As I'm looking around, I see demons all around me. But they don't look like they're angry or want to kill me. They look— scared.
I whirl amid a sea of demons, their twisted forms quivering with terror rather than rage. Panic ripples off them like heat from a fire. My heart thunders. "What the hell is happening? Where am I?" I demand, voice cracking. A familiar tone answers—cold, amused. "Estingoth, of course." I realize.
He strides through his captives with triumphant swagger. "This is the greatest haul of demons I've ever seized," he rumbles, scanning the huddled masses. "With these numbers, I can reshape the cosmos. I can't wait to see the gods' faces." He laughs, voice echoing off unseen cavern walls, then halts before a throne carved from obsidian. Atop it sits the loveliest creature I've ever beheld—his wife.
"My dear Esmirelda," he greets, every syllable wrapped in steely affection. She rises gracefully, her eyes alight. "I was out walking with Jeremiah and Joseph," she tells him softly, settling beside him. "They craved the world beyond these walls." Estingoth's gaze darkens with regret. "Have they grown stronger? It's been too long. I ache for them…for you." His tone falters.
Esmirelda surveys the grand hall—titanic pillars, blood-red tapestries, sculptures of vanquished gods—then turns back. Her throat clicks like a sword being drawn. "They've grown, yes, as strong as you once were. You must come home soon, my love." She smooths her crimson gown and smiles, but her eyes glisten with worry.
He exhales, shoulders heavy. "I know, my heart. But my plans demand more demons." His voice strains with longing. Then his lips curve. "For now, let us savor this moment." He rises, strides to a long table heaped with steaming meat and frothing ale. Raising a goblet, he toasts inwardly: On days like this, even gods cannot stand against me.
Suddenly, his gauntlet rings with a shrill alarm. He freezes, eyes narrowing at the glowing sigil on his wrist. "Not now," he snarls. "Esmirelda, watch our children." Without another word, he storms out of the palace, vaults onto a midnight-black steed, and gallops into the night.
"These cursed monsters," he growls into the wind, riding toward an encampment of orcs, demons, vampires. "I will not let them harm my family." The camp's watchman—a hulking orc—blows a horn in alarm the moment Estingoth approaches. "So this is where you hide," Estingoth mutters. Then he launches himself off a crag, landing inches from the orc's snout. He slams his gauntleted fist into the creature's chest, siphoning its life force in a burst of crackling energy.
Roars erupt. Horde upon horde surges forward. Estingoth stands unbowed, channeling every stolen soul into his gauntlet. Limbs snap, screams choke off, and one by one his enemies collapse into glowing motes of power. Hours pass in a blur of fury until at last silence falls—but victory tastes bitter.
Back in the palace, Esmirelda's anxiety spirals. The hush of the throne room shatters with horns and war-crying—an invasion. Orcs, demons, vampires crash through the gates. "He's not here! He's fallen into our trap!" a blood-mad commander bellows. "Pillage, slay, leave nothing alive!"
Esmirelda flees from her throne, pressing her hand to her pounding heart. She slips into a hidden passage, heart hammering, and dusts her twin sons' chamber. Jeremiah and Joseph bolt upright. "Mother?" Joseph whispers, panic flickering in his eyes.
"Quick," she hisses, grabbing them both. "I'll hold them off. Run!" Bile rises in her throat as she presses a sword into Joseph's trembling hand and shoves him ahead.
Joseph stumbles through the winding corridor, heart in his throat, as the clash of steel grows closer. He reaches the exit—only to be shoved outside by unseen hands. His brother's anguished voice echoes through the door: "Go! Find Father! Tell him… I'm sorry." Then slams and locks the barrier.
Joseph pounds the wood with desperate fists. "Open! Jeremiah—please!" he howls as a fresh scream of agony shatters the air. Terror seizes him. He sprints blindly, leans into every corridor, looking for an escape from this living nightmare, but the palace's twisted halls seem endless.
Behind the barrier, Jeremiah fights his own war. Sword in one hand, shield in the other, he crashes into orcs pouring through the passage. He finds his mother—bloodied, kneeling amid six slain brutes. "Mother!" he cries, relief and dread choking him.
She barely registers him. Her gaze darts past his shoulder. "Where's Joseph? I told you to run!" she snarls, forcing herself upright. Panic warps her features. "Where is your brother?"
Jeremiah's breath hitches. "I locked him out—told him to find Father," he chokes. More orcs charge. Esmirelda shoves Jeremiah back, but his instincts fling him forward. A blade whistles past his head, slicing the air. "You should have listened!" she screams as darkness edges her vision.
Jeremiah plants his feet, heart steeled by grief and rage. He raises shield and sword. "I'll protect you like you protected us!" he roars, and lunges. Blow after blow, he drives the orcs backward, each strike singing with the memory of his father's lessons. But fatigue creeps in, limbs grow heavy, and too many enemies close in.
He closes his eyes and summons the power his father awoke in him. Heat coils deep in his chest. He pushes forward, shield ramming through goblin ranks. One orc tears his shield from his grasp—metal rips free in a screech.
Jeremiah steadies himself, breath shallow. The power surges upward. He opens his eyes and glows with silent intensity. "Mother, watch me," he murmurs.
A blade arcs through the flickering torchlight and buries itself in his heart. Time fractures—blood blossoms across his tunic. He feels each droplet drip slow as sorrow floods him. He opens his mouth to speak—"I'm sorry"—but a second sword hammers through his skull. Silence claims him.
"NO!" Esmirelda's scream shatters the corridor as she collapses, shattered by grief and exhaustion, and the palace plunges back into darkness.
Joseph runs until his lungs burn, the palace corridors blurring into a labyrinth of shadows. The screams—his mother's, his brother's—echo in his mind like daggers. Tears stream down his face as he stumbles through an archway and finds himself in the grand courtyard.
"There!" A guttural voice bellows. "The spawn of Estingoth!"
Three vampires descend from the battlements, their pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. Joseph's grip tightens on his sword, his father's lessons flooding back. "Stand your ground," Estingoth had taught him. "Fear is the first enemy you must defeat."
But he is only a boy, and his brother is dead.
The first vampire lunges. Joseph sidesteps, his blade catching the creature across its ribs. Black ichor sprays the courtyard stones. The second and third attack in unison, forcing him backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
"Your father's reign ends tonight," one hisses, fangs gleaming. "After we drink you dry."
Something breaks inside Joseph—grief transmuting into rage. Power surges through him, crackling along his skin like lightning. His eyes blaze with supernatural fire. "My father," he snarls, "is Estingoth."
The sword in his hand ignites with blue flame. He swings in a wide arc, cleaving through the vampires as if they were mist. Their screams pierce the night as they crumble to ash.
Joseph stands trembling, staring at his hands. This power—his father's legacy—burns through his veins. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough to save his family.
A battalion of orcs pours into the courtyard, their crude weapons raised high. Joseph backs away, his newfound power already waning. The blue flames flicker and die, leaving him clutching an ordinary sword once more.
"I can't fight them all," he thinks, desperation clawing at his throat. His gaze darts around the courtyard until he spots it—a small drainage tunnel beneath the eastern wall, barely large enough for a boy to squeeze through.
Joseph feints left, then dives right, rolling beneath a sweeping axe. The orcs howl in rage as he scrambles toward the tunnel. A crossbow bolt whistles past his ear, embedding itself in the stone with a crack. He doesn't look back.
The tunnel is tight and putrid, slick with moss and things he doesn't want to name. Joseph forces his body through, sword clutched awkwardly ahead of him. Behind, the frustrated roars of orcs too large to follow echo through the passage.
"Father," he whispers, tears mixing with the filth on his face. "I'm coming."
The tunnel opens into a ravine beyond the palace grounds. Joseph drags himself out, gasping for clean air. The night sky stretches above him, stars cold and distant as the gods his father once defied. In the distance, smoke rises from the village where Estingoth had gone hunting.
Joseph staggers to his feet. His limbs feel like lead, his chest hollow with grief. But his father's blood runs in his veins, and he will not surrender.
Dawn breaks as he reaches the outskirts of the burning village. Bodies litter the ground—orcs, demons, and vampires, their corpses twisted in death. His father's handiwork. Joseph follows the trail of destruction, hope kindling in his chest.
"Father!" he calls, voice breaking. "Father, it's Joseph! Mother and Jeremiah—they're—"
A blow from behind sends him sprawling. Joseph rolls onto his back, raising his sword in trembling hands. A massive demon looms over him, scales gleaming like obsidian, eyes burning with hatred.
"The son of Estingoth," it growls, lips peeling back from jagged teeth. "How fortunate. Your father slaughtered our brethren, but we shall have our vengeance through you."
Joseph slashes upward, but the demon catches his blade with inhuman speed. With a casual twist, it snaps the sword in two, then kicks Joseph in the ribs. Pain explodes through his body.
"Please," Joseph gasps, "my father—"
"Is far from here," the demon laughs. "Chasing shadows while we took his palace, his wife, and now his son."
More creatures emerge from the trees—the survivors of his father's attack, drawn together in their hatred of Estingoth. Joseph struggles to stand, but a clawed hand forces him back down.
"Bind him," orders the demon. "The master will want this one alive."
Rough hands seize Joseph, wrapping enchanted chains around his wrists. The metal burns against his skin, suppressing the power that had briefly awakened within him. He fights, kicks, bites—but he is one boy against a dozen monsters.
"Who is your master?" Joseph demands, spitting blood onto the ground. "Who dares challenge my father?"
The demon's laughter chills him to the bone. "You'll meet him soon enough, princeling. The one your father feared above all others."
They drag him to a waiting caravan—cages on wheels pulled by beasts that should not exist in this realm. Other prisoners huddle inside, their eyes vacant with despair. Joseph is thrown among them, the door slamming shut with finality.
As the caravan lurches forward, Joseph presses his face against the bars, watching his homeland recede into the distance. Somewhere out there, his father still fights, unaware that his family is shattered, his son captured.
"I'll find you again," Joseph vows silently, fingers tightening around a fragment of his broken sword. "And we'll make them pay for what they've done."
The demon driver cracks a whip, and the caravan picks up speed, carrying Joseph toward an unknown darkness where ancient enemies await. In the cage beside him, a hooded figure stirs.
"You're Estingoth's boy," whispers a raspy voice. "I can smell his power in your blood."
Joseph turns, wary. "Who are you?"
The figure pushes back its hood, revealing a face that might once have been beautiful before scars mapped its surface. "Someone who has waited centuries for revenge against your father," she says, eyes gleaming with bitter satisfaction. "And now, it seems the wait is finally over."