Morning sunlight barely pushed through the ash. The village had been burning for three days. No one buried the bodies—no one had the right to, because every last one died a slave.
A man with bloodied hands, barefoot, dragged a child deeper into the forest. The girl was quiet. Too quiet. She did not yet understand that her mother had been left behind, shackled, branded across the chest, earrings ripped from her ears.
—"Don't stop... don't stop..." he whispered.
And at the same time—hundreds of miles away—in the capital of the new kingdom, in the palace of Локріс, bones were cracking.
He sat on a dark throne set with skulls. Knights in black kept their axes ready. Before him stood dozens of lords—scions of the oldest human lines. Their faces—gray, furrowed, proud. But today—afraid.
—"From this day," said Локріс, "you hold every right over every peasant, merchant, whore—even any child who lives on your lands. Their life, their body, their soul—belong to you."
He paused. His voice was low, metallic.
—"But... each of you will send me a thousand in gold every month. Otherwise—I will remind you what the word 'power' means."
One of the lords—Baron Алтеріс—stepped forward.
—"We aren't machines, Your Majesty. It's impossible... People are starving. Even in the best years..."
Rustle...
Crack.
Алтеріс's head rolled across the floor. Локріс didn't even blink.
—"One more thing. Do not call me 'Your Majesty.' I am your master."
Silence settled over the hall. Then—grave assent.
The lords nodded. Some trembled. Others lowered their eyes. One clenched a pendant in his pocket—a keepsake of the daughter he'd sold into slavery last month to keep his title.
"Better a living slave than a dead princess..."
And below, in the squares, soldiers of the 'army of Локріс' laughed as they divvied the spoils.
Jewels. Food. People.
Elsewhere on the continent:
A hollow-eyed woman dug a pit. Behind her lay the body of her husband—brutally slain. In her arms—a newborn.
She didn't have time. The army was already near.
In despair, she lowered the child into the hole, covered it with straw and earth, and ran the other way, baring her breasts to the coming hell like bait.
"Let them take me. Only let him live..."
The darkness of the demon continent was not dead. It breathed, lived, stirred. Three kingdoms—three bastions of tainted power—received the same message.
And today, in every throne room, she appeared—
a beastkin woman. Tall. Predatory grace. Eyes like a huntress. A tail twitching with nerves. Beneath the cloak—a body made not for battle but for seduction. Yet her gaze was colder than steel.
She came before the first throne.
The king—a demon with soft features, a little drooly, a little stout—rose at once.
—"Your master... the one they call the Dark Lord... will he... will he come himself? In two days?"
—"Yes," she answered evenly. —"And he expects your oath."
The king wet his lips.
—"Of course! Certainly! I will wait. And I will swear to him... with everything I have."
"This coward..." she thought, without changing her expression. "He sold his children for an alliance with the vampires. He sold his people for gold. And now he'll sell himself if anyone so much as whispers about power."
She left the hall in silence.
Next—the queen. Her throne was carved of blackwood, and on its back perched a living raven, watching in silence.
—"Your Lord wants us to swear?" her voice was like cold wine. —"How... interesting."
—"He will arrive in two days," the beastkin woman repeated. —"He awaits you."
The queen pondered for a moment. Her fingers toyed with a ring.
—"We will... of course, we will appear. We will meet. But before that we'd like... a bit more information."
—"I'll relay it."
"This... cunning bitch. There's cold in her eyes. She isn't submissive, but she isn't open either. She won't kneel until she's sure she has a spare move. Just like me. And precisely for that—dangerous."
And finally—the third. A throne of stone, cracks webbing the walls. The king himself—a demon-warrior, scarred across the face, eyes gleaming, a sword that for generations had shortened tongues.
—"Your overlord wants my oath?"
—"Yes."
He rose.
—"Tell him this: let him kneel before me himself... and beg that I spare him for such insolence. Then, perhaps, I'll consider it. Now—begone."
The beastkin woman paused for a heartbeat. Her heart clenched. Her tail twitched.
"This one will not submit. He will have to be destroyed. Publicly. Slowly. So the other kings remember that pride is a fatal disease."
She bowed her head without a word. And left.
Outside, beneath the night sky:
She lifted her gaze. The moon was crimson. The air smelled of ash.
"These are not kings. They're upstarts. Shadows on a throne. Pitiful creatures who only call themselves rulers."
Her eyes narrowed.
"But soon... the world will learn what a true sovereign is. And I will be among the first to fall before him. Not as a slave. As a key."
She slipped into the shadows. Behind her lingered only the scent of blood and the threat of change.
A report, a silence, a smile. And the beginning of the end.
Evening descended on the demon continent. The air grew heavy, like the smoke of a fire yet to come. The horizon was a dull red, like blood mixed with ash. In the mountains, where a solitary black tower stood, the lights had long gone out—only a shadow remained, pulsing with power.
From it she emerged.
The beastkin woman stepped softly, sure-footed, her silhouette surfacing from the dark as if it were part of the evening itself. Her body still wore the dust of the road, and her movements carried the tautness of restrained anger. Her tail twitched, now and then lightly coiling around a thigh as if to calm her thoughts.
Before her stood the Dark Lord.
Tall, like a plinth for a curse.
His silhouette barely moved. Only the wind brushed his long cloak.
He did not turn. But he heard.
—"Everything has been delivered," she said. Her voice was muffled but crisp, like the strike of stone.
—"One is already our ally. The first will bow his head the moment you set foot on his land."
—"The second—no. He's an enemy. Proud. He will have to be broken or killed."
The Lord was silent. Only a gust of wind shook a few grains of sand from the ledge, and they fell to the ground like broken bones.
—"And the third?" came from the darkness. The voice—calm, but with a depth that makes the heart falter.
The beastkin woman held her breath. Her ears quivered, as if catching every shade of tone.
She kept silent for a few seconds.
—"With her... we need to be careful," she said at last.
—"She's not one you can seduce or cow. In her eyes—ice that neither lust nor fear will melt."
—"She isn't the strongest... but I believe she's the most dangerous of them."
The Dark Lord lifted his chin slightly. And for a moment... he smiled.
—"For now," he replied.
He stepped forward. His silhouette, a living shadow, filled the space around them. For an instant the beastkin woman tensed her back, arching slightly—an old habit not even cold composure could beat out of her.
—"We ride."
His horse already waited below. Enormous, dark, with eyes lit from within as if night itself had been poured into them. Its hooves scorched the earth, and every breath of the beast carried a growl of the elements.
She followed in silence. Her fingers brushed the silver ring at her belt—an amulet given to her before she entered the Dark Lord's service. The only thing left from before.
"Once I lived free... now I breathe by his command. But I do not regret it. Because soon... this world will be different. Whether I survive doesn't matter. What matters is that he will remember my name."
When they vanished into the dark—only the wind remained, stirring the grass, and the evening sliding into night.