Zacheous bled relentlessly as each strike of the whip lashed his back. He screamed until his lungs burned, until only broken whimpers escaped with every blow. His body shook with fear, blood dripping from each lash—wounds that would undoubtedly leave scars.
The Demon King raised his hand. The whipping stopped.
Slowly, Sebastian walked forward, his boots echoing against the cold dungeon floor. Each step he took was dominating. Zacheous hung by chains from the wall, his body limp, head bowed—too weak to lift. Sebastian eyed him, circling like a man inspecting a new coat in a clothing store. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips. He had always preferred the old ways—raw, personal.
"So, you're saying the witches planned this treason?" he asked, bending slightly to see Zacheous's face.
Zacheous gave a weak nod.
Sebastian's smile vanished.
"Words," he said coldly. "I need words."
"Y-yes, my lord... the witch... Aeloria—she knows about the curse," Zacheous rasped, blood trickling from his mouth.
Sebastian straightened and turned to leave.
"That information was quite useful. Give him water and bread," he ordered flatly.
"M-my f-family..." Zacheous choked out, barely audible.
Sebastian stopped. He turned back slowly, a smile returning to his face.
"Ah... your family. Taken care of," he said.
Relief washed over Zacheous's face—weak and fleeting.
Sebastian's voice dropped, amused.
"Not so fast. You feel relief too easily."
He let out a laugh—deep, loud, menacing. The sound bounced across the stone walls like a curse of its own.
"I wiped their memories," he said, voice low and cruel. "Your children—they're adorable. And they seem to love their new father."
Zacheous's eyes widened. His shoulders sagged in the arms of the men holding him.
"You're a psychopath! A monster!" he screamed, summoning strength from rage. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He had nothing to lose now—at least they were safe.
Sebastian's face darkened. The insult didn't sting—it never did. It only stirred memories. And satisfaction.
Memories that refused to fade. Memories that had become nightmares...
They'd known he was different from the day they adopted him. Eyes too bright, glowing in the dark. He walked early. Talked early. Never got sick. When their real son came, they shoved him into the barn like an unwanted dog.
On his sixteenth birthday, the fire came. He woke, burning—his skin glowing. He ran to his mother, panicked. She looked at him not as her son, but as a monster. She threw a bowl into his face. His eyes bled. The scars never left.
They said he was going to live with a distant uncle. But they had sold him. There, he learned his real origin. He was royal-blooded—a demon, lost without trace. But he had found his way home and reclaimed his father's nearly lost throne. He was the Demon King, no matter what curse had been laid upon him. He had never succumbed to the witches.
He had gone on a rampage when Ravelle, his stepmother, cursed him using the Cursed Moon on the day he was born. He had killed thousands of witches, forced them to surrender, and bound them with oaths and laws of his making. And yet—they still dared him.
Zacheous's renewed screams pulled him back.
"Shut him up," Sebastian said, almost bored. "I've heard enough for today."
He turned and strode out of the dungeon, Zacheous's curses trailing behind him. Virelith and Zyren followed in silence.
"Get the men ready and head south. Bring me Aeloria's remains," he told Zyren.
"Yes, my lord." Zyren bowed and disappeared into another passage.
"This may not be the right time to confront the witches, my lord," Virelith said carefully.
Sebastian stopped. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
"And why do you say that?" he asked sharply—rhetorically.
She hesitated.
"You think I'm weak?" he snapped before she could answer. "That's what that witch thought before she dared raise an army against me."
He stepped closer, jaw clenched.
"I am the Demon King. The last of Vaelrath. I will not succumb to some witch's trick."
His rage ignited. His eyes glowed, light flickered above, and the passage trembled from the raw power he exuded. The air grew thick.
"You mustn't let them see your weakness, my lord," Virelith whispered, head bowed. Her voice trembled despite her training. She dared not meet his gaze.
A long silence. Then, Sebastian spoke—calmly.
"Silence is weakness." His eyes dimmed, but his voice remained like steel.
Virelith swallowed hard. She was used to this. She had been with him since childhood. He had taught her everything. He had made her see what she was.
She was a demon.
Only she dared question him this way. Only she could. And only because he let her. There was something between them—a bond forged in fire and fear.
But she feared what would happen if his rage ever fully escaped. She had seen it once. It was not destruction—it was erasure. Sebastian had remained in the shadows for centuries, hiding as the curse slowly took hold. His body now burned from within. He was fading. But even dying, his power remained.
They knew who he was.
The last of Vaelrath.
He had wiped out an entire generation of witches so no one would know about the curse. It had become a myth—until now.
And now, they knew the curse was real.
---
The old tunnels beneath the city still breathed.
They were forgotten by most, buried beneath layers of steel and history—under the concrete veins of New City sprawl. But deep below, an ancient witches' coven lay hidden beneath the ruins of a pre-colonial forest, long erased from maps.
That night, the air in the Hollow was heavy with incense and static. The Circle had gathered—witches cloaked in robes, whispering old tongues while neon glyphs pulsed along the chamber walls, flickering like fireflies in a digital storm.
Then the candles dimmed. The glyphs went dark.
A presence entered.
He emerged with the silence of a storm before it breaks. Tall. Poised. He wore an elegant black coat with faint crimson lining, collar high, boots clean despite the dirt. Virelith was by his side, clad in a black cloak, her face hidden beneath it.
His face could stop time—the benefits of being immortal without aging.
Unnaturally handsome, with bone structure that seemed carved by divine spite. A jagged scar ran from his brow, across the bridge of his left eye—nearly concealed by a sweep of thick, dark hair styled deliberately to one side. His left eye, half-visible behind the fringe, glowed faintly emerald green—smoldering with something not human.
The witches recoiled without knowing why.
"Vaelrath," the Matron breathed, her voice cracking with age and dread.
He gave her a faint, knowing smile.
"No need for titles tonight, Matron," Sebastian said, his voice calm. "I come not to reign. I come to remind."
He walked slowly into the center of their circle.
"You tampered with the Eye," he said, gaze sweeping across their faces. "The one bound beneath my throne. You summoned it. Used it. Against our oath."
No one answered.
He flicked his finger. Virelith handed him a pendant—bloodstained, unmistakably Aeloria's. He let it fall onto the stone floor. It clattered like judgment.
The youngest witch let out a sharp gasp. The rest stayed silent.
"Aeloria was warned," he said softly. "But your kind always believes itself cleverer than consequence."
"You believed the Old Laws were broken. That they had faded with time. But I do not fade." His voice dropped, darker now. "I endure. I watch. And I burn."
His hair shifted slightly as he turned his head—revealing more of the scarred eye beneath, a fire barely contained. For a moment, the witches saw what lived beneath his skin—ash, flame, wrath ancient as the stars.
"I am Vaelrath," he said. "You dare bring war to me. You formed an army against me!"
He pointed a single, gloved finger toward the congregation of witches. Some gasped. Others stayed quiet, their hands trembling.
"This is just a warning."
Then he smiled again—gently, terribly.
With a motion like wind pulling smoke, Sebastian turned, and the shadows swallowed him whole—together with his right hand. No flash. No fire. Just absence.
Only the pendant remained on the stone.
The witches did not speak for a long time.
The Matron was the first to move, picking up Aeloria's pendant with trembling fingers. She stared into the bloodied silver.
"Mercy," she whispered, more to herself than the others. "That was his mercy."
A loud moaning began in the coven of witches.
They had loosed yet another to the Demon King.