons Syreth of the Ebon Host?" he asked, voice smooth as oil over fire. He was a Battle-Demon.
Lysira raised her chin. "I am Lysira of House Veyne. Archmage of Elrath. I summon you."
He took a step closer. The circle flared at the edges.
"Desperate little mortal," he said, crouching before her. "You know my terms, don't you?"
She nodded, swallowing her fear.
His smile was sin incarnate. "You planned to betray me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe."
"Delightful."
He stood and stepped over the summoning circle without effort. It didn't stop him.
She gasped. "That's not—"
"I go where I please, girl. Your circle is clever. But I am older than the rules."
He leaned in, lips near her ear. "Still, a deal is a deal and you will pay your end of it." Letting out a muffled laugh.
He straightened, his coat shifting with an unnatural weight. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword. It extended, growing as needed, a seamless ripple of dark metal.
"This is what you summoned."
Then he vanished.
---
The battlefield was a storm of wings and flame. The few remaining soldiers braced behind the barricades, too tired to run.
And then—
Flash. Blink. Blade.
Syreth tore through the sky like vengeance incarnate. One swipe severed a drake's spine. Another cut through flame, splitting the breath weapon before it reached the gate. He blinked through space, teleporting mid-swing, chaining movement and magic into a dance of annihilation.
The ground trembled. A drake of molten stone opened its jaws.
Syreth appeared above it, blade reversed, and drove it down through the skull.
He didn't stop. They came at him in waves, and he met them with impossible speed. The soldiers stopped watching. They just felt the shift in the world, the thinning of death around them.
And deep in the chamber, Lysira felt it too. The blood pact burned under her skin. Her chest heaved. She touched the mark over her heart.
He was winning.
But she wasn't sure what that really meant anymore.
…
The chamber was lit by soft amber light, cast from a single floating flame in the center of the ceiling. The air was thick with tension—and something more ancient, more primal. The stone walls seemed to hum, reacting to the mark that pulsed just beneath Lysira's skin.
Syreth walked around her, slow and deliberate. His eyes roamed over her as if he could see through flesh to the soul beneath.
"You're still holding back," he said, unfastening the high collar of his coat. He dropped it to the floor. "You think you can endure the night without giving in. You think you can stay in control."
Lysira forced herself to meet his gaze. "You said no damage. That includes my mind."
"Your mind will beg for more before I'm finished."
He closed the space between them, standing so close she could feel his heat. Without touching her, he circled behind her again, voice a whisper in her ear. "Submit doesn't mean obey. It means surrender. Everything. Thought, will, pride."
His hand grazed her shoulder, fingertips cool against her flushed skin. She gasped despite herself.
"Still resisting."
He brought his other hand around to trace the line between her breasts. She inhaled sharply, her pulse racing.
"Say it," he murmured.
"Say what?"
"Say you're mine."
She clenched her fists. "I won't say it just to please you."
He smiled, stepping in front of her. "Then I'll make you mean it."
He kissed her then. Deep. Hungry. One hand tangled in her hair, the other at her waist. She fought the urge to lean in—but her body betrayed her, pressing closer. Her lips parted. Her breath hitched.
When he pulled away, her knees were trembling.
"Take it off," he said.
Her hands went to her robe, pausing.
He raised a brow. "I can do it for you, if you'd prefer."
She dropped it. Let it fall.
His eyes drank her in. Slowly. Appreciatively.
He touched her then. Soft at first—like he had all the time in the world. Fingers gliding across her collarbone, down her arms, around the curve of her waist. Her breath came faster. His hands were skilled, sure, coaxing sensation from places untouched in years.
She arched into his touch without thinking.
His smile grew wicked. "Good."
He lowered her gently onto the furs laid out by the hearth. The demon followed her down, body firm and cold like marble, but every movement deliberate, practiced.
He tasted her neck. Bit the edge of her shoulder. One hand kept her wrists pinned above her head while the other explored.
She was wet before he ever touched her there.
"You're trembling," he said.
"I'm not afraid."
"No. You're excited."
He slid two fingers between her thighs, teasing. Her hips jerked.
"Say it."
"No."
He pressed deeper.
Her back arched. She gasped.
He leaned in close. "Say it, Lysira. Say you belong to me."
She wanted to resist. But her body throbbed. Her breath was shallow.
"I..."
He stroked again, perfect pressure, perfect rhythm.
She broke. "I belong to you."
He kissed her throat, smiling. "Good girl."
And then he made her say it again.
And again.
By the time dawn touched the horizon, she was lying against him, skin damp with sweat, her body spent, the mark on her chest warm and glowing.
He brushed hair from her face.
"This night is over," he whispered. "But we're not finished."
She didn't ask what he meant. She was too tired to fight. Too unsure if she even wanted to.
He disappeared as silently as he'd arrived.
And Lysira lay alone, marked, remembering every touch.