Ash fell like snow over the demon capital.
Where once the towers of Blackstone clawed at the sky in proud defiance of the mortal world, now there were only jagged stumps jutting from a ruined maw. The air reeked of magic—holy magic that gleamed in blinding streaks—and the copper sting of blood. Fires burned unchecked along every boulevard, devouring centuries of ambition and arrogance.
Caesar stumbled through the wreckage of the Grand Spire's outer court, coughing black soot. His pale skin was cracked, marbled by black veins of exhausted mana, smudged with ash and dried blood. A chip of broken horn clung to the ragged edge of his hair. His tail dragged behind him like a wounded animal. Every step sent waves of agony up his spine. Every breath brought bile.
The war was lost.
He hadn't needed anyone to say it. The gates were broken. The Demon Lord's guardians were dust. The capital's barrier had shattered hours ago. The screams had stopped.
He was weak. He had always been weak. A runt of the demon ranks. A nothing. A thing to be kicked aside or sent on errands when no one else could be bothered.
But here he was, when so many stronger than him were already gone.
A figure screamed somewhere across the square—an armored knight pinned beneath the charred remains of a demon brute. The knight's visor was gone. She looked barely older than Caesar himself, her face glazed with terror. As he watched, the brute's smoking hand twitched, then went still for good.
"Mercy," she rasped, blood bubbling on her lips. "Mercy…I surrender."
Another knight in a white tabard, her armor gleaming despite the carnage, raised her blade. "There will be no mercy for your kind. Solaria's light purges all evil."
"Evil?" The demon coughed a ragged laugh. "We only fought because you came here. You invaded—"
"Silence." The knight's voice was cold iron. "You defile this world by existing."
Her sword fell. A scream rose and ended.
Caesar turned away. There was no point in watching.
But his legs carried him upward.
Always upward.
The central tower still stood—barely. A monument to pride in a world that no longer had room for it. And at its very edge, on the last unbroken ledge, stood him.
"Caesar," said the figure, turning back, pale hair whipping in the wind. "You're late. I was almost sure you were dead."
Lord Alaric Valemont.
Despite belonging to a race scorned for their delicate constitutions, he stood there—hunched, bleeding, but alive. Graceful even in ruin. Noble silks charred at the hems. Porcelain skin now scored by a gash of holy fire that pulsed like an unhealing brand. His lips were the color of spilled wine. His eyes were a haunting, moonlit gray.
Every movement he made was art, even bleeding as he was.
Caesar collapsed beside him, gasping. "Alaric…I—"
"You don't need to say anything." Alaric offered a hand and pulled him up with surprising gentleness. "I didn't expect you to survive this long. That's impressive in itself."
Caesar's voice trembled. "Where…where is everyone?"
Alaric gestured lazily behind them. The inner palace lay in flames, and from the shattered throne room, a divine beacon pierced the sky like a harpoon. "Dead. The Demon Lord fell two hours ago. One of the heroes burned through the Heart Engine. After that, it was over. No one remained to issue orders. The rest ran…or died."
"And you?"
"I was waiting for you."
That stunned him. "Me?"
Alaric smirked faintly. "Well, you were technically under my care. It seemed…ungracious to vanish without a word."
Caesar looked around. The devastation ran so deep the ground itself seemed to bleed. Even he—a nobody, a kicked-around failure—knew what it meant.
"We've lost."
Alaric nodded, brushing soot from his sleeve. "Yes. We've lost the war."
A fresh explosion rocked the southern district. Even from here, Caesar could make out the silhouettes of vampires in velvet cloaks darting into hidden tunnels, slinking away like rats abandoning a ship.
"The vampires will leave first," Alaric murmured. "They'll find homes among human nobles. Or pretend to be nobles themselves, draining blood in secret."
"Why?" Caesar croaked.
"Because," Alaric said softly, "just like us incubi—just like the succubi—they need humans. Far more than any proud demon ever wanted to admit."
He closed his eyes briefly, as if steadying himself. "The succubi laid their plans years ago. They won't linger. I lost a bet with Faye about which clan would flee first."
"Who's…Faye?"
Alaric's gaze flicked down to him, the smallest trace of amusement in it. "Someone who knows how to survive—something you were always better at than you believed."
He swayed. Caesar lunged to steady him, but Alaric hissed as the holy wound flared, white fire spiraling up his ribs. Even he could not hide the pain.
"You…you need help."
Alaric gave a weak laugh. "If I did, who would give it? The mighty Demon Lord is dead. His last guardians burned with him. The rest have fled." He exhaled, voice thinner. "I suppose…I should follow them."
"Alaric—"
Another tremor. The parapet cracked. They both stumbled, and Alaric's hand caught Caesar's shoulder.
"Stay with me," Alaric rasped. "I won't…leave you…alone."
The stone gave way beneath them.
They fell.
Wind shrieked. The burning city blurred past.
At the last second, Alaric gathered what power remained to twist their fall. They crashed onto the sloped roof of a lower annex, rolling through broken tiles. Caesar struck something solid. Pain split him open from within.
He tried to breathe. Failed.
He blinked blearily. Alaric was propped up on one arm, blood soaking through the rents in his silks.
"I…think I broke something," Alaric murmured.
Caesar tried to answer. No words came.
Alaric turned his head, pale eyes softening. "You were never strong. But you stayed alive longer than most. That…counts for something."
Caesar's breath rattled in his throat. Cold crept into his limbs.
A fluttering black shape landed beside them—a raven, iridescent feathers gleaming. In a heartbeat, the bird's body contorted, reforming into a tall young woman in a black maid's gown, white apron immaculate amid the ruin.
"My lord," she said, her voice low and steady. "The western defenses have collapsed. Most of the lesser clans have fled. The holy host is advancing."
Alaric didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Caesar. "Evelyn," he rasped, "see to it…this one is given proper rites."
"As you command."
Caesar's vision blurred. In the square below, he heard the ring of steel. A young holy knight's voice rang out, righteous and unbending:
"By the light of Solaria, we condemn you for your corruption. You are unclean. You will not leave this place alive."
A hoarse demon voice answered, half-defiant:
"Better unclean…than a hypocrite."
The knight's sword flashed. A scream ended in silence.
Caesar's heart slowed.
Alaric's face blurred in the encroaching darkness. His voice was quieter than smoke.
"I am sorry. I couldn't…save you. You must understand—among demons…weakness is the one sin none forgive."
It was all right. Caesar had never expected anyone to save him.
But someone had tried.
That was enough.
Everything went black.
Fifteen Years Earlier
He awoke screaming.
The sound echoed off cracked stone walls—familiar, damp with mildew.
He knew this place.
The servant's quarters beneath the eastern annex of Blackspire Keep.
His body—smaller. Younger. Whole.
He stumbled to the door and flung it open.
Outside, the demon capital stood unbroken, its towers rising in arrogant defiance.
He was back.