The obsidian hall of Crimson Fang thrummed with a tension so thick it seemed to pulse in time with the lava channels outside. Ares stood at the head of the stone table, his rune-trimmed coat catching the firelight, the pact mark on his wrist glowing faintly like a caged ember. The demons around him—each a vision of lethal beauty—watched with eyes that ranged from skeptical to predatory. He was about to outline his strategy, to seize control of this volatile council, when a figure rose from the shadows at the table's far end, her presence shifting the air like a storm rolling in.
She was towering, her silhouette commanding even before she spoke. Her armor was a masterpiece of infernal craftsmanship—sleek black plates etched with silver runes, molded to accentuate her sculpted form, leaving strategic gaps that hinted at power and allure. A crimson cloak, trimmed in black and silver, billowed behind her, its high collar framing a face both sharp and regal. Her skin was an ashen purple, a mark of high demon lineage, and a third eye glowed faintly in the center of her forehead, its light piercing the dim hall. Long black hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back, and her red-tinted eyes locked on Ares with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.
The demons stilled, their gazes flicking between her and Ares. She didn't speak immediately, letting her presence do the talking. Her hand rested on the hilt of a curved blade, its pommel shaped like a serpent's skull, and the faint hum of her magic filled the silence—a low, resonant throb that set Ares' pact mark tingling.
He didn't flinch, his gray eyes meeting hers without hesitation. He knew her, not by name but by reputation. The strategies he'd studied in the Hero's camp—ambushes that struck like lightning, supply lines cut with surgical precision, traps that turned entire battalions into ash—bore the mark of a mind like his own. This was General Rithessa, commander of the Crescent Legion, Velvira's most formidable warlord. And she was testing him.
"You sit in the Demon Lord's chair, human," she said at last, her voice smooth but edged with steel, each word deliberate. "Bold. But boldness alone doesn't win wars."
Ares leaned forward, his hands braced on the table, his voice calm but carrying a razor's edge. "I don't need to win wars to sit here. I just need to be better than the one who thinks they can."
A murmur rippled through the room, half shock, half amusement. Rithessa's third eye twitched, its glow intensifying, but her lips curled into the faintest smirk. "You speak as if you know my plans," she said, stepping closer, her cloak sweeping the floor. "Enlighten us, then. What would you do with the Crescent Legion?"
Ares didn't hesitate. "Your last campaign against the Holy Alliance—three weeks ago, the Varnell Pass. You lured two hundred soldiers into a ravine, collapsed the walls with pre-set charges, and burned the survivors with alchemical fire. Clean. Efficient. Brutal." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "But predictable. The Alliance adapted. They've reinforced their scouts, doubled their sentries. Your next trap—likely the one you're planning now—won't work."
Rithessa's smirk faltered, her third eye narrowing. The other demons exchanged glances, their unease palpable. "You presume much, human," she said, her voice colder now. "But go on. Tell me about this trap you think you've deduced."
Ares straightened, his mind racing through the patterns he'd memorized—reports, troop movements, the subtle shifts in Alliance strategy. "You've targeted their forward base in the Broken Belt, haven't you? A supply depot, lightly guarded, meant to lure them into overextending. You've rigged the surrounding cliffs with more charges, maybe laced with infernal toxins this time. The plan is to let them march in, spring the trap, and wipe them out before they can signal for reinforcements. Am I close?"
The room went deathly silent, the only sound the crackle of the hearth's flames. Rithessa's hand tightened on her sword hilt, her third eye blazing. "How do you know this?" she demanded, her voice low, dangerous.
Ares' lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Because I designed that base." The demons gasped, and Rithessa's posture stiffened. "I chose its location, its defenses, its weaknesses. I knew someone like you would see it as bait. And I knew you'd take it. The Alliance let you think it was vulnerable, but they've already reinforced the cliffs with counter-traps—arcane wards to detect your charges, hidden archers to pin your forces. You walk into that trap, and your Legion is ash."
Rithessa stared, her red eyes wide with shock, her third eye pulsing erratically. The other demons leaned forward, their skepticism morphing into intrigue. "You… you're saying you let us plan this?" she asked, her voice betraying a crack of disbelief.
"I didn't let you do anything," Ares said, his tone calm but cutting. "I just knew you'd do it. Your strategies are brilliant, General, but they rely on the enemy being predictable. The Alliance isn't. Not anymore. Not without me."
The hall was a powder keg, every demon waiting for Rithessa's response. Her third eye dimmed, and she exhaled slowly, her composure returning but tinged with something new—respect, grudging and hard-won. "You read me like an open book," she said, her voice softer now, almost admiring. "A human. I didn't think it possible."
Ares didn't gloat. "I don't need to be a demon to understand war. I just need to be better."
A low chuckle broke the tension, and all eyes turned to a silver-haired demoness with claws like daggers. "He's got nerve," she said, her voice a hiss of amusement. "Velvira's pet has teeth."
"Not her pet," Ares corrected, his voice steady. "Her strategist. And if you want to survive the Alliance's next move, you'll listen to me."
Rithessa stepped closer, her armor glinting, her presence overwhelming. "You've earned a chance, human," she said, her tone begrudging but firm. "But know this—if your plan fails, it's not just your head. It's mine. And I don't take kindly to failure."
Ares met her gaze, unflinching. "Then don't fail."
The room stirred, demons murmuring among themselves, their skepticism giving way to curiosity. Rithessa's third eye flickered, assessing him, then she nodded—a single, deliberate motion. "Speak, then. What's your plan?"
Ares leaned forward, his voice low, commanding. "The Alliance thinks they've outsmarted you. They're wrong. Their forward base is a feint, but it's not the only one. There's a secondary supply line, hidden in the eastern marshes, unguarded because they assume you don't know it exists. I do. I mapped it." He paused, letting the words sink in. "We hit that instead. Small, precise strike. Cripple their logistics without engaging their main force. They'll panic, overextend, and expose their real stronghold—the one they're protecting with everything they have."
The demons leaned in, their eyes gleaming with interest. Rithessa's smirk returned, sharper now. "And you know this stronghold?"
"I built it," Ares said, his voice cold as steel. "Every wall, every ward, every weak point. I can give you its heart on a platter."
A murmur of approval rippled through the room. The silver-haired demoness grinned, her claws tapping the table. "Bold words, human. I like him."
Rithessa didn't smile, but her third eye softened, its glow steadying. "You'll need more than words," she said. "I want numbers. Troop counts, supply routes, ward schematics. Everything."
Ares nodded. "You'll have them. But I need your Legion's full strength—no half-measures. Every soldier, every demon, every asset. We move fast, and we move smart."
Rithessa's gaze lingered on him, assessing, calculating. Then she stepped back, her cloak swirling. "Very well. I'll deliver the reports. But don't waste my time, human."
As she turned to leave, she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. "I'm watching you, strategist. Impress me, and you might just survive this court."
Ares' lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Don't worry, General. You'll be too busy winning to notice."
Rithessa's third eye flared, but she said nothing, striding out of the hall with the grace of a predator. The other demons watched her go, then turned back to Ares, their expressions a mix of awe and wariness.
He leaned back in Velvira's chair, the pact mark pulsing like a heartbeat. The Demon Lord's absence loomed large, her influence woven into every glance, every whisper. He could still hear her voice—I'll make it up to you later—and feel the ghost of her touch, a promise and a threat. But this wasn't her moment. This was his.
"Get me those reports," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "We start tonight."
The demons hesitated, then nodded, their movements swift and purposeful. The hall buzzed with new energy, the weight of command shifting to the human who'd dared to sit at their lord's table.