New Prologue for Fury Feeding, Second Edition

Hello dark romantasy lovers, I have a Fury Feeding, second edition treat for you.

While I work on new chapters for Saffa’s Institute years, I’m pleased to share this new prologue and hope you find it enjoyable. However, if you’re under 18 years old, please close this browser tab immediately, as it’s meant for adults and rated MA. 😈😈😈

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Year 19,290 Yava

Erebus, capital of Navia’s Underworld

Brimstone broiled Ishethra’s nakedness, soothing her aching sinews as she stopped at the establishment carved inside the skeletal eye of Vritra the Devourer, slain eons ago by Demvora and her hosts. The entrance pulsed with the flesh of patrons who’d visited to experience penultimate pain. Black skin walls writhed with blood-vessels strewn like vines on a cottage. A neon sign above the door read Lupanar of Lubricious Lust, stolen centuries ago by Alonka from an advanced civilization, buzzing brighter with each scream of ecstasy reverberating inside.

Normally, Ishethra could gate to her destination, but the null zone protecting Erebus blocked such measures. She caught her breath, sniffed succulent sulfur, then stretched her wings, sore from the three-day pilgrimage. Fates willing, she’d forge eggs, becoming the first Navian to conceive a child. Tariq, her Paramour^[1], had stayed home managing Nightwind’s affairs. They’d spent part of their honeymoon here; he wasn’t missing much.

Ishethra’s prior ten visits had resulted in failure as she experimented on herself alone in the Maw, leaving as a broken woman. Swallowing her pride, she’d recruited help this time, hoping it would be enough. After tapping a bone, flesh squished open from the door’s center, and she stepped through.

Zelene, high priestess of Nightwind, followed, cheeks flushed as she shielded her eyes. Her black silk dress sparkled, blending with her robust frame. Dragon wings pierced the slits in her attire, their dark membrane stretching taut over spars of bone-white. They cracked open to their majestic breadth, then swept forward to enfold her like a judge’s robe as her onyx tail coiled behind. Ram horns curved from her forehead to her temples, centered by silver bone spikes jutting, framing a mass of rainbow hair, bound in a braid, swinging by her thighs. She stooped, ducking under the doorway to enter.

Alonka, nakedly pale as the day she birthed from a magic mushroom in the backyard of this place, gazed around with childlike wonder, a blonde mantle of hair blowing freely to her feet, parting her white-feathered wings as her silver tail curled around her leg. Puck, her simulacrum^[2], stood beside her. Holding hands, they floated behind.

Ishethra trusted this inner-circle of friends with her soul, the only other mavki^[3] in existence.

The door’s flesh sealed behind with a wet ripple as a smirk touched Ishethra’s lips. The Lupanar, one of her more sophisticated creations. At her feet, the floor thrummed as a collective heartbeat of one thousand pleasures and pains. The lobby spread out before the party, a grand chamber of diamond-encrusted crimson with a semicircle counter of fire helmed by a naga receptionist with piercings on each of her four aqua nipples who assisted mortals six at a time, sending them down a different hallway based on their desires.

The air was thick with perfumed sweat, exotic pollens, spilled spirits, and screams. This was a proper temple, and Ishethra was its goddess, this place a gift for those who survived the plunge down the abyss and braved the trek through Erebus seeking new experiences or a respite from the trials of life.

Like prior visits, she strolled down a lengthy bone hallway that dripped with acid, each drop devoured by grubs, shimmering worms zooming along the floors, gobbling up all messes.

First, the open alcoves, for common rabble, entwined with assorted demons and mortals. Kissing, groping, fucking, the usual stuff. All feasting with no restraint.

Boring.

Artistry lay beyond the junction, reserved for discerning eyes. Her gaze fell upon the first eyeball suspended in a curtain of blood. She leaned close, transported as if she stood inside while Alonka and Puck chattered excitedly at other eyeballs, punctuated by Zelene’s predictable sigh.

A purple room showed in her mind with another naga; they ran the place efficiently, deriving equal joy from servicing their patrons, especially when they moaned. A ring of five men and one woman, stripped and strapped to six racks of polished bone. The naga paused, gazing at the door. “Seductress of souls, may I?”

These distractions aren’t helping with Saffa’s conception, Zarvek chided in her consciousness. Get to the Maw, grow eggs, and raise Saffa to annihilate Bratgon and its defilers. What else matters?

Beyond the souls Ishethra had consumed over millennia, when she birthed from lava in the Underworld, she found numerous souls inside her who’d been previously imprisoned inside Demvora. Their best theory was that something about Demvora’s banishment by Netherseal mixed with the magic of Ishethra’s birth, a unique threesome between the deities Felicity, Daz, and Brigid, had done it. She’d asked the souls if they wished for freedom to live new mortal lives, but most had stayed inside her, relishing the extraordinary immortal life she led, each feeling the sensations of her body, seeing through her eyes.

You speak wisdom, warlord. But won’t you enjoy these momentary delights with me?

As Zarvek frequently did, he grumbled and brooded. Fine. Make it quick.

Drenaglen’s first warlord, one Demvora had aided before taking him as consort, often gave orders. Occasionally, Ishethra complied, especially during conflicts, where his merciless rage joined with her hunger for freedom, pushing all hesitation aside.

“You may,” Ishethra whispered to the naga. The snake-demons had always respected her.

The demoness employed her implements, from barbed whips slashing bloody trails, to metal hooks and clamps denying pleasure, to a molten feather that did anything but tickle. Each participant tried to outdo the others with their noisy reactions.

A trickle of heat made its way to Ishethra’s hips as she wandered to the next opening and peered at the eye. An ifrit, his night-skin smoldering, held a vila up against a wall by her neck, her wrists chained to the wall. Blooming nightshade flowers crawled her skin, a vine invading her throat; she gagged. Deadly to mortals, the released toxins only caused hallucinations in this place—the wards, fueled by the patrons’ lust, prevented death. Usually.

“You’ve returned,” the demon remarked in his rich voice, glancing back with his smoking visage. “Fallen Lord.” The vila whimpered while the demon stroked her cheeks with a clawed finger, charring her flesh, which smoothed over after a few seconds. Burned sugar and soil scents wafted as steam hissed from his back. He angled himself so Ishethra could see his blazing cock, a fiery trunk. An acknowledgment of her presence, a request for permission.

When Ishethra ruled the Underworld for two and one-half millennia, no demon in Erebus could force themselves on another being without consent, a crime punished by Ishethra personally. Her reign ended when she left abruptly. The ifrits, more than the other factions, had taken her departure poorly. But this one seemed nostalgic.

“Granted,” Ishethra murmured to the ifrit. “Do something … unexpected.”

The ifrit fully combusted like a coiled cobra, then gradually sheathed himself inside the vila. She moaned as a cloak of fire burst from her skin; blood rained from the ceiling, the grubs feasting.

“Well done,” Ishethra praised, her spine tingling. “Well done.”

“What do you see?” Alonka asked in her ear, Puck in the other.

“For my eyes only,” Ishethra teased. Could Tariq maintain his elemental form of frost long enough to do a similar trick? She strolled to another eye. One more wouldn’t hurt. A petite maiden sat in a rocking chair with a one-armed oni that dwarfed her, laying in her lap, scarred red skin furred and bare, legs and arms like tree-trunks, his body’s weight altered by the magic of this place. She sang a lullaby, stroking the demon’s beard. His trembling eased, breaths slowing as he went in and out of sleep. Onis had served as Ishethra’s thugs and Demvora’s prior. They obeyed and protected the mistress of the Underworld without question, throwing themselves at horrors few demons could ever dream. All that changed when Ishethra left and the glutton Balor took control. The lost arm reeked of his hunger. Reeked of the rot of Erebus, a leadership void left by Ishethra’s departure.

The sight evoked fiery tears from Ishethra as she stood. This place, at least, still served a higher purpose, feeding her intellectual lust, granting morsels of healing to the downtrodden. Ishethra vowed to herself: Balor’s days were numbered—the Underworld needed a new ruler. Haldra, a darkling, might work, if she proved her loyalty. A serious if.

Zelene, eyes glued to the floor, inquired, “You saw something different in the last door. What was it?”

“A one-armed oni assuaged by a mortal woman.” The others followed as Ishethra strode to a platinum door at the hallway’s end, adorned with a flaming phoenix emblem. She couldn’t proceed with the conception ritual until the oni was healed. “Zelene, after you restore the oni’s lost arm, tell him to seek haven in Drenaglen. Then join us in the Maw.”

The Maw, a circular blood-stained pit lined with tips of Vritra’s fangs, breathed with Ishethra, each inhale infused with sulfur and the oily rot of drowned things, the cloying perfume of the Lupanar above a fine aftertaste.

Cold stone caressed her back as Maelthra’s chains tightened around her, the links hissing like lava against her flesh, the barbs sunk deep, grinding against bone as they siphoned her ki. These chains were just the storm’s front.

When Ishethra couldn’t move, it was time. “I’m …” she whispered in trepidation at the rare moment of vulnerability. “Ready. For Saffa, my future daughter, I’m ready.”

To solve the conception problem, Zelene had suggested using the chains of Ishethra’s former lover, an ancient lich ruling Norembel’s enclave, to sap her Navian essence, making her almost mortal for long enough to sprout an egg or two. Maelthra loaned the chains for a steep price: one-ton of magical reagents.

With a steady hand, Zelene, lit by skull braziers hanging, held a blue potion to Ishethra’s lips. “Drink from this cup,” the mavka murmured. “Every drop, or we’ll do it all over again.” This potion, infused with moly^[4], served two purposes, granting Saffa blue skin, a shade Ishethra and Tariq thought would be lovely, while giving Saffa the strength and cold immunity of a cecaelias water demon.

As Ishethra downed the cocktail, the fires of creation ransacked her throat. She tried to spit it out, but Zelene clamped her jaw shut with a forceful grip. When Ishethra swallowed, Zelene released, then Ishethra’s screams met the chorus from above as her stomach swelled with sickness. To ensure the ritual’s success, Ishethra had commanded Zelene not to use an iota of her healing magic, much to Zelene’s displeasure.

Puck, Alonka’s medical assistant, approached, tapping the tip of an oversized syringe brimming with barbarian blood. This cocktail would grant Saffa the ability to use her rage like Drenaglen’s warriors, granting her immense might. Alonka had run computations, theorizing with enough training, Saffa could throw tanks, or more. Only her wrath’s bounds would limit her power. In Ishethra’s agonized state, she didn’t notice Puck plunging the syringe’s contents into her thigh.

Alonka tossed Hex, another solution to the conception problem, between her hands, a cosmic probability die Ishethra had helped her craft from seven lucky relics. It could conjure fantastic effects or predict outcomes, and had helped the twins find their true love’s soul twice. If the die showed success, Alonka would perform ovum-extraction surgery with her telekinesis. “Hex, conjure a gender reveal for this wild conception project.” She cast the die next to Ishethra’s leg on the stone slab.

As Hex bounced around, Ishethra strained her neck, groaning from her grated nerves, witnessing three sides: Troll Teen … Prenatal Paperwork Purgatory … Corgi Cataclysm.

“For the love of Yava,” Ishethra cursed, “what have I gotten myself into?”

Alonka, Puck, and Zelene gathered around the die as it settled, revealing the top face: It’s a mavka! A geyser of pink glitter erupted from the die, showering the chamber. Puck clapped with joy as Zelene allowed a smile to grace her lips.

“Here we go.” Alonka pulled a petri dish from her hair, setting it on the slab. “Ish, I’m going to use my mind to locate the eggs and extract them … it’ll hurt, but I’ll try to go fast. Let me know when you feel them first.” Zelene and Puck gripped Ishethra’s hands to offer their support.

Two shocks stung from Ishethra’s hips to her abdomen, cold enough to burn as her belly tightened. A compulsion to nurture life bloomed in her heart.

Eggs.

It almost felt anticlimactic. Four millennia ago, Bannik had foretold Ishethra would conceive a daughter in his drunken prophecy, one that would be a Savior.

On her twenty-third birthday, eternal damnation awaits, the little man had promised. Yet her salvation may abate, if unaided she remains resigned to her transformative fate!

Ishethra had dismissed him as a fool until that fateful day she left the Underworld on a whim. A day where Bannik’s drivel solidified into inevitability as she pursued a greater meaning to her eternal life. Only she and the drunkard knew when Saffa’s mavka essence would emerge. And she couldn’t tell Tariq or future Saffa, much as she wanted to, because Bannik promised calamity if she revealed any part of the prophecy to anyone. By design, Saffa would grow up with minimal knowledge of Navians, without knowing Ishethra’s secrets. All that would change on her twenty-third birthday.

After this next move in Ishethra’s game, another would follow as Saffa grew mighty into Nightwind’s hammer to smash Bratgon’s machines. But the greater purpose lurked in the depths of Ishethra’s mind: Saffa, the first hybrid, would breach Heaven’s gates, bamboozling Demvora’s blood contract of mutual annihilation while ruining Josnel Soneph and his celestial kingdom. The other Circles of Hell would topple like dominoes.

Such grand designs, but Ishethra was getting carried away—one thing at a time. She clenched her teeth and dragged in a breath. For you, Saffa Nightwind, I’ll gladly bleed. “I feel them. You may begin.”

Hands on Ishethra’s pelvis, Alonka plunged her mind’s tendrils into Ishethra’s flesh, like a swarm of needles digging into her nerves.

Ishethra wailed with pleasure; the Maw echoed her cry.

Year 19,291 Yava (one year later)

Tenebres, capital of Nightwind

Josnel Soneph wore white, standing in a hotel. Black marble pillars leaned like weary giants, gaslight chandeliers sputtered against their chains, and wards carved into the stone walls whispered, paling against the radiance Josnel remembered blazing in Heaven, his forsaken dominion for his sabbatical here on Yava, his pet project. Primitive, all of it. Nightwind especially was a relic, one he might find spelunking in archaic ruins.

The lobby bustled with Voraxmor’s Twelve and zealous members of the religion, along with several other religions, all waiting for this conference on religious unity to begin. Too bad for them. Robes swept across cracked floors, attendants hurried to and fro, and banners showing white circles snaring blue circles tinted with just a hint of red drooped from the rafters, overshadowing other religious symbols. Heaven. Capturing a big bang like a ship in the bottle. Ingenious.

Roland, Josnel’s unwitting puppet prophet, stood at the center of it all, smiling with the ease of one certain of his own anointing. The other ten high priests hung on his words, blind to the truth. No one noticed Josnel watching from the corner. No one knew who he truly was.

They think me their brother. They adore Roland as their prophet. But they know nothing. I’m the Archangel of Heaven, the sickle that cuts chaos.

His gaze slid out a grand window toward the city beyond, zooming in with his advanced optics on a stone castle. Ishethra’s royal suite window filled his vision, hidden with magic his implant couldn’t penetrate. She was a mavka, a demoness most cunning, her dark court hidden in plain sight. Demvora’s scion gnawed at the edges of his work, a pest he couldn’t fight head on for fear of reprisal. Three deaths by her hand and a scorched world had taught him this lesson.

Demvora, bound by my Netherseal, rotting for eternity. As she should. But voids never remain empty. Ishethra seeks to fill the shroud of Navia’s fallen empress. My boy will be her undoing.

At Josnel’s side, Veyra, his wife from their sexless marriage, wearing a humble gown with her hair tied up, shifted, the newborn with hair dyed blonde from brown pressed close to her breast. The boy stirred in her arms, gray eyes blinking open. Josnel had used eye drops to alter the color from its original green to hide the resemblance to himself. When word got out about his boy’s death, questions would be asked about his appearance. This would stymie Ishethra and her investigators.

Untapped magic of spirit and earth pulsed faintly inside his wife. Useful, but it was her devotion as a Voraxmor woman most of all that made her the perfect tool. Should Josnel have kept their marriage a secret, locking his wife away in a chamber under a church to birth his son before leaving the child on Ishethra’s doorstep? It was the logical move, but something Ishethra might expect. As such, he’d learned to throw sprinkles of randomness into his strategy now and then to throw her off. Besides, doing this out in the open, right under Ishethra’s nose, was irresistible.

With her consort bond to Tariq, Ishethra could resist Josnel’s holy light that would normally make her violently ill unless she fled or attacked. Should she catch wind of his fiasco and seek a parlay, he could demand compensation for the demon attack, for his slain wife and child, threatening even greater spectacles. He’d meet her skepticism with his usual wit and stony face. For millennia, he’d dueled her by proxy, the scales tipping sometimes but largely balanced. Now it was time to tip them in his favor—permanently.

As a seraph^[5], blood given to him willingly granted Kirem’s boon, with its accompanying pleasure and ability to conjure fantastic effects. Over the eons he’d found religion, with its doctrine, conformity, and promised blessings for sacrifice, the most effective mechanism to produce it. Now it was time to harness the power.

Josnel leaned to Veyra’s ear, infusing his voice with a trembling fear. “My faithful wife, the demons are coming. Only your purity can stop them. Now is the time for blood sacrifice for eternal blessings.” He’d groomed her these last months, prophesying of this moment, where she’d aid the cause of law and light, though he neglected to mention she’d die.

“My blood for Heaven,” she recited fervently. “My purity casts out the darkness. By your will, let it be done.” She wrapped her baby-carrying cloth around Josnel, then set the infant inside before brushing a kiss across the boy’s brow, then offering Josnel the same.

Josnel stared into eyes that mirrored his own. Not born of love, nor of union, but a clone of his seed implanted in Veyra by another, who Josnel promptly slew afterward to hide his secret. His son would be a loophole in Demvora’s blood contract, the first half-seraph, one who could infiltrate Navia despite his angel heritage.

Josnel shielded his wife from the crowd, whispering, “Veyra, angels will sing your name this day. Heaven shines down upon you.” He also hadn’t told her that upon death, her soul would become Heaven’s property eternally. The harmon implanted in her head would ensure it, a device to shield the mind and negate magic, one he’d said would bring her salvation.

From inside her hem, Veyra drew a dagger and cut her palm. Crimson spilled onto Josnel’s palm, devoured by his skin, granting a tingling through his fingers.

He discreetly took the dagger, cleaned the blade, and stowed it. This is a keepsake for sure. Heat surged through Josnel’s synthetic veins and nerves woven with circuits; the world split into threads of fire and light. His cybernetic frame trembled with ecstasy, a smile cutting his face. First, he sealed his wife’s cut to hide the evidence by dragging a finger along the wound, much to her amazement.

Now it was time for a fake demon attack to ruin the local populace’s confidence in Ishethra’s ability to protect them, all while furthering Voraxmor’s renown and Josnel’s legend. He scanned the lobby, unleashing the boon with his thoughts.

An earthquake tore at the lobby’s floor, carving a molten fissure. Ifrits, black djinn wreathed in flame, surged through the gap. Banshees draped in darkness sprayed out, shrieking shadows, their cries shattering chandeliers into a rain of glass. Acolytes screamed, scattering like scared children.

Eleven high priests shouted for everyone to leave while ringing the demons, sleeves flaring, staves held aloft, voices raised with incantations. Prismatic shields rose, bolts of ice and lightning flew, spectral chains lashed out, and white rays washed the lobby in their light.

Josnel forced his smile away as thunder rattled the lobby. The ceiling cracked, ceramic pieces falling while he stirred his apparitions into a frenzy, tormenting the high priests with fireballs and screams that blew apart stone. Spells fizzled. Shields ruptured. Priests panicked.

“Let not these spirits disrupt our cooperation,” Roland cried out above the chaos, “for the hour of our judgment has come! Reform your ranks and send these abominations back down the abyss!” The high priests struck with renewed, albeit pointless, vigor.

“Now, Veyra,” Josnel mouthed to his wife.

Face rigid with determination, she ran into the maelstrom and raised her arms. “Spirits be cleansed by my light!”

“No, Veyra, stop!” Josnel yelled in false sincerity as the priests commanded her to flee. Pity he’d have to kill her now; she was such an obedient thing. He directed an ifrit apparition with a flick of will, driving its fire into her chest. She screamed, convulsing, her eyes erupting with blood spewing as the demon spiraled through her.

The priests shouted as they hurled radiant white chains, trying to bind the possession. But their chains burst into flame; their prayers faltered.

Putting on his angry face, Josnel advanced while the boy slept peacefully across his chest. He swung his staff at a banshee, disintegrating it with a blinding flash. “Not my wife, you miserable, foul, murderous demon!” He double-flicked his hands to make his sleeves ruffle before raising his staff high. “By the light of Voraxmor,” his voice boomed piously, “I cast this unholy spirit out!”

He pressed his shining staff against his wife’s heart, and it devoured her essence, tangled with the ifrit’s demonic roar he added for dramatic effect. As she melted into burning sludge that blackened into ash, power ripped through Josnel’s sinews; he gasped, then redirected it into the boy. Josnel roared, pretending his wife’s loss devastated him. Screams of horror rang out as the lobby emptied of all save the flailing high priests.

The boy’s tiny frame stiffened, eyes blazing with spectral fire. By my invocation, Josnel thought, shall my wife’s magic be yours, but the seraph within you shall be suppressed until you ensure Saffa Nightwind’s banishment. According to his spies, Ishethra’s daughter, festering in a maturation chamber for a year, had been born only yesterday, the first spawn of a demon-mortal union. If anyone was going to be on the bleeding-edge of half-breeds, it would be Josnel, not Ishethra. Such an abomination must not walk free to show Ishethra the folly of her ways.

Like live wires lashing around Josnel’s arms, the boon shocked his servos entwined with flesh, binding his decree while Josnel screamed, half in pain, half in elation at the play unfolding around him. Then he tapped his staff on the boy’s chest, crying out, and tearing it free before conjuring a hissing red ray from its tip that shot skyward with the ifrit’s death knell, sundering the ceiling; stone rained down on the chaos below.

It was moments like this, these tender mercies, that sewed the humdrum gaps of Josnel’s eons of immortality with joy. As a smirk tugged at his lips at the priests’ futility and his lifelike demons, he mentally conjured hellfire from the fissure. Billowing flames, black smoke curling, another earthquake, and extra heat with sizzle for good measure.

But in that blaze, he saw her.

Demvora.

Her dark skin gleamed with diamonds, facets catching the light show. Her hair streamed, onyx and long, whipping in phantom winds. Red wings of fire blazed from her back, tipped with bone spikes, three forked tails swiping the air behind her. Burning parapets rose, celestial and gold.

Demvora strode through the memory of Heaven, her whip cracking arcs of molten shadow, splitting force fields and towers in twain. Angels scattered like sparks as Heaven’s fortress crumbled while she laughed, a sound so beautiful and cruel it threatened to split Josnel’s sanity.

He staggered. For an instant he didn’t see a monster, but the woman he once loved, the lips he had kissed, the partner he’d embraced. Once upon a time, he believed their union would save reality. That freedom and law could temper Navia’s blight to save universes from their fates. In the end, he’d accepted the truth: he must tame Navia to save reality. Thus, he hurled the light of Heaven at the demons.

It had started well, the secret subjugation, but soon, red rivers of ruin wrought by Demvora’s host hacked trails through Heaven, bleeding from Josnel’s arrogance while he sieged Erebus and conquered layers of Navia. But he underestimated the demons and their resolve. Their bloodlust. The ensuing stalemate and slaughter had spurred him to propose an eternal truce with Demvora as the catalyst. That she’d agreed shocked him.

The Bane War. My greatest blunder. My greatest shame. Begone, spawn of chaos, return to your Netherseal! And, for all that is holy, take Ishethra with you!

The vision snapped.

The lobby still burned with incantations, but Josnel grew weary, the addictive buzz of the boon waning, this show’s luster rusting. He twirled his staff, drawing upon the boon’s power, then smote it upon the floor, his voice thundering. “By Heaven’s light, return to the pits that spawned you!”

White fire exploded from his staff. The demons howled, forms unraveling into fog, evaporating into silence as the fissure mended itself. At his wife’s ashes, he kneeled and wept, pleased with himself and his ocular implants that could conjure tears on demand. With the last of the boon, he masked his son to appear ashen and still.

Smoke curled through the decimated lobby, the priests staring in awe. Roland dropped to his knees beside Josnel. “May Heaven receive her soul, Brother Soneph. What can we do for you?”

Josnel unlatched the boy from his chest, twisting his face with grief as he cradled the infant. “Nothing, for the demons struck too deep,” he said, forcing his voice to break. “My … my boy … he’s … he’s gone!” He screamed at the ceiling with all the drama he could muster. “I need time alone to bury my son and mourn my lost wife, bless her heart, she tried to save us all.” Any second, the boon would flee, breaking the illusion of his slain child.

Whispers spread. Roland clutched Josnel’s shoulder, eyes wet. “Take whatever time you need, Brother.” The other priests bowed their heads in sympathy.

With haste, Josnel departed.

For a week, he kept a low profile, using pre-prepared milk from his dead wife to feed his son while the boy’s eyes changed back to green and Josnel washed his hair daily to clean out the dye, restoring its brown color.

When a storm rolled in, he found another zealot to offer blood, then slew the man before using the boon to mask himself as a haggard female. Bassinet in hand, head down, cloak held against the wind and rain, he carried his son, who slept through it all, toward Ishethra’s castle.

At the gate, he set the bassinet down, giving the boy, whose eyes opened briefly, one last look before covering him with a white cloth to shield him from the weather. Enough babies were left here that Ishethra wouldn’t think twice about the green eyes and brown hair. His wife’s pure-half would lure Ishethra to seek the boy as Saffa’s consort. Seeing the look on Ishethra’s face when she discoveres the boy’s lineage? Priceless.

The fate of his plan now rested with his half-breed son, one tainted with the mortal blood of a woman submissive in the extreme. With his seraph-side suppressed, the boy would be timid until Saffa’s banishment. How to suppress the unwanted side remained a riddle. The answer would reveal itself in time.

With hurried steps, he made for a Voraxmor chapel, where in the basement the technology for subspace communications lay hidden, a means to send Kryptos, his pupil, young seraph of Argus, the only woman who scrambled his circuits, a letter. She’d invented the harmons. He rarely spoke with her in real-time—they preferred the excitement of receiving a long communication, and often went weeks or months in between writing. It harkened to ancient times when paper was the only means for such things.

Alonka had banished Kryptos to Earth in the neighboring Milky Way galaxy for thirty-seven years with a relic. Twenty-three remained. While he wrote in a business-tone about the spectacle and conception project success, he didn’t mention his affection to keep Kryptos wanting as he pondered his son. Yava’s future seraph. He’ll make it eight Circles.

For the ninth, he and Kryptos had their eyes on Zelene. Like Ixion and Iblux, Navian rulers of their own Circles who forsook Navia’s anarchy, she was an aberration of a demon who craved law. She’d be Earth’s seraph, a unique planet in a blessed pocket of the universe where Navia’s taint was thin. A place where technology was magic, and magic was myth.

Nine Circles, completing Kirem’s command. Zelene will join my son to seal Navia while my other Circles flood all realms with order, unhindered by demons. Kirem will be most pleased. But best of all? Ishethra will be livid.

Nightwind Castle at Tenebres

Tariq smiled down at baby Saffa, bundled in her bassinet, wide-eyed and brimming with curiosity uncommon for an infant one week old. The blankets loosened as her arms wiggled, fighting against her blue and gold confines as she gazed up at him, eyes questioning.

A miracle lay before him, a living weapon to one day smash machines, one his wife had prepared for centuries, enduring eleven rituals of unfathomable torment, ending with success one year ago. Saffa’s year-long gestation happened in a maturation chamber prepared with his seed and Ishethra’s eggs. “Saffa Nightwind.” He yawned, stretching. “You’re too awake for the witching hour.”

Saffa’s arms tore free from the swaddling, raising triumphantly while she gave a heartwarming giggle.

“She’s escaped.” Tariq glanced at the bed where his beloved sat. “Again.” Pressing his hand to the phoenix embroidery on her wraps to stop her legs from kicking, Tariq yawned into a chuckle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she stood up and flew around the room.”

“Nor would I,” Ishethra said, eyes closed in meditation.

When her mother’s side emerged, Saffa’s skin would turn blue, proclaiming her mavka transformation and abilities. Unfortunately, even with Ishethra’s talent for prophecy, she couldn’t foresee the event. For now, Saffa remained entirely humanoid. “It’s time for sleep, little one.” He stroked her delicate fingers, which gripped his index finger.

Silk sheets rustled as Ishethra stood from the bed, clad in royal blue and gold. Her crimson, rune-adorned wings, majestic and sinewy, glinted in Beren’s and Perun’s blue threading through the golden drapes. Here in the magically protected master suite, she didn’t need to hide herself. Only their inner court and a few trusted friends knew she was an immortal, ancient mavka, former demon lord of Navia’s Underworld. His wife and king, for they were both kings by her decree. That she had elevated him as her equal brought out his fiercest loyalty and fervent love.

Ishethra, dark and silent, approached the bassinet, her hair an obsidian river flowing to her knees, exuding comfort overshadowed by the power radiating from her. On a whim, with a glance, a flick of her fingers, or an intonation of a spell, she could slay him … devour his soul … or do something far worse. Always a sobering thought, yet she showed him kindness, even reverence. His wife leaned over their daughter. “How about a story, little one?”

A smile crossed Tariq’s lips, matching Saffa’s. He often asked Ishethra to tell him stories at night when he couldn’t sleep as Nightwind’s security nagged at his mind. At over four thousand years old, Ishethra’s library of experience never disappointed.

As Ishethra scratched his back, she told her story.

Brigid, flame-haired wanderer draped in green, drifted through the void, the only presence in a silence so deep it could swallow even me. She whispered, “Cremundi”, and from that word dust shaped Yava, brimming with oceans fed by her lonely tears.

Yava shivered.

The goddess tore out her own heart and forged Mother, beaming a light much warmer than the smile of a lover you should never trust. She spun the planet like a child’s toy; day chased night in endless dance.

Brigid’s hands dug into the earth, raising continents like bread under her touch. Mountains tore sky from cloud, lakes flashing in their basins. As she walked the land, wherever her gaze lingered, life grew—fruit trees laden with sweetness, grasses a verdant green, creatures strange enough to make the stars blink twice.

Speaking of stars, she wove constellations, each a story, a dare, for she named the tapestry Pravium, a realm for the valorous dead. But where were the souls? Her tears, always useful, fell again twice, birthing twin moons: Beren the Elder and Perun the Younger, azure-skinned watchers of the dark.

That’s when Daz arrived, Keeper of Death, voice like the last breath of a dying king. To solve Pravium’s loneliness, he proposed they craft mortals after their genders.

Intrigued by the idea, Brigid agreed.

Alas, Daz demanded dominion over them all—men like him always do. She proposed a compromise: worthy souls rise to Pravium, the rest stay with him for a bit before falling back to Yava for as many lifetimes as it takes to earn their glory.

Daz sealed the bargain but soon grew bored, coveting Brigid. This was a big no-no for her. Their duel ruined Yava as he tried to snare her into his shadow. As Yava broiled, she cast him out, leaving him wanting.

Their little spectacle caught the eye of Felicity, goddess of whimsy, mistress of Navia, where anarchy tastes like the sweetest wine. She wanted her share of the dead too, and why not? The wild ones are much too interesting to waste.

While the goddesses discussed, sipping starlight, Kirem poked his crooked nose into outer darkness like a dull blade through silk. The Lord of Hell couldn’t resist the chance to grow his dominion, voice grinding like rusted iron as he offered Daz a bargain: he would claim the darkness as his Circle, receiving all souls. In return, perfect peace and order would prevail. Imagine that? A tyrant making promises, distorting the meaning of peace.

Daz refused, as any freedom-loving soul would. So Kirem gathered his titanic beasts, each a marvel of infernal craftsmanship, and sailed them into the darkness. Their salvos of gamma-ray bursts set the universe ablaze.

Meeting Kirem blow for blow, Daz wailed his pestilence. Into the chaos, Felicity flew from Brigid’s side, laughing like a maniac as she joined the fray. The goddess didn’t care about winning; she simply wanted to see what would happen when existence unraveled.

The light of Kirem scorched Navia’s silver shores, Daz devouring star after star in his shadows, swallowing their screams whole as he peeled the skin off Kirem’s beasts with his breath. And Felicity, oh, Felicity, she danced through it all, plucking moments of ruin as if they were blossoms for her hair.

Reality wept as chaos reigned.

Since Brigid couldn’t bear to see life suffer, she sided with Kirem to balance the scales, stemming the tide of carnage. When it ended, the realms smoldered as ash and bone. The Four settled, not for peace, but for terms, each tasting just enough victory to make the compromise bitter.

And so, Brigid gathers the honored dead into Pravium’s shining halls, Felicity sweeps away the wild and free into Navia’s embrace, while Kirem claims the fugitives and tyrants. Daz keeps the rest, long enough to taste their fear before casting them back into life, where the game begins again.

Over eons, reality healed.

Truth bore legend, begetting fairy tales, devolving into nonsense. Though this ballet continues today, who now remembers the origins? And what might trip the dancers?

“She doesn’t look very sleepy,” Tariq declared as Saffa wriggled. His heart hung heavy as he pondered the tale which Ishethra had told like a child’s story, despite the horrific theme; all reality hung on the edge of a knife. Whether by the whims of deities, ambitions of nations, or petulance between friends, peace is a fragile thing. And what the Hells is a gamma-ray burst?

Ishethra’s hand glided along his arm before her fingers, topped by long black-nails, tenderly brushed the infant’s forehead. “Sleep, my little fury.” Saffa’s motions slowed, her eyes blinking in resistance, but soon she drifted into slumber.

Tariq’s pulse quickened at this simple demonstration of Ishethra’s talents. Beyond her mastery of fire, psionic prowess, deadly body, and knowledge of the occult, her presence could quell rebellions or sway battalions to her will. Few could resist her seductive aura and subduing touch. From demon lord to mother, he thought, still unable to comprehend how she changed.

You forgot loving wife, Ishethra thought to him. Through their bond, they had a permanent mental connection no matter the distance. She threw her robes on the floor, then climbed back into bed, wings folding behind her, that forked tail peeking over the sheets as she beckoned him with a sweep of her hand. Her eyes, like blazing rubies, smoked, ensnaring his, carnal in their invitation, hardening his manhood.

He settled beside her beneath the exquisitely expensive sheets, which could neither burn nor freeze, like everything else in the room—their combined magic necessitated such precautions. She covered him with her wing, heat pulsing from it like a sauna as he sweated.

To avoid burning, he conjured frost on his skin. With his icy finger, he traced along the bone edge of her wing to its spiked tip, caressing around the sensitive flesh the way she liked; dew dripped as she shivered, goosebumps rising on her wings. “She has your fiery will.”

Her tail undid robes at his chest, exposing her glowing phoenix symbol, then its fleshy forked ends walked down his torso like two fingers before easing the attire off him and throwing it elsewhere. “And your cool, calming presence.” Ishethra snuggled him, her ample breasts like two hot stones, melting the frost on his chest. “I’m proud to call you my fellow king and husband, Tariq. Proud father of Nightwind’s future king. There’s no other man in all the realms I’d rather be joined with.”

Years ago, dreams had tormented him in Samatria, his native nation. Dreams of a horrifying, soul-devouring demoness ruling Nightwind disguised as Ishethra, its king. Having grown up in a Voraxmor religious household that disparaged demons, promised salvation in Heaven for conformance, and encouraged not asking questions, this conflicted with his need for understanding.

He migrated to Nightwind, seeking her out for a discussion, only to be turned away by her royal guards time after time. Nightmares of her as a fiery demoness, haunting in her beauty, threatening to consume his soul, lasted two years, testing his sanity. When he refused to run, believing her more complex than outward appearances, she appeared from the shadows one night in her full glory, granting him a five-minute audience.

They talked through the night.

The dreams hadn’t done her justice, her otherworldly allure snaring his deepest desires. A swift courtship ensued, ending with her claiming him in a bond-forging ritual that branded his chest with her phoenix mark, infusing her fire magic into his bones, a process so painful and pleasurable he’d roared with ecstasy until his voice broke. Now, he belonged to her—any command, regardless of consequence, and he must comply. But she never abused the power … unless he asked her to. Being powerless in her control was euphoric, granting him stamina and abilities he wouldn’t otherwise have. After the formal wedding ceremony in the great hall, performed by Zelene, Ishethra called him as Nightwind’s chief diplomat.

Always remember: I also belong to you, husband.

She never minced words, nor spoke trivially. Tariq’s breath caught at her declaration, pride puffing his chest. Yet underneath, angst swam in his thoughts for his daughter, the first Navian-humanoid hybrid, who would one day bear immense, untold burdens. If Roland, Voraxmor’s prophet, and his zealots ever found out what Saffa or Ishethra were, they’d stop at nothing to imprison them with a Netherseal, an eternal prison of torment.

To make matters worse, one of the Twelve high priests of Voraxmor, Josnel Soneph, was an archdevil in disguise, the Dictator of Heaven, Hell’s first circle, using Bratgon as his proxy against Ishethra, with Nightwind as her proxy. The two sides seldom fought directly with their infernal and demonic armies because of the potential for escalation and catastrophic consequences. Each kept the other’s secret for the same reason.

“My king, my love, we’ll guide and protect Saffa together. Help her find a consort when her mavka essence emerges.”

“I may have found just the boy.” Ishethra’s brow lifted knowingly.

She was always one step ahead, her mind and forethought incomprehensible. “I see … have you been canvassing homes in search of newborns to groom?” He snickered. “In all that spare time you have?” She hadn’t slept in three weeks.

Her laughter rang out, showing perfect-white teeth framed by those ebony lips. “I appreciate how comfortable you are with me. No, someone left an orphaned baby boy at the castle gate early this morning. Poor thing was soaked.” Dozens of babies per year were abandoned at the castle gate and distributed to orphanages. “I sensed such purity in him, the likes I’ve only found in two others: you and Dragan. You three are the only consort-worthy men on Yava.”

Alonka, who led Nightwind’s espionage efforts, had claimed her true love, Dragan, a Drenaglen barbarian, as consort some years ago—his blood had been a key ingredient in Saffa’s conception, one to harness rage into strength. “And you can sense this from a baby?” He knew it was true, but had to ask.

She shrugged, running hands along her smooth expanse of silk. “Yes.” She raked her fingers through Tariq’s hair, scratching her nails upon his scalp, smiling. “We’ll adopt the boy as our son—he’ll follow where Saffa leads, marry her someday. I’ve named him Soren. Ah, the irony, for it means sternly severe. Do you like the name?”

A Navian titan scratching his head? Was it real? And molding the future; another ability she possessed. “It’s a good name. Looks like we have twins.” Tariq beamed at the prospect of a second child, one he hadn’t expected. “I’m”—he kissed her—“thrilled.”

“As am I.” Ishethra’s tail searched his body, the forked ends lathering him with her slimy thermal-tracks, the heat infusing her intoxicating cherry scent, plucking his spine pleasurably. “Of all my consorts, you’re the one who soothes my soul the most, who fulfills all my passions. From the depths of my dark heart, I cherish you.”

As part of the consort vow, he’d promised to always protect her, to challenge her if he saw her losing herself to the primordial chaos within. To stand by her side in the fight for freedom against Josnel and his devils. And to let her feed on his ki^[6] whenever she wished, often done while role playing—she couldn’t regenerate it on her own.

Ishethra used thralls for feeding, most platonic, but with Tariq, she only fed one way: deeply intimate sex, the most potent method. He nuzzled her nose, inhaling, then swallowing a deluge of saliva. “You are my strength, Ishethra. I’ll always love and protect you.” The late hour tightened his throat, and he yawned, embarrassed by doing something so foolish in front of a demon lord. “Damn. Apparently, I’m exhausted.” It had been two days since he’d slept, given their passion the prior night, where he’d played a brooding woodsman, bending her over the desk, a position she only allowed him to put her in. “Perhaps you should punish me this time.”

My, my, Tariq, I thought you’d never ask. A teasing laugh escaped her lips. “I have an idea.” She spun into the air, hovering inches above him, her tail snaring his ankles like a python while the sheets whipped themselves into a rope then knotted around his wrists, forcing his hands above his head to the headboard as she traced paths along his chest with a fiery finger, scorching his hairs. “Shall I drain you to oblivion’s edge?”

A demon lord asking his permission to feed, when she could simply take whenever or whatever she wanted. After twelve years of marriage, still surreal. He shut his eyes, tensing to resist her ki-drain, for doing so would only enhance its power, striking him like lightning, a brutal yet exhilarating experience. Yes, mavka.

Hands pressing into his chest, she sheathed his phallus in her kiln where an electric pulse built as she kissed along his neck to his ear, trailing heat.

All the frost he could conjure on his length barely held her inferno at bay.

“Despair and surrender, mortal,” she promised in his ear, “for until sunrise, thou shalt worship me and find no release.” Then she arched up, wings smoking as embers rained, flaring wide with a thump like carpet beat over stone.

Mortal. A word saved for their most intimate encounters. Tariq relished the word, along with his blessed life. “By the gods,” he moaned as his pupils dilated, the brimstone scent carried on her breath, the room and her shiny onyx skin, bright as noonday, flooding his mind. Her commands always used, thou shalt, an ironic tradition she started because of the falsehood of Josnel and his devils, who called themselves angels.

As her flesh churned against his shaft, shocks ripped through his nerves, thrashing his frame while devouring the strength from his muscles. He gawked at the mavka bearing her breasts, plum areolas pierced by molten nipples, her wings curving slowly to block his peripheral vision.

He didn’t need the command to worship, but it fixated his mind beyond his mortal passions. “Ishethra,” he whispered in a chant.

The grand window shutters closed as torchlight hissed away, leaving Ishethra’s silhouette of fiery wings and burning breasts as she ravished him until the cock crowed.

---

Footnotes

1. A mavka can’t regenerate ki by sleeping or eating. She must feed on mortals instead—if she doesn’t, she gets sick and weak. Having a loving Paramour, or consort, ensures her mental and physical well-being. ↑

2. A conjured magical twin. ↑

3. Mavka. Also termed succubus. Species Navian. A winged, tail-flipping demoness with potent magical and physical abilities, powered by the love, lust, and life force of mortals. Espoused by four virtues: freedom, fury, mischief, and mercy. ↑

4. A potent Navian herb for binding magic ↑

5. Another name for an archdevil ↑

6. Ki, also called chi, allows rare beings to use their life force to wield magic or perform extraordinary physical feats. ↑