They converged on the Cathedral.

  Harald sent word to Kársek in Deepforge, bidding him, if possible, to gather his host at 2nd Bell.

  A premonition told him there wasn’t time to wait till dawn.

  Best to strike too early than to arrive too late.

  Brianna Hammerfell departed to collect her retinue. To gut House Draken and leave the new lordling stripped of all pretenses. She’d allow him to indulge in his tantrum long enough. With a new order rising, she no longer saw why she should respect tradition, and moved to educate the boy on the realities of politics in Flutic.

  “But why summon so many forces?” asked Sam, buckling on her armor after giving it a thorough clean and repair. “You just killed a dozen of them. Why are we afraid of eight?”

  Harald had washed and dressed in a functional suit of leather and chain armor. He wasn’t even sure the gear was necessary—Form of the Black Throne was probably tougher than the chain. But if it didn’t hamper his movement, it could only help. He rose from a stretch and smiled at Sam. “Because we’re making a point. We’re crushing our opponents, seizing the Cathedral, and using the moment to forge alliances. When dawn breaks, the city will find Anna in Vic’s place of power, the Handmaiden’s slain, and with Deepforge and the best of House Drakenhart at her side.”

  Nessa snorted. “When did you get so good at politics?”

  “I’m nobility.” Harald twisted from one side to the other. The stiff leather creaked and gave to his superior strength. “I may not have enjoyed it, but I absorbed the game just by being around my father, I guess.”

  They left shortly thereafter. Anna in the carriage, Harald controlling the horses, Sam and Nessa riding inside, Eadwolf hanging onto the back.

  Through midnight streets they rolled, through empty streets in which hung the veil of fear. Faces appeared in windows to watch them go by, only to vanish when Harald glanced their way.

  Yet Harald rose in a riding wave of confidence. He’d slain a dozen Handmaidens with his crewmates help. But there was no hiding his own growing mastery. And now with the Demoniac Body and Demonic Assimilation?

  He craved battle.

  For deep in his core, seated beside his sealed Well, lay a new presence. A dark ocean contained within a teardrop of purest night, a private reservoir of unholy energy. It was new, strange, and so tempting. Demonic essence, harvested from the Handmaidens he’d slain.

  It burned sweetly, begged for release. To supercharge his every movement, to anoint him with heretical grace and power.

  Oh, but how he wished for resistance. How he prayed for a real battle.

  How might Brianna react, what might her expression be, if she saw him flex his full might now?

  Harald snorted and dismissed the foolish thought.

  They reached the Avenue of Penitance. The Cathedral arose at its terminus, gaunt stone shaped to brave the passage of eternity. The great rose window was dark, the massive front doors ajar.

  A crowd had gathered before the ancient edifice. Almost fifty strong, the sight of the assembled dwarves and Silver and Gold-ranked raiders lifted Harald’s heart with fierce satisfaction.

  Here. Now. This was how it began.

  The forging of an elite force that could change the course of the world.

  Harald drew the carriage to a halt right behind the war party, which parted as he leaped down the carriage doors opened to reveal familiar faces.

  Brianna loomed over her compatriots, her expression bemused, theirs tense, unsure. But the humans were outnumbered by the dwarves, and from their brawny ranks emerged Kársek, clad now in black and gold plate armor of impossible beauty. He wore it like a dragon wore its own scaled skin, and he appeared ennobled and kingly, though he wore not circlet, no crown.

  The worthies met in the center, surrounded on all sides by faces grim.

  “Well met, Harald,” said Kársek, voice low and firm. “I have roused the host of Deepforge, and I am honored that they have heeded my call. Let me introduce the elders that shall lead our kindred into battle.”

  Three dwarves stepped forth, and each was white-haired, white-bearded, and with faces carved by the passage of centuries. Under each beetling brow glittered fierce light, however, their stares indomitable and unimpressed, their presence as formidable as cliff faces that had already weathered an eon of tempestuous weather and ferocious storms.

  “Hail, Sir Darrowdelve,” said the eldest of the three, a familiar face. He wore a white leather eyepatch that was intricately stitched with black thread, and an ivory cloak flowed sumptuously over his silver and platinum armor.

  Harald bowed with deep respect. “Forge Father Thangrim. Thank you for heeding Flutic’s call in its hour of need.”

  The Forge Father nodded curtly. “Gathul and their servitors are to be crushed like vermin underfoot. That is their purpose. We dwarves shall be the iron-capped boots. There is nothing more to say.”

  Kársek was brushing his hand over his small twist of a beard braid. “And this is Thane Brogar Ironheart, a Chasm Caller of great repute, and Thane Vargar Granitejaw, who earned such honor during the battle of Three Flames in Dumr?n that his deeds need not be recounted.”

  Both of the elderly dwarves inclined their heads in silence.

  “It is an honor to meet you at last,” said Anna, taking control of the gathering with warmth and confidence. “Should we all survive these trying times, I shall work without end to ensure Deepforge is forever honored for lending its strength in our time of need.”

  “May I introduce Countess Sonora,” said Harald, and bowed deeply once more.

  Forge Father Thangrim inclined his head. “DreadRune Kársek has told us that you guard your honor like a dwarf. It is good to meet humans who yet recall the most important values in life.”

  “And I’ve come with a fair few,” said Brianna, her amusement barely discernible in a slight curl of her lips. “Countess, let me introduce you to Aurion Crush, Gold-ranked raider and House Drakenhart’s greatest warrior.”

  Aurion was a leonine man, his golden mane shot through with silver, his handsome face weathered and boasting a single vertical scar that had rendered one eye blind—or would have, had the ruined orb not been replaced by a sphere of pure gold. “Countess Sonora. Lady Brianna has spoken highly of you as well. I am eager to crush the filth that pollutes our body politic, and then to discuss how the chips shall fall thereafter.”

  Countess Anna inclined her head graciously. “First, we cleanse the city. Then we set matters to rights. All of you have earned my gratitude in placing Flutic above petty politics in this hour. I shall now surrender the moment to those most steeped in the art of warfare. May the angels bless you in this battle.”

  “This shall be a massacre,” said Brianna, tone turning businesslike. “Though we should not underestimate the trio that protect Vic. By our count there are five regular Handmaidens left, and these three regents of Eclavistra. Their primary powers are of subterfuge, entrancement, and deceit; we should expect them to try and divide our ranks, turn us against each other, and to attack our greatest en masse.”

  “Or they’re gone,” said Aurion. “They’re not idiots, are they? With twelve of their number dead, they’ll know the war is over. Odds are they’ve killed this Carmine fool and fled back to their demon queen.”

  “They’re still here,” said Sam quietly. “I can sense them within the cathedral.”

  All eyes turned to Sam, who, to Harald’s great pride, met their combined stares with calm certainty. “I am a Netherwarden Knight. My Warden’s Discernment confirms that demonic taint is still active and present just within.”

  “Well then.” Aurion frowned at her. “It seems we’re to have a battle after all.”

  “We dwarves shall circle around and attack from the rear,” said Kársek. “We shall be the anvil to your hammer.”

  They spent the next few minutes deliberating the plan, but in truth there wasn’t much to discuss. The dwarves departed, entering a building to the avenue’s side to pass through and around, and the human raiders stood before the grand steps that led up to the cathedral.

  Harald inhaled deeply. He felt like grinning. He felt like running up the stairs and plunging into the darkness beyond the doors by himself. But he held back.

  They weren’t here to just kill demons; they’d come to cement Anna’s rise to power. And to do that, they all had to be bloodied together.

  Brianna moved amongst the twenty House Drakenhart raiders with familiar ease, drawing laughter and engaging in small talk. Nessa was stretching, while Sam gazed up at the cathedral with a frown.

  “A Copper Moon for your thoughts?” asked Harald, stepping up alongside her.

  “I’m uneasy. This is… Aurion wasn’t wrong. The Handmaidens aren’t fools. They underestimated us once. But if they’re still here, they’ll know they’re vulnerable. That they’ve lost that air of invincibility they courted.”

  “Their greatest trick.”

  “They’re not brute fighters.” Sam was still studying the grand old building’s ornate facade. “They’re a threat precisely because they can warp people’s judgement and will to their purposes. But if they’re still here… it’s not because they think they can win in a straight fight.”

  “Then?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam turned to him, her concern plain. “But this can’t be just an easy mop-up fight. They have to have a plan.”

  “Well.” Harald mulled it over. “Everyone has a plan until they run into my Chyron’s Scourge.”

  Sam laughed. “Sure. Listen, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. When—”

  “All right everyone!” Brianna raised her seven-foot-long blade. “We’re going in!”

  “After?” asked Harald, reaching out to squeeze her arm.

  “Yes.” Sam smiled tightly. “After.”

  The right of first entry went to the Gold-ranked raiders. Aurion Crush took the lead, though Harald thought he saw an ironic smile play briefly across Brianna’s face as she inclined her head as the older Gold-ranker swept up the stairs. Then she fell in behind him, then the other three less famous Gold-rankers from House Drakenhart, then the swarm of Silver-rankers.

  Sam, Nessa, and Harald brought up the rear, Anna joining them so as to remain under their watchful eye and protection.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The sound of combat filled the air as Harald passed through the massive doors. The House Drakenhart raiders were streaming down the central nave, weapons drawn, and charging to where the Handmaidens stood around the empty throne upon the dais.

  Harald grimaced. The urge to race forward was limited by his awareness that he’d be trapped at the back of the crowd. That, and there’d probably be nothing left after Brianna and Aurion got to work.

  He could see it now: the Handmaidens would break, flee, and run right into the dwarves. Neat, smooth, and polished.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, tapping the Scourge against his shoulder.

  “Now that’s a pretty fight,” said Nessa, sounding bored.

  And it was. The Handmaidens had erected a purple ward that enclosed them completely, a hemisphere of potent power that had temporarily flummoxed the raiders. Lights flared and flashed as powers were activated, and then Brianna swung her white-burning Wyrmfall, and the ward shattered, releasing a powerful shockwave that knocked over pews and staggered the Silver-ranking fighters.

  “Wait,” said Sam, clutching at Harald’s arm. “There’s—up there!” And she raised her face to search the massive rafters high above them.

  Harald peered up. The darkness was velvety thick, and he couldn’t see anything.

  “One of them’s on the run,” hissed Sam. “I can’t see them, but I can feel her—moving quickly from rafter to rafter!” She pointed, tracking the passage of something none of them could see.

  The rafters were almost thirty yards above them. There was no convenient staircase.

  “She’ll make for the cathedral rooftop,” said Nessa. “From there, she’ll be able to escape easily into Flutic.”

  “What do we do?” Gone was Anna’s poise and polish. “Call to Brianna?”

  “No need,” said Harald. Grim joy filled him. “I’ve got this.”

  Harald reached for the Demoniac Body.

  He summoned the demon essence from his new private well and activated his Thrones. Power flooded into him, and into that holy radiance that came from the Fallen Angel braided the black essence. It felt like lighting the face of an oil lake on fire.

  WHOOMPH.

  Harald’s whole body surged with power.

  +8 Strength.

  +8 Dexterity.

  +8 Constitution.

  He summoned the Solace of Aurelum, though its daily charge had already been expended; +4 to Constitution was still a welcome boost. The Aetherlight Circle appeared around his brow, and the Aureate Master upon his arm.

  Equipped with one Epic-ranked Artifact and three Masterwork ones, and complimented by the Demoniac Body, his stats became absurd.

  Str: 37

  Dex: 35

  Con: 45

  Ego: 32

  Pres: 14

  Unholy vitality bonfired up from his core, and his body responded. His bones warped and grew, his muscles thickened and relayered themselves upon his frame even as his skin turned jet black.

  And yet, he wasn’t just pure unbridled physical menace; the demonic essence was tainted by Eclavistra, stolen as it had been from the Handmaidens. Their essence was seduction, beauty, betrayal. He felt his shoulders broaden, his hips taper, his face remold itself into something not bestial, nor yet quite human but utterly captivating.

  But there wasn’t time to glory in these changes, nor to enjoy the shocked stares of his companions, who’d fallen back and turned their weapons on him.

  They’d understand.

  Later.

  Deliberately avoiding looking at Sam, Harald rushed toward the cathedral wall and leaped. He flew up, thrown by his impossible strength a good dozen yards to crash into the reinforced stone and there punch his fists into the rock to find purchase.

  He scrambled up the wall with ease. Dexterity 35 made him nimble and adroit at finding handholds were there should have been none; Strength 37 allowed him to cling to even a finger-nail’s width of rock. His toes dug in and launched him ever up, so that with each leap he flew another five or six yards higher.

  A moment later he sprang away from the wall, twisted, and landed atop a giant rafter with perfect balance.

  And then he activated Abyssal Imperium, Crown of the Abyssal Tyrant, and the Well of Starless Dominion.

  He had but a fraction of demonic essence left in his reservoir; Demoniac Form had drunken greedily from his reserves, and in the moment he hadn’t thought to throttle its thirst. No matter.

  The dark world up here was his now. Motes of void-dust manifested and floated innocently about him even as the darkness deepened and grew hostile to everything that was not Harald. His presence washed out like a crashing wave, and his body thrilled at its unlimited power.

  He wanted to laugh.

  But there was a hunt to enjoy.

  He could sense another presence within the domain claimed by Abyssal Imperium. A sister-presence, kin.

  His blood.

  No; for a moment he almost stumbled as he untangled his thoughts. Sister to the demonic essence he now indulged in, but no family of his own.

  No matter.

  The Handmaiden would die.

  Harald leaped easily from rafter to rafter, pursuing the demon. She fled, as she should, and reached a corner where she leaped onto a square landing that extruded itself beyond the main cathedral space.

  Harald gave chase, confused until he leaped in after her and realized it was the interior of a tower. A belfry?

  No matter. He tore up after her, leaping from landing to landing and eschewing the stone stairs altogether. Around and around till they cleared the actual slope of the roof and the first window appeared.

  Harald espied all of Flutic laid out beyond, dark and poorly lit, a morass of humped roofs, towers, avenues, parks. He could barely squeeze through the window, the aroma of his prey clear on the windowsill, and then he was outside, a sharp wind blowing this high up, the cobbled Avenue of Penitance narrow far below.

  The Handmaiden had sought to escape through one of the two main towers that flanked the rose window.

  Harald caught sight of her, fleeing lithely up the sloped tiled roof to the ridge.

  He bent his knees, crouched low, then sprang with such force that the stone windowsill shattered beneath his feet.

  Up he flew, into the starry night sky, arcing up and to twist and come crashing down with impossible grace on the ridge just before she could reach it.

  The Handmaiden stopped with admirable self-control, and he recognized her: Sythryxa. Her horns were mighty, her form voluptuous, and an arrow-headed tail lashed behind her. Articulated steel armor was cast with a fearsome array of hooks and spikes, and her eyes burned brightly in the darkness.

  In her fist she clutched a gorgeous crown, forged from black metal and ringed with spearhead-shaped tines, with a lustrous black gem set beneath each.

  “Going somewhere, Sythryxa?”

  She sneered. “Look who it is. The lapdog. But all grown up. My, but you do make a handsome devil. Tell me, how hard has it become to convince yourself you’re on the angels’ side?”

  “Not hard at all.” Harald propped the Scourge over one shoulder. “To be honest, with this much power at my command? I’m starting to look forward to my next meeting with old Vorakhar. I feel like there’s a reckoning in our near future. But for now, you’re my entertainment. Give me the crown, and I’ll kill you quick.”

  “Oh?” She raised a brow in mock surprise. “Am I supposed to be scared just because you’ve discovered the Demoniac Form? Where I come from, that’s just a prerequisite to sitting at the dinner table. Let me show you what real power looks like.”

  And she began to shift, to stretch, to grow.

  Harald didn’t give her the chance to reach her full growth. He flung himself down at her, Scourge screaming around even as the darkness coalesced around her mutating form, void blades whispering as they sought to dice her into cubes.

  Yet somehow Sythryxa leaped aside, evading him like smoke, and though his blades and void-motes had already slashed a score of thin black lines into her white skin, she laughed, delighted.

  “So slow?” She landed on the ridge and there rose to her full height, now easily eight yards tall, all elongated limbs, ivory skin, her steel armor absorbed into her body and replaced by overlapping plates of ivory inlaid with black. Her horns had doubled in size, and her talons were now nearly a foot long. Her waist had narrowed almost to her spine, while her face had disappeared behind a helm of elongated bone. “This will be less fun than I anticipated.”

  Harald slid to a stop, cracking and dislodging a stream of ancient tiles, and his toes curled about the wooden support beams and boards beneath.

  The Well began to drink.

  Sythryxa might be powerful, might be beyond his understanding, might be too lethal for him to take on, but she wasn’t beyond the abyss.

  Wisps of her essence began to flow down into him, into his voracious Well, and motes played across her ivory armor, scoring it with fresh cuts that wept black blood.

  Harald grinned. “Let me see if I can keep you entertained.”

  The demon snorted, extended her hand, and a storm of bone blades flew at him, a blizzard of finger-long razors.

  The Aetherlight Circlet activated, forging a path right through the center of the storm, and Harald leaped at Sythryxa, sweeping the Scourge at her once more as he unleashed his first pulse of power.

  It flooded out before him, crashed into the demon, and caused Sythryxa to stagger, nearly lose her balance. Still she managed to sway aside from his blade and then slammed her taloned fist into his gut.

  She might as well have punched a wall of iron.

  Harald heard the bones in her wrist and hand break but didn’t give her a chance to recover; he twisted, drove his elbow across her jaws, then bent his will upon her, the full force of the Crown, willing her to sag, to suffer, to surrender.

  Sythryxa leaped back, more cuts appearing across her body as the motes passed over her, and Harald realized with bleak amusement that he wasn’t nearly overwhelmed enough to profit; if he were against five or six Sythryxa’s, he’d be draining them all and benefiting from that accelerated rate of empowerment.

  One foe?

  It felt like sipping the headiest whisky, but the amount was miniscule compared to what he’d enjoyed against the dozen Handmaidens.

  No matter.

  “Is any part of you burning?” he asked, striding along the ridge of the huge rooftop toward her. “Itching? Has it been for a while?”

  Sythryxa glared at him, momentarily confused, then reached up reflexively to touch her neck.

  Harald roared with laughter and unleashed another pulse. It poured forth and he leaped right after it. Sythryxa leaped high, shattering the ridge as she bounded into the darkness, but the pulse, it turned out, flooded out in every direction, including up.

  Harald leaped after her.

  Only to be blasted back as she swept both hands together and clapped, unleashing a crashing boom that hit him like a runaway carriage.

  The blast punched him straight back, flung him down and into the tower from which they’d emerged. He slammed into the stonework, shattering it and blasting a yard deep, parts of him falling free into the staircase beyond.

  But the hit didn’t even stun him.

  Constitution 45.

  Incredible. With a laugh he tore himself free and raced up the roof again even as Sythryxa fell, off-balance, nauseated no doubt by his pulse, to crash awkwardly down on the tiles.

  Harald willed the abyss to consume her.

  Abyssal Imperium coalesced around her once more, void blades flashing, and this time Sythryxa screamed.

  More essence flooded into his Well, and through it into him.

  Faster than thought he raced up the roof to reach her, only for her to raise her face, black blood running down her cheek, and whisper: “Kneel.”

  The word hit him like a bullwhip, causing his body to spasm. To Harald’s confusion he found himself crashing down to one knee then toppling forwards, hands punching through slates as his very essence rebelled against him.

  Sythryxa rose unsteadily to her feet and laughed throatily. “You think I fear brute force? I am Eclavistra’s regent. My command is unquestionable. And you. You that have harvested so much essence from my sisters… you now fall under my purview. Kneel, fool, and acknowledge me your master.”

  Harald clenched his jaw, eyes wide with strain, and fought her command. He wasn’t fighting her, he realized—it was his own Demoniac Form he was contesting, the very essence that was warped into his being, the unholy power that had augmented him so. Essence stolen from Handmaidens, essence that knew only one thing: to obey Sythryxa.

  “I’m disappointed,” said the gaunt, elongated demon as she began making her way toward him, completely at ease. “Eclavistra spoke so highly of you. To think even my mistress could be mistaken.”

  Harald considered relinquishing the Body. But pride, obdurate hatred, refused to accede. Instead, he drew on the power of the Crown. He drank deep from his own mighty will. He summoned every vestige of self-control, and from the raw, stubborn fact of who he was—and who he was did not kneel.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to do.” Sythryxa loomed over him now. She bent down to caress his brow. “You’re not supposed to be this pliable. You’re ruining our plans—”

  With a roar, Harald tore free from her control and rose behind a punch that had every ounce of his hatred behind it. His fist slammed into her gut. Strength 37 meant the very fabric of her flesh distended before the blow, her massive demon form bowing over his arm as her back bulged out, and then she flew off his fist like a ball smacked by a bat.

  Harald gave chase, leaping after her flying form. The roof blurred under them, they crested the ridge, rose high over the other side, and then Harald reached her and brought the Scourge down.

  Her head parted from its neck.

  Black essence flooded into the Well and his demonic reservoir.

  They crashed down, slid, rooftiles shattering and bursting before his falling weight as he lunged to snag the demon corpse by the ankle. Her head rolled off into the darkness and was lost, but just shy of the cathedral roof’s edge he arrested his fall and came to a stop, to lie on his back, half sunken amidst a wave of cracked tiles, her shrinking body still clasped by one hand.

  The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind.

  The Demon Seed Has Stirred

  Your Dexterity has risen from 22 to 23

  Harald lay there, shook.

  For at the last moment, she’d turned to look back at him, and grinned.

  Grinned with pleasure, with amusement, with pity.

  Pity?

  He’d bested her. From where her arrogance?

  Harald yanked the corpse up alongside him.

  In one fist it still clutched the crown.

  Was it for this Artifact that she’d fled the battle below? Was it so precious she couldn’t risk it falling into human hands?

  The last of his demonic essence he’d poured into the Body ran out, and Harald chose not to drink from the reservoir so as to maintain it, so he shrank swiftly back into his human form. He almost fell through the roof as the gaps beneath him suddenly yawned massively, and he was forced to scramble to safety.

  With the Demoniac Body’s release, he felt some measure of sanity, of self-control return to himself, and he glanced up at Exeros’ mote of light.

  It hovered there, uncaring. The Shattered Seraph might not like Harald’s new power, but it seemed he didn’t object to his using it to kill demons.

  Cautious, frowning still, Harald reached and tried to pull the crown free. The corpse wouldn’t relinquish its death grip, and in the end, he had to snap each finger off.

  Sagging back into the nook he’d carved down the roof’s side, he turned the black crown about in the moonlight.

  A near perfect replica of the Twilight Crown.

  But what was it?

  What did it do, and how had Eclavistra planned to conquer Flutic with it?

  There was only one way to find out.