Thunderous, guttural roars echoed through the castle as Adramelech tore through his throne room, blood oozing from the wound in his abdomen. The rising sun peeked through the high windows, catching him in the eye, momentarily blinding him. With another outburst, The Beast swiped at his throne, leaving deep gashes in the stone. Catching a glimpse of a servant rushing past the open doorway, he bellowed to the guards. "Catch that thing! I need to kill something," knowing that the something could easily become one of them, the two quickly obeyed the order.

  "Damn it, Fate!" The king howled, "I thought the primordials couldn't interfere, how is that thing not banished for stopping our fight?" The guards returned to the throne room with the servant in tow, throwing him at Adramelech's hooves. The frail human cowered before the mighty beast, weeping softly. Taking up the lowly creature, Adramelech wasted no time in tearing out its guts with his bare hands, stringing the intestines on the floor. Ripping out the heart, he took a healthy bite, savoring the dense, firm meat. The scent of blood had his mouth watering. "Wine!" he demanded, discarding the carcass and finishing the heart in two more savory bites. Within seconds, he held a full-to-the-brim goblet of well-aged bloodwine.

  Three Friskalia rushed into the throne room, urging Adramelech to sit while they worked on his injuries. They chanted in Daemon as they focused their aura into their hands.

  "Shiba for jora,

  fris for pandel,

  ki why kits

  co mar zel vandel.

  For tome iska ka greavra,

  for token for riss.

  Que poliro, kio

  jar teraviss."

  Grinding his teeth, Adramelech clutched the armrests of his throne as the blood stopped seeping from his stomach. His hoof bounced erratically as he fought back a scream. Seeing his poor pain tolerance, the Friskalia slowed their pace to reduce his pain.

  The blood changed direction, receding into the wounds in his abdomen and back. Drenched in sweat, the world spinning, his goblet drained, the king labored to keep his breathing steady. He wanted to demand more wine, but knew if he opened his mouth, only screams would escape. He refused to appear weak in front of such lowly creatures.

  At last, one of the Friskalia dropped to his knees, drained of aura. With one less healer, the pain lessened exponentially as the process slowed. The remaining two managed to close the gash across his back and close the hole running through him before the second collapsed. With one left, Adramelech breathed easier, "More wine!" He demanded, finally able to speak again, though he had to strain to do so.

  The last Friskalia struggled to keep the spell up on his own, but the wounds were mostly healed. Seeing the healer struggling brought a smile to the king's lips. Sipping his blood wine, he waited for the demon to reach his limits, shoving him away seconds before collapse. "Get these pitiful creatures out of my sight!"

  His attending servant and the two throne room guards each took a Friskalia, dragging them to their chambers and leaving the king completely alone. With the pressure of performing temporarily off his shoulders, Adramelech slouched deep into his throne, tracing the thick, raised scar in his abdomen.

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  "What a sorry sight you are," an evocative, melodic voice whispered in the king's ear. Jumping from his throne, Adramelech turned, opening his clawed hand, ready to attack. No one was there.

  "What?" The voice whispered in his ear again, sending him spinning to face a still empty room. "Not enough strength to summon a weapon?" This time, the king froze. A hazy figure appeared before him. He found it difficult to look directly at the being, but refused to avert his gaze, doing his best to ignore the burning in his eyes and pounding in his skull.

  Weak from his battle and the healing ritual, Adramelech's body trembled under its own weight. "Who the fuck are you?"

  "You should know that, you called for me just a short while ago - quite loudly I might add. I came as quickly as I could."

  "Fate?" The king scoffed, "Lets say I believe you. Why is the Primordial not banished after interfering with the battle you decreed?"

  Haunting laughter echoed through the entire castle. Clenching his jaw, Adramelech tried to appear stoic and unaffected, like the bone-chilling sound did not shake him to his core. Fate sighed after their outburst, "I did say one of you would kill the other. I never said there would only be one battle. Besides, Dásos has a vested interest in the outcome. It seemed to me, you noticed the woman's aura. And her strange combination of powers."

  Outraged, the king stomped around the room, ready to throw another tantrum, but almost everything was already destroyed. "The prophet said a Hell-Child would attempt to overthrow me! You're lying to them now?" He failed his arms as he shouted at the deity.

  "Lying?" The out-of-focus figure crossed their arms and shifted their weight. "You should tread lightly, Adra, dear. At the moment, I don't plan on dictating the results, but if I did, well, I much prefer the young woman over you." The figure faded away to the tune of more deeply disquieting laughter, rattling the king's nerves.

  With the deity gone, Adramelech slumped into his throne. Shaken and anxious, he chewed on his claws as his knee bounced frantically. The guards returned, and the king straightened his posture, puffing out his chest, trying desperately to hide how weak he felt. But his eyes still darted to the numerous shadows, dancing in the firelight, his hand still rubbing the edge of his armrest, his teeth still clicking loudly as he ground them together.

  He needed to protect himself, to rebuild his castle's forces, but pulling from the Academy was not an option. No longer could he trust any of the demons associated with his sons or the fallen princes. Instead, he needed to find soldiers as detached from them as possible. It would be a difficult task. Given the Academy's reputation, many of the nobles from around the world sent their children to be trained there. It also performed most of the retraining for disgraced soldiers.

  Tapping his claws against the stone throne, he mumbled to himself. "The Grand Dukedoms will have to suffice." He closed his eyes, finally relaxing as he plotted his next move. The Grand Dukes always kept their forces well-trained and battle-ready, and rarely had to send soldiers to be retained. He could also determine if any of them were fit to take over the Horsemen's roles. "If not them, then perhaps their heirs," he smiled.

  Uncomfortable, he shifted his weight. Nauseating, stabbing pain ripped through his fresh scars. Lightheaded, the king tightly gripped his throne until the dizziness passed. His new army would have to wait. For now, he needed rest. Once he was healed enough to travel, he could begin rebuilding his army.

  Shiba for jora, fris for pandel, ki why kits co mar zel vandel. For tome iska ka greavra, for token for riss. Que poliro, kio jar teraviss. = Seal the wounds, heal the damage, a simple cost of pain most savage. For shorter time, a higher price. To recover, you must sacrifice.