The walls of the Obsidian Dungeon were never silent. Even with no attack the fortress still
pulsates with magic by the will of its mistress.
Naya sat at the head of the long table of black glass, listening to her captains arguing. They
called it a meeting. She called it a waste of perfectly good time.
"—using your insignia, General," one of the captains barked, slamming a clawed hand on the
table.
"A dozen lesser demons, setting villages on fire! Humans think we ordered it!"
Naya swirled the wine in her glass, crimson liquid glinting in the dim light.
"Do I look like a demon who concerns herself with idiots seeking attention?"
The captain faltered. "Well... no, but—"
"But nothing." Her voice sliced through the room—calm, yet carrying that quiet edge that
made even the most feared demon stop.
"They are worms pretending to be dragons. Let the humans chase them. The fewer idiots in both realms, the better."
Another captain, smaller, cleared his throat.
"Forgive me, General, but the humans have begun moving troops toward the frontier. Their princess attended the council herself."
At that, Naya's eyes flicked upward, red irises gleaming. "The princess?" she repeated, tone
cool but curious.
"What business does a silk-wrapped royal have with demon affairs?"
"She seems... invested," the captain offered carefully. "Reports say she has been requesting
detailed accounts of you."
A faint smile ghosted across Naya's lips—cold, humorless. "Of me? How flattering. Perhaps
she plans to frame my portrait before declaring war."
The room tensed. They never knew when she was joking. To be fair, neither did she.
Her attention drifted to the maps sprawled across the table—inked lines marking territories,
human encampments, and demonic strongholds.
The areas under her command glowed faintly with a black sigil: a rose surrounded by fire.
She'd designed it centuries ago, never imagining it would one day be stolen by lesser
creatures.
She lifted the glass and drank. The wine was rich and dark, laced with the faint tang of
brimstone.
"If the humans want a fight, they'll get one. If they want peace, they'll get silence. Either way, I'll sleep the same."
"You intend to ignore the pretenders, then?" asked one.
"For now. They amuse me. That's all."
Her captains exchanged uneasy glances but nodded. No one argued with the Black Flame
and kept their heads intact.
Naya leaned back in her chair, the long braid of her black hair sliding over her shoulder. The
golden embroidery of her uniform caught the dim glow of the torches, each spark reflecting
against her rings.
To anyone else, she might have looked regal—almost serene. But those who served under
her knew serenity was simply the stillness before her firestorm.
It was late. Even the dungeon had quieted. Outside the fortress windows, magma rivers
slithered through obsidian plains, painting the horizon in infernal red.
No human would dare approach at this hour.
Or so she thought.
A rhythmic knock echoed through the chamber doors. A lesser guard, armored and
trembling, entered. "General Blackwell! She's back!"
Naya didn't move. "She?"
"The masked girl! The one who keeps raiding the lower floors! She's—she's already beaten
through the north wing again!"
The captains muttered curses. One of them groaned. "Not again..."
Naya tilted her head, expression unreadable. "The masked woman," she repeated, as
though tasting the words. "How many times has it been now?"
"Every week," the guard squeaked. "Sometimes twice!"
"Yes," Naya said slowly, "like clockwork." She set her glass down with a soft clink. "And every
week, she leaves before reaching my floor."
Silence followed. A few demons exchanged glances, clearly wondering why their general
hadn't vaporized the intruder already.
One finally dared to ask, "Should we... stop her this time?"
Naya tapped her fingers on the table. "No. Let her be."
The guard blinked. "Let her—?"
"She never crosses the last threshold," Naya interrupted, eyes glinting faintly with
amusement—or perhaps boredom.
"And she cleans up my dungeon quite nicely. Fewer pests for me to deal with."
The captains hesitated, unsure whether to laugh. None did.
"General," said her lieutenant cautiously, "if she is truly human, she's the first to reach so
deep into our domain in centuries."
"Then she's either very brave," Naya said, rising smoothly from her seat, "or very stupid."
Her voice carried a faint amusement.
She walked to the window, the floor lighting beneath each step as the dungeon itself acknowledged her presence. The molten rivers outside reflected in her crimson eyes.
She wasn't sure why she found the intruder so interesting. Most adventurers died before
reaching the fourth gate.
Yet this one—small, fast, cloaked in light—cut through her demons as though she belonged
among them. She never spoke, never lingered, and always left just before reaching Naya's
door. It had become almost a ritual.
Every week, the same rhythm. Every week, the same outcome.
Her fingers brushed the sill. "Let her pass until she tires of it. If she wishes to challenge the
Black Flame, she'll do it properly. Until then—she's a distraction. A convenient one."
"Yes, General," the lieutenant murmured.
Naya turned back to the table. "That will be all. I've no interest in chasing tonight."
They saluted, retreating quickly, grateful to escape her presence. When the doors shut, the
chamber fell into a heavy silence .
She poured herself another glass of wine and sank into the shadows near the hearth, the
flames curling in deference.
The dungeon responded to her moods like a living creature—doors sealing, torches dimming, the stone itself humming faintly.
For a long moment, she said nothing, only listening to the low hiss of fire and the faraway
echoes of battle in the lower levels. Then, faintly, she smiled again.
"Every week," she murmured to herself. "And still she runs."
Her smile faded as quickly as it came. Sentiment was poison. She wasn't here to admire
humans—especially not one who thought sneaking into her dungeon was a hobby.
Naya lifted her glass in mock salute toward the ceiling. "Enjoy your little victories, masked
one," she said softly.
"They won't last forever."