Mammon, King of Greed, steps from the shadows where he stood, nearly invisible. "An open war... would cost us dearly. Very dearly. The other races... would unite against us."
Kronos yawns. "The elves... watch... our movements. If we... attack en masse... they'll intervene."
"That's exactly what I've been trying to explain for centuries. This endless war weakens us all."
"What do you propose?" Nergal growls. "Negotiate with those vermin?"
"I propose thinking beyond. Humans aren't our only enemies. The elves see us as magical abominations. The orcs covet our celestial territories."
Belphegor sneers. "And you genuinely believe an alliance with humans would change anything?"
"An... alliance?" Kronos seems almost surprised, a rare intense emotion for him.
"Not an alliance. Not exactly. But a... mutual understanding. A coexistence that lets us focus on our true enemies."
Vorthak erupts, his flames igniting the air around his throne. "NEVER! Those parasites slaughtered our lesser kin!"
"And we razed their cities, Vorthak. The cycle of vengeance never stops."
Mirthia tilts her head, her eyes now the color of amethysts. "Interesting. Very interesting. You have a plan, don't you, Damaris?"
A cryptic smile curves the lips of the Queen of Lust. "Perhaps. But it would require... your patience."
"Speak," Mammon orders, his black eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity.
"The paladin I'm... studying. Aldric Pendragon. He's not just a knight. He's the brother of their Minister of Armies, Lady Lyanna. A member of one of Xers' oldest noble families."
Nergal spits. "So what? Apart from Arthur, none of his descendants have truly troubled us."
"You want... to use him?"
"Not just him. His influence, his position, to create... cracks in their unity. Imagine: a war hero returns, questioning the legitimacy of this conflict. Reporting that we're not the monsters their propaganda paints."
Vorthak growls low. "You're playing with fire, Damaris. Literally."
Belphegor adds, "You're talking betrayal! Compromise with the enemy!"
"I'm talking long-term strategy," Damaris replies calmly. "Something you seem to miss."
A tense silence falls.
Finally, Mammon speaks. "How much time... do you need?"
"Six months. Maybe less if—"
"THREE," Vorthak roars. "Three months. Not a day more. If your plan fails, we return to my strategy. Fire and destruction."
Mirthia claps slowly. "How... democratic."
"Fine," Damaris murmurs. "Then let me work. And above all... don't interrupt me."
The six blurred thrones vanish.
Damaris remains alone in the circular hall.
She smiles, her tail curling around her leg.
---
The first rays of sunlight.
Sylvara, in her green robe woven from fibers, barely rustled against the leaves, her soft leather boots leaving no trace on the mossy ground. She also carried a small shoulder bag.
As promised to Archmage Eryndor, Sylvara chose to travel alone for discretion.
After hours of walking, the forest began to thin, giving way to wider clearings.
Sylvara paused, closing her eyes.
"Damaris," she whispered, her lips tightening into a hard line. She resumed her path.
Soon, she reached the forest's edge, where trees abruptly gave way to a fine sandy beach bordered by jagged rocks.
Sylvara crouched behind a thorny bush, scanning the area.
This was where elven scouts reported the dragoness's appearance. The sand still bore marks: heavy boot prints, likely the paladin's, and sinuous grooves, as if traced by a serpentine tail. But no bodies or blood.
Suddenly, a sound: a branch snapping.
Sylvara melted into the shadows, casting a minor illusion spell that made her nearly invisible.
Twenty paces away, a figure emerged from the rocks: a massive, scarred orc in studded leather armor, wielding an axe. He sniffed the air like an animal, his yellow eyes sweeping the beach.
"Humans... and something else."
Behind him, two smaller but equally fierce orcs appeared, carrying spears.
Orcs here, so far from their Arid Zones? This boded ill.
Orc clans were known for sporadic raids, but venturing so close to elven lands was rare.
One pointed at a track in the sand, and they began digging, unearthing a piece of human armor—a dented breastplate, marked with deep scratches.
"Loot," the leader snickered.
Sylvara waited, watching the orcs move off along the coast, taking their find. Once they were out of sight, she emerged and examined the site closely.
Among the debris, she found a scrap of white fabric.
"She's returned to her city."
She glanced where the orcs had gone.
"Gather information before returning."
With that, Sylvara followed the orcs' tracks.
---
In the depths of a cave carved into the coastal cliffs, the air was heavy with moisture.
Damaris stood in the center of a chamber, lit by glowing crystals she'd brought from her city.
Before her, chained to a stalagmite by tendrils, was Aldric Pendragon.
The man was shirtless, his muscular frame slick with sweat and red marks. His blond hair was matted.
Damaris approached slowly, her sensual form accentuated by a diaphanous gown clinging like a second skin. Her greenish scales shimmered faintly under the fabric, her tail slithering behind.
"Awake, my dear paladin?"
Aldric raised his head, chains clinking.
"Demoness... what have you done to me?"
She laughed softly, kneeling so their faces were level. Her amber eyes locked onto his, and she placed a hand on his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat.
"I've given you a taste of pleasure. And now, you're mine." Her fingers traced lines across his skin, down to his muscled abdomen, where scars of past battles marked his warrior's life.
Aldric growled, struggling, but the bonds held him fast.
A growing tension showed beneath his torn trousers, his pupils dilating at Damaris's touch.
She smiled as soft, warm tendrils coiled around his legs.
"Look at you," she whispered, a tendril sliding along his thigh, brushing his groin. "Your mind screams loyalty, but your body craves desire."
Aldric gasped, his muscles tensing under the sensory assault. The tendril slipped under the fabric, caressing his hardening manhood.
"No... stop."
Damaris stood, letting the tendrils work as she slowly unlaced her gown. The fabric fell, revealing her lush curves: firm breasts with hardened tips, wide hips, and scaly skin. She pressed closer, her lips grazing his ear.
"Tell me... tell me more about Xers. Your king. Your sister, Lyanna."