The Daemon Capital: Champion of Psykoria, #3

By S.F. Claymore

Following his recent victories, Prince Snarmis is now among Psykoria's mightiest warriors, but is haunted by his deeds from a past battle. After fighting daemons for so long, the prince has developed an aversion to fighting his own kin. Then, men and women serving Argolax—the Daemon Archbishop—emerge from within the cities, butchering people in the daemon's name.

 

Knowing of Snarmis's problem, King Breetor forbids his son from aiding in the upcoming battles. But the king himself is still traumatised by what the Daemon Archbishop did to their home. He too is forbidden from riding out. With doubts and fears resurfacing, Snarmis's progress in proving himself has been undone, but fate has something else in store for the prince. Snarmis soon finds himself within Algatar—the Daemon Capital—and learns that there is a much deeper meaning behind the enemy's deeds. If Psykoria's heroes cannot end the unrest among their own people, the daemons will destroy them all.

 

With its greatest champions in such a state, can Psykoria defeat this new threat?

 

An epic tale with moral and socio-political themes, delving into the motivations of both hero and villain alike.

 

Get The Daemon Capital now and discover the source behind Psykoria's unrest—and its greatest enemy yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.F. Claymore
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224536375

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Licensing

First published in 2024 by S.F. Claymore

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Copyright © 2024 S.F. Claymore. All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious, other than those clearly in the public domain. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from the author.

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Maps by Karin Wittig.

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PROLOGUE

The gates of Algatar creaked open. Outside, green-cloaked bodies lay scattered about amidst destroyed siege towers and mantlets. It was time for the victors to make sport of the defeated. As ordered, not all of the besiegers had been slain. Daemons and indigo-clad men dragged their captives into the daemon-controlled city.

Argolax, the Grey Daemon Champion, emerged from his spire of black ice. The towering Daemon Archbishop stepped in front of the huge stone altar laid before the spire’s gateway, watching his followers work. The siege had been led by Lakor Lystak, Lord of Lyandor, but it hadn’t lasted long.

Argolax’s indigo-clad men dragged Lakor’s green-clad into the city. The captives who resisted were promptly beaten down and bound, while some were killed by the most impatient captors. A few less captives were no loss—they had more than enough.

Why take them alive? The sorcerer’s voice echoed in Argolax’s mind. These will not join our cause.

That is not why we’ve captured them, Sorcerer, Argolax replied with his own voyancy. My mortal followers may finally see the superiority of daemon-kind, but they are still feeble-minded mortals. They do not understand the intricacies of our master’s power, and lack the patience to wait for this world’s glorious demise.

Many won’t survive long enough to witness it.

Which is exactly why I must feed their faith, lest we lose their loyalty. Let them continue believing that we are creating more daemons. Let them believe they are part of something special. Then, they will be willing to give up their lives for us.

Captives were shoved before Argolax’s altar. One man was pushed into two imps’ grasp. When the short, thick-legged daemons grabbed the bald figure, the man shoved the first away and lashed out at the second. Goma—Argolax’s head disciple—flung out a hand and a stone struck the captive in the side of the head. The bald man fell to the soil, too dazed to resist again. The imps grabbed him by each shoulder, then flapped their small wings to lift him onto the altar to kneel where two nephilim awaited. These muscular daemon foot soldiers were strong enough to hold the captive still even as he resisted.

Lakor Lystak, Argolax said. I am honoured to have a Psykorian lord visit my home.

"Your home... bah!" Lakor spat, prompting one of the nephilim to punch him in the gut. He keeled over, coughing up blood. When the other nephilite lifted Lakor’s head, the lord ground his teeth, showing no fear even as Argolax gazed into his eyes.

You question my rule over Algatar? Argolax asked.

Algatar... isn’t yours... Lakor groaned. This city... its true duke... serves my family—the Lystaks... as they have... for generations...

I’m afraid the duke you speak of is long dead. But this grand city is not meant to serve a battle-hungry fool such as yourself. Under my rule, Algatar will serve as the capital of daemon faith, not just in Psykoria, but throughout the entire world.

Lakor was silent, but Argolax could sense his thoughts through voyancy—the comment about daemon faith would usually make Lakor laugh, but with the number of human followers Argolax had amassed, the lord could no longer find the humour in this false religion.

Argolax sent his words into Lakor’s mind: It is not all false, Lord Lakor. Much of what I tell them is true. The Fallen One does aim to create a better world, and he will use all the souls in this one—even yours—to create more daemon-kind. But that can only come after The Fallen One has taken this world. Only then will the souls in this universe be ripe for His taking.

Just kill me and get this over with, you fiend, Lakor said, hatred in his eyes.

If Argolax’s skeletal face could smirk, he might have. Instead, he turned towards Goma, who was flanked by several others in indigo robes with large, pointed hoods. At the daemon’s gesture, Goma stepped forward, brandishing a knife. Murius, another disciple, followed, carrying a pair of pincers.

Gothic notes echoed through the city from the enormous steam-powered organ at the spire’s right. There was no one playing it—only the vapula daemons inside it, emitting steam from their bodies which powered the instrument. These notes were played whenever Argolax was performing a sacrifice.

One of the nephilim forced Lakor’s jaw open, enabling Murius to shove the pincers in his mouth and pry out his tongue. When Lakor tried to pull away, the other nephilite punched him again. With Lakor winded, Murius pried out his tongue without resistance. Goma brought up his knife and started to cut. Unable to scream, Lakor groaned in anguish.

I don’t do this to everyone we execute, Argolax told him through voyancy. But you’re certainly the type to resist to your last breath. It’ll be better if you do not speak.

Once it was done, Argolax’s other followers cheered. When Goma hurled the severed tongue into the crowd, men and women squabbled in their attempts to catch it. The one who did held it aloft as if it were a trophy.

The music played again, and the nephilim shoved Lakor down so he lay on the altar’s surface. Blood spilled from his mouth. He struggled, but was overpowered by his daemon captors.

Lord Lakor! one of the other captives cried. He broke free from his captors and charged forward. He got only a few paces before members of the mob cut him down. His killers started chopping his body to pieces. They threw the severed parts high in celebration.

Enough! Argolax called out. The mob went immediately silent. That fool may have denied himself a meaningful death, but Lakor Lystak shall not suffer such an empty fate. He signalled to the bloodied nobleman on the altar. He, like so many others before him, shall be offered to The Fallen One. Both body and soul shall bring the master strength. His body will be offered to serve as another nephilite, to fight alongside us. His soul shall serve a greater purpose—to nourish the master and bring him one step closer to gaining the power he needs to create a perfect world.

Argolax turned his gaze back upon Lakor. While he spoke, the disciples had bound the man’s wrists and ankles using thorny ropes. Lakor’s arms were outstretched above his head, while his legs were straight.

Now, it is time! Argolax roared. Let us call upon The Fallen One to seize his sacrifice!

In contrast to their earlier savagery, everyone in Algatar started to chant in a united harmony. The disciples also joined in, but Argolax remained silent—he’d taught his followers that only mortals could perform the chant.

With the organ’s score matching the volume of the mob, Argolax raised his enormous staff. Its globe of swirling, multi-coloured energies fizzed with shadowy smoke. The smoke strengthened, spreading about the altar. The mob watched in awe as it cooled everything it touched. They believed that their words were summoning this power. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen it, but they were no less amazed even now.

Black icicles formed upon the altar. Lakor’s body turned pale from the cold, becoming completely encased in black ice, resembling a jet statue.

The music intensified, and Argolax addressed his audience once more. "Bear witness as the hands of The Fallen One take up this new sacrifice. Watch as you bring him one step closer to forging a new world!"

The ice grew stronger. While Argolax had conditioned his followers to believe that this was The Fallen One dragging their offering to Infernum, it was actually Argolax’s own cryomancy—ice magic—but the ice was black due to being conjured from Infernum, The Fallen One’s domain.

It was soon over. Argolax’s ice froze the top of the altar so deeply that Lakor’s body shattered. His remains could no longer be identified amidst the other pieces of black ice, which broke further into tiny shards.

When Argolax raised a hand, both the chanting and music finally stopped. The only sounds in Algatar now were the sobs of anguish and fear from the other captives.

It is done, Argolax said. But while the chapter of Lakor Lystak comes to a close, our tale has a long way yet to go. We have defeated those who tried to storm our capital. Now, we can finally expunge all who would blaspheme against The Fallen One! The Daemon Archbishop raised his arms high. Arm yourselves and prepare! Go forth and liberate Psykoria of all who would speak ill of our god! Let our crusade begin!

CHAPTER 1

INTERNAL WEAKNESS

"Here you are, sire," the servant said, politely directing Prince Snarmis to the sand ring ahead. It was time to train again.

The towering prince thanked him politely. Where the servant had once been intimidated by Snarmis’s size and status, now he bowed happily before departing.

The prince laid a hand on the hilt of his magic sword.

You seem especially motivated today, came the internal voice of the master swordsman, Gallas Berrhar. Silver Fang bore the spirits of five fallen heroes. So far, Snarmis had only heard the voices of two.

I must be, Snarmis thought back. My father still hasn’t fully recovered from what that daemon did to him.

That flashy scallywag? That was Ignis the Immolator, the eccentric pyromancer. It’s been a whole damn year! If he hasn’t recovered now, it means that daemon crippled him!

Snarmis exhaled as he leaned Silver Fang beside the rack of the wooden training swords but kept his hand on its hilt.

It’s not the physical wounds that plague him. He has been a different man since that daemon ravaged the keep. Please, let us not dwell on it any further.

Releasing Silver Fang’s grip, Snarmis instead took up a wooden sword of equal length. Wasting no more time, he turned and approached the training ring, remaining bare-chested as he always did, whilst most of the others wore padded breastplates.

Who’s first? he jested, smiling at the other warriors.

The others chuckled—they too remembered the days when Snarmis was a nervous wreck in these rings.

I will be first, Prince, said Gurdinus, a regular training partner. Facing someone as big as you will be good practice for fighting the larger daemons.

Snarmis smiled as he got into stance. Back when he was regularly losing in the salle, he used to take remarks about his size to heart, but since becoming one of Royal Sigrun’s best warriors, he enjoyed friendly verbal jousts with his fellow warriors.

The two warriors began circling one another. Fighting you will be like preparing for those little white gnats, Snarmis said, only without any flying.

Ha! Gurdinus remarked, feigning a strike. I’ve killed plenty of those!

Gurdinus’s weapon was a staff, used to simulate a spear. In his other hand was a circular shield—a typical combination for Psykorian soldiers. When Gurdinus struck, Snarmis hit the staff away with so much force it almost fell from his opponent’s grip. Snarmis’s next blow met Gurdinus’s shield, forcing the smaller warrior to a knee. Snarmis’s natural follow-up would be a knee to knock his kneeling opponent over, but the prince restrained himself to avoid seriously hurting his comrade-in-arms. Instead, he thrust his sword beneath his opponent’s raised shield.

Gurdinus rolled out the way, rose, and the pair circled each other again. You almost got me there, you half-nephilite, he taunted.

Indeed, with various unknown reports coming into Royal Sigrun about the true names of the different daemon species, most of Psykoria was already using the real names of the daemon types.

Whatever you say, hellmoth, Snarmis replied, and the pair clashed again.

*

The hours passed. Most of the warriors sat panting, covered in sand. Snarmis and the veteran commander, Korthun, were still in the centre of the ring, exchanging blows. Both showed signs of fatigue, but for different reasons. Though strong, Korthun was in his fifties, older than even King Breetor. As with Snarmis’s father, he was also a survivor from the War of Good and Evil thirty years past.

Snarmis’s fatigue came from fighting more rounds than anyone else today—he’d bested almost every other warrior present. His long, blond hair was now thick with sweat.

Snarmis struck Korthun’s staff aside, but his hardened opponent rammed with his shield. Snarmis stepped to his right and pulled on the shield, causing Korthun to stumble. The prince struck while his opponent was down, but Korthun rolled to break his fall, making Snarmis miss. The commander ended up at a safe distance, without his helmet.

The prince deflected Korthun’s next attack, then powered his opponent’s shield aside with a mighty blow. Snarmis could’ve easily followed through by whacking his opponent in the head before he had a chance to react, but without his helmet, the blow would cause Korthun some damage. Instead, in Snarmis’s hesitation, Korthun was able to strike first. His staff hit Snarmis hard in the ribs. Winded, the prince fell to a knee, and Korthun held the tip of his staff against his neck.

Victory... is mine... this time... Prince Snarmis, Korthun said, panting.

Snarmis smiled, catching back his own breath, before standing tall once more. Well fought.

The two locked forearms in the warrior’s embrace. It was apparent that Korthun was far more exhausted than Snarmis.

Shall we go again? Snarmis asked.

Though the prince was serious, Korthun took it in jest and chuckled. Tomorrow, sire. I’m done for today.

As Korthun stepped out of the ring, Snarmis scanned each of the other exhausted warriors. The only one he hadn’t faced today was the Teal Crusader, Malus Streyer, who stood alone in the far corner, watching the latest bout. Streyer often practised alone, his skills transcending anyone else in the city, but he accepted challenges whenever anyone wanted to test themselves against him. Snarmis had only done so once, and, though he was bested, he learned much about himself, and how his emotions could both aid and hinder him in battle.

The prince wasn’t satisfied ending this session with a loss that only came about by his hesitation. He approached Streyer, who raised a hand.

Not today, Prince, the Teal Crusader said.

The salle went silent; it was unusual for Streyer to turn down a challenge. Snarmis wanted to question him, but his tongue caught in the back of his throat.

Instead, Streyer walked past, lowering his voice. We both know you could’ve won that last bout. I’ll not spar with someone who has already lost to himself.

As Streyer left, he bowed to another figure, watching in the doorway.

Snarmis, King Breetor called. Come. I would have a word. The king wore his council attire: royal red robes and a wolf-fur cloak. Diplomacy had kept him from today’s training.

Yes, Father, Snarmis said, quickly brushing the sand off his chest and arms. Rushing towards the king, he tried to sheath his training sword as if it were Silver Fang. Realising his mistake, he hastily collected his magical weapon, then followed his father into the hallway.

Breetor wheeled round. What was that?

The prince frowned. What, Father? I was training with the others.

Breetor exhaled. I watched your last few bouts. You showed too much hesitation whenever you had a chance to strike. Too many of your bouts went on longer than they should have. You even lost when you had the upper hand.

Yes. With war upon us, I was trying my hardest not to be too rough, and—

Stop, Breetor interrupted. When the city is preparing to fend off an enemy, yes, we do lighten our training so not to hurt one another, but that isn’t the cause of your hesitation.

Snarmis stood dumbfounded—as far as he knew, that was the reason, but his father’s words caused him to question himself.

Sighing, Breetor signalled to a nearby bench, and the pair sat.

This is a new development, Snarmis, the king continued. Back when you were still trying to prove yourself, you never hesitated.

Are things not different now? Snarmis replied. I know my own strength, and my capabilities. Have I not shown adequate improvement since I took up Silver Fang and defeated Gassar?

This didn’t start after Gassar—it started after we defeated Randeth.

Snarmis thought back to that more recent battle, when former Archmage Randeth led an army of rebels in an attempt to overthrow Breetor and seize the crown for himself. Though these events didn’t resonate in Snarmis’s memories as strongly as the more personal ordeal against Gassar, there was still one moment that haunted him. It was the first time he’d had to fight against other men as opposed to his previous battles against daemons. In an attempt to minimise the bloodshed, Snarmis accepted a challenge from the enemy commander. However, it was a trap to lure him away from his own troops, and Snarmis had to fight his way through scores of enemies. Fortunately, he had gained a unique sense warning him about all incoming danger. If it hadn’t been for this, they would’ve surely cut him down. Snarmis eventually caught up to the enemy commander and slew him, watching the man’s eyes as he died.

I see, Snarmis said. Ever since I killed that man, I... I’ve become more aware of the horrors of killing my own kin.

And it has changed you. You are now hesitant to hurt your fellow man, even in practice when you wield a wooden sword.

Snarmis looked down at his palms. I... was not aware of it.

Breetor’s voice grew harsh. You must be rid of it.

Snarmis met his father’s gaze once more. Must I? It only affects me during practice.

No, Snarmis. The fact that you had not identified this problem until today is a sign that it isn’t merely your concern for your training partners. Deep down, you don’t want to kill another man again. You hesitated, and it cost you a bout. If the same happens in a real fight, it will cost you your life.

I won’t let that happen.

Breetor cursed, making Snarmis wince. It is not deliberate, Snarmis. You cannot control how it happens. You must get it out of your head! Do not forget what those daemons have done to our home! We can’t let them get away with this! Breetor’s hand slammed against the wall, frightening a passing maid.

Snarmis watched his father pant. The king often had such outbursts—ever since the Grey Daemon Champion ravaged the Great Keep.

Breetor slouched over, his head lowered. "We must march on Algatar. Make that daemon pay. A being like that cannot be allowed to roam our realm... to roam my realm."

Snarmis placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, but Breetor quickly brushed it away.

It isn’t just daemons we fight anymore, Snarmis, the king continued. It is just as it was during those times—the War of Good and Evil. Don’t you dare let those traitors kill you.

He stormed away: where to, Snarmis didn’t intend to find out.

Instead, the prince looked down at his hands. Everyone in the city was trying to help Breetor regain his composure. However, if what the king said was true, it may be just as important for Snarmis to conquer his own internal weakness. If he couldn’t, would it really cost him his life?

CHAPTER 2

THE FANATICS’ CRUSADE

The door smashed open. Indigo-clad attackers raced into the room, bellowing savagely, but a powerful ward shoved them back the way they’d come.

So, it is here too, Raina growled.

Mors did not respond, but conjured black mist in the doorway to engulf the attackers. As it touched them, the attackers screamed and crumpled, quickly rendered into lifeless husks.

Raina swiftly shredded the remaining ones with shadowy tendrils, then asked, Is it already spreading through the city?

Mors’ head bobbed in agreement.

Roars of bloodlust echoed throughout the city of Sparl. It hadn’t been an army; the attackers had come from within. Men and women who’d been ordinary, peaceful civilians for all their lives in this city, suddenly emerged in indigo cloaks and horned bronze helms, attacking anyone who wasn’t one of them. The guards were caught unawares, cut down while drinking in their barracks.

This wasn’t the first time Mors and Raina had witnessed a city fall this way. Throughout the last year, they’d been spying on Algatar during Lord Lakor’s siege, and sending reports back to King Breetor. One of their more prominent roles had been intercepting any shax—messenger daemons which only Mors could detect due to his enhanced senses. However, shortly after the besiegers’ defeat, Argolax had sent out hundreds of shax at the same time. The pair could not follow them all.

Instead, the pair went to Sonirtor—the closest city that wasn’t held by daemons. Attacks had erupted before they arrived, so they diverted to Sparl, feeling it was less likely to be targeted than Lyandor. Sparl had been safe at first, so they rented a room at this inn. Now the same riots had emerged.

Raina was about to go into the corridor, but Mors stopped her. More indigo-clad rioters emerged from the other rooms, laughing and bellowing, throwing around the slain occupants’ severed body parts. Seeing their own fallen brethren, they sobered up and spotted Mors and Raina.

As the mob charged towards the doorway, Mors created a ward. The rioters slammed into it, and Raina pressed her palms on the floor. Shadows spread beneath the attackers, thrusting up as black spikes. Several of their foes were impaled.

Another ward pushed against Mors’ barrier—a mage was among the enemy. Without raising his eyes, Mors’ greater senses detected the indigo-robed woman standing at the top of the stairway, conjuring her own cerebromancy to counter his. He pushed his ward out, shoving the other attackers away. As they fell to the floor, his path to the enemy mage was cleared. Mors’ voyancy slammed into her mind. The woman resisted for a moment, but her power paled in comparison to his. She screamed as Mors fried her brain. Her body toppled backwards, stumbling down the stairwell behind.

The remaining rioters rose again. Raina’s shadows struck down more of them, and the rest tried to flee. Mors thrust out another ward just as their fleeing foes reached the stairs, causing them to tumble down. Unwilling to show these traitors mercy, he rifted—displacing himself from one position and appearing in another. Materialising at the top of the stairway, Mors scanned his opponents. One of the rioters had broken her neck from the fall, but the others groggily rose and continued their retreat. Mors picked them off with fireballs, blasting steaming holes through their bodies or setting them aflame, to wail around in panic before burning to death.

Raina caught up to Mors. Couldn’t wait for me, huh?

Mors remained silent. Raina was always cracking such remarks in the thick of danger, perhaps deflecting from her own dark secrets.

Mors levitated down the stairway while Raina walked. They recognised some of the dead—the innkeeper, various staff, and the inn’s guards. He knelt beside the body of one of the rioters. Mors recognised her too—one of the inn’s maids.

Raina approached a window, conjuring shadows to darken her surroundings so the rioters outside wouldn’t notice her. Mors already knew what was happening; the rioters weren’t just butchering their victims, they were making sport of the remains, crying out to The Fallen One as a supreme god. This was definitely Argolax’s doing.

Does it bother you, Raina? Mors asked her through voyancy. To see that man can be just as savage as the daemons? That they can kill in The Fallen One’s name?

We already know what kind of influence the daemons have on men, she replied. Human or daemon, all I want is to bring down anything associated with The Fallen One.

Even if we fight them now, the city will fall.

I know. There are too many for us to handle alone. If only the guards had been able to hold off longer. Raina turned towards Mors, her face expressionless. What now?

We get out of here.

Which way?

The enemy occupy the towers and walls—they needed greater numbers to bring down the guards. The streets are safer, so reaching the gate will be easiest.

I assume we rift from there? It’ll be too difficult to open the gate with all this chaos.

Without responding, Mors approached the door, which hung on one hinge. It was night, but, being shadowmancers, both he and Raina could see clearly. Even so, Mors rarely used his eyes anymore anyway—his voyancy and greater senses were far more reliable.

The street was wide. The rioters were spread about in mobs, killing anyone they saw, destroying and defacing anything nearby. One mob was setting fire to a parked wagon, another was throwing and catching their victims’ body parts as if it were a game, and a third was trying to break through a boarded house. Each group was too preoccupied with their own activity to notice the shadowy pair.

There are people in that house, Raina said. We should help them.

When Raina tried to go, Mors grabbed her arm. Though Raina was reluctant to follow him, he gestured for them to head in the opposite direction, avoiding any mobs.

Mors? Are we just going to leave them to die?

Before they broke into our room, I looked into one’s mind. It is the same as Sonirtor—their objective is not to slaughter the city, but take over. Argolax intends to spread his religion among these people.

So, these attacks aren’t razes—it’s a crusade?

Mors nodded. Unless we are able to stop the entire attack, eliminating the smaller contingents will not have much effect. The civilians who would fight back have already fallen. The ones remaining will be subjected to the traitors, but we must leave their liberation to a larger force capable of bringing down the entire contingent.

We’re going straight to the king? What if the same happens at Royal Sigrun?

All the more reason we should go there.

The street narrowed into an alley. The path ahead was blocked by a mob kicking a pair of victims. Raina placed a palm on the walls at either side of her. Shadows spread towards the mob, again sharpening into spikes, stabbing the attackers. Their bodies dropped lifeless beside their balled-up victims. Mors walked right past the scene, while Raina crouched to check on the victims. The couple were already dead. She left them and quickly caught up to Mors.

When the alley widened into a street, the pair rounded another bend, avoiding other groups of attackers. Mors sensed someone noticing them. Before the rioter could tell his peers, Mors fried his mind. The man fell down bleeding and the others turned confusedly to his corpse, but Mors and Raina remained in the shaded underpasses and continued past unseen.

They rounded another corner and finally spotted the gate. More mobs lined the way leading to it, but the road was wider than the previous streets. Trees and houses had been set afire. Mors and Raina conjured shadows to make themselves difficult to spot even amidst the firelight.

They advanced unnoticed, past a mob which had cornered a cowering family. They intimidated their victims with jeers and threats, but held off from killing them. Though the family might not be in danger of physical harm, Raina hurled shards of shadow into the bullies, felling each one.

As if sensing what was on Mors’ mind, she responded, "Yes, that was necessary."

They advanced several more paces, then Mors stopped before a large fountain. Several bodies lay in it, staining the water red.

We’re close enough now? Raina asked.

Without speaking, Mors took Raina’s hand, and the pair disappeared in a puff of smoke.

*

A safe distance from the city, Mors and Raina stood amidst a pile of boulders between the roads south of Sparl. From here, they could see not only the city, but the distant sights of Mornarn, Lyandor, Sonirtor, and even Royal Sigrun. Out of the four cities, Royal Sigrun was the only one without fires rising within. While they had already known about Sonirtor’s fall, it did come as a surprise to see flames in Mornarn and Lyandor.

How could they have taken Lyandor? Raina asked. It is one of Psykoria’s greater cities. Even if Lord Lakor has fallen, the city would still have its defences.

Mors wondered the same thing. He sat cross-legged between the rocks and entered meditation, letting his senses spread.

Mornarn was closest, so he looked there first. The rioters hadn’t just butchered the guards as they had in Sparl and Sonirtor, but even managed to break into the duke’s manor and slaughter the nobility.

Mors’ senses spread to Lyandor. Things here were different. The city had not been attacked from within. All the traitors who had once dwelled in Lyandor had already revealed themselves when Lord Lakor’s men tried to storm Kettorn last year. Instead, the city was under siege by a daemon army, and at its head was a towering beast Mors was seeing for the first time.

Though mostly humanoid, this daemon was around twenty feet tall, its flesh red save for patches of blue and green on its chest and the inner sides of its limbs, with white on its back and outer sides of the limbs. Black spikes grew along the sides of its arms and legs. Its head was bald at