Marshal watched his sister move with purpose, her boots stopping inches from him, her legs, coat and cheek still dripping crimson—the body a crawled-up mess in her wake.
Many feared this woman: a demon general, a sister, a bright-eyed scholar. To think they were all the same person. And worse, this was the demon who had drugged him twice now, betrayed him over and over—and left him in a body that craved destruction—damaged his every hope of being more than a weapon.
Rosalind held a firm stare, unblinking, focused. Her pulse wavered, her skin steaming. She was in no state to be standing like that. Frayed, scorched and exhausted. He could end this now; he could shout, scream, demand she undo what she did. Confess everything. Tear the silence apart.
But… he couldn't hurt her; he could never; even as she stood up to him like a twig, he could snap with arms alone. Tall, proud, and a mirror of Edric Violette. The man she wanted to become. A man who risked it all for a young woman and a boy playing hero. Could he blame her for his sins, too? Could he take that away?
Rosalind dug into her pocket. Footsteps scattered in the fog, low growls echoing through the dark. He didn't look at the Daemons. He didn't need to. His eyes locked on the sliver of glass in Rosalind's fingers.
A Gravium ID. Not just any.
Ranked higher than a Monarch. Higher than a General.
His bones cracked.
Carved from hell's jewel smiths, an item born alongside any noble demon. The name etched in his mind, his muddy core screaming to spark, Shadow's fangs tightening.
"I don't care who you mate with, brother," she said, that last word particularly cold. "But I think you might reconsider?"
If he didn't have veins full of Solelite, he would be burning, analysing every speck, and inspecting the viability of every scratch. Shadow's voice, likely ringing bells, connecting his neurons like a children's puzzle.
How did he miss that? Miss something so clear? Right under his nose? Edric loved to talk about his little princess and how he had to leave her to shout at men and swim in blood. But a king was a king. He knew that.
"Wait, isn't purple for royalty?" said Cass, her scales shimmering as she shot forward. "It can't be." She looked at Amara, "Why didn't you tell us?"
Amara coughed, un-scrunching from the ball Rosalind had put her in. "It was none of your business," Amara said. "A small detail—"
Rosalind sneered at the woman; her knuckle crack a tad more convincing.
"but if I have to tell you," Amara blurted. "Yes, she is royalty, abit the fallen kind. Nothing worth mentioning." She turned to Marshal, maybe out of how tall he was compared to Rosalind. A plea, an attempt to usher her complaint. "Aren't you the Dragon Slayer? Why are you not doing any—"
Rosalind, ignoring the barked woman, stepped into Marshal's personal space. Her fangs were bare, sharp and hissing with intent. "you know who this is, right? You know what this means, too."
Marshal looked at the woman melting in steel. Her crimson eyes were just like her father's. There she was. The rightful ruler of the seat he, Marshal the Prince of Wrath, sat on—a throne he had rented.
Lorelai Violette.
No—
Princess of Fury.
Daughter of Wrath.
And he… he had bitten her.
Taken from her.
Stolen what wasn't his
Rosalind tapped her boot, the mechanical hum of the airship ticking as the air stuck oddly silent. But she came closer, calmer, warmer.
"You know as I, that crown does not belong to you." She said, "But you can be free. You were never meant to be a Monarch…"
For a moment, he wished she were the sister she used to be. But he knew that woman was gone. Blown apart by war. So he resisted leaning in, reflected a chill, stormed everything inside him, and choked the cork shut. He won't play her game anymore.
But before he could speak, like a bomb to the library, the silence exploded.
Howls, growls, footsteps—
and the white-eyed Daemons busted through the metal.
Amara screamed, wriggling about as she tried to and failed to stand. "we are all going to die, die, die. Someone, anyone, do something."
Rosalind met his gaze, unflinching. Ice against blizzard. Knife against scalpel.
A standoff carved in silence.
One waiting. One daring.
One strike away from a punctured core.
"I could have used my powers if you didn't drug me... Sister." He let sister simmer; they were half related, but she knew what it meant. He let her in one too many times. She can fuck off this time.
She flinched, her tail springing up like she wanted to pounce—a lioness with her claws ready.
Then she sighed, almost offhand, "Lucien, can you hit that mongrel for me?"
"It's Mongal—" Amara snapped, her voice a sharp bark of irritation, but the sound caught in her throat. Her slithering frame recoiled as a looming creature crawled forward, its form barely distinguishable in the thick fog.
A guttural growl rumbled through the chamber, wet and primal. The beast dragged its body. Its white, almost Solelite-shaded blood leaking in thick, sickly pools from gaping wounds that should have felled it.
"Never mind—someone, anyone, do something!" Amara screeched, her bark thrashing in a frantic attempt to put distance between herself and the horror before her.
Lucien barely spared her a glance. His fairy wings fluttered as he strolled forward, a smirk playing on his lips. "Now, now, darling, you should know better than to expect chivalry from me."
The creature exhaled, and the air thickened with the scent of decay. Its vacant, white eyes pulsed, a sickly glow barely visible beneath the mist.
Lucien flexed his fingers, red Hemarite flaring to life beneath his skin, veins pulsing with borrowed strength. Muscle thickened, tendons coiled like steel cables. He rolled his neck, exhaling a satisfied sigh. "But if that's what you want," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement.
The beast lurched.
Lucien surged forward.
Marshal watched Rosalind's face scrunch into a grimace. Her expression remained neutral, but her tail flicked, a slight, involuntary wag betraying something deeper. Amusement? Approval? It was impossible to tell.
Cruel or kind? He had never figured that out.
And, frankly, why should he care about her love life?
Then—
Molten steel dripped from the ceiling.
Puddles of red-hot metal sizzled into the floor.
The walls warped. Buckled. The air turned suffocating, dense with raw heat.
And at the centre of it all—
Lorelai burned.
He had seen an overclock and even a meltdown, but this. This was like the pits of hell themself, a scream of molten wrath—a howl of fury in a fragile body.
He looked to Rosalind. He knew outright the only expert happened to be the cold witch at his side. But he could strangle his ego a little longer.
"Whats—" he started
Rosalind knelt and opened Lorelai's eye, and the moment she did, a chrome Voiduim drop came out, followed by more and more; she was crying metal, or at least that was the picture.
And the more he looked, the more seemed to come out: her nails, sweat glands, and ear canals. She was leaking the stuff, overflowing with it.
It was both glittering and beautiful to behold, yet if one knew that, Voidium flowed out of her, the fog, the mist, the void itself oozing from within. Dread was a more fitting word. What in the steaming hell was happening, and what did Voidium want with her?
"I think her awakening opened a door." Said Rosalind, "This is like a virus, and she is fighting it right now."
Marshal felt a sting; he did this; it was he who couldn't control himself, his desire, his need for her body. Why was he always like this? Why couldn't he keep his hands and fangs to himself?
Then, like a wet rag, a body splattered the bulkhead, the paint of white blood like fresh pearl paint. The slug of a Daemon mushed to paste.
"One down, a thousand and two to go." Lucien huffed.
Meanwhile, Amara, like a bent tree, wailed like a banshee, her scream flooding the room as creatures came through the bulkhead.
Amara pointed to the group. "What are you doing? Get in there, fight them, I warned you. We need more bodies."
But Marshal didn't move. Neither did the others. Instead, a new presence rose—heart-tipped tail flicking, power flaring around her like an infernal wind.
Lucien grinned. "Finally, General, I was wondering if reinforcements would come."
Rosalind stood at his side, "We're going to push through," she said, "make it to the cargo bay."
"If you say so," Lucien said, frowning, "but that's a lot to ask for."
Rosalind threw off her coat and flared her veins; the sight-like etched Circuitry running down her skin, arms, legs, and back. It was akin to a glowing tattoo but far scarier.
Inquisitors like Marshal himself used diamond bones to increase flow and power, but threading your skin with molten glass strands, he wasn't sure what hurt more.
"The hunt starts now," Rosalind said.