The throne of bone and obsidian had never felt more uncomfortable.
Malphas shifted in his seat, the ancient chair groaning beneath him like a living thing in
pain. Perhaps it was in the Shadowlands, the line between life and death, between feeling and stone, blurred like watercolors in rain. The massive hall stretched before him, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness that seemed to writhe and pulse with its own malevolent life.
His court assembled before him as they did every morning, a collection of beings that would have sent mortal men screaming into the night. Generals with faces carved from nightmare, advisors whose eyes burned like dying stars, nobles whose very presence seemed to leech warmth from the air. They waited in perfect silence, their anticipation hanging heavy as smoke.
"My lord," rumbled Vorthak, his chief general, stepping forward with the sound of grinding stone. The massive demon's body was a patchwork of volcanic rock and molten veins, his voice like distant thunder. "The scouts report the human settlements along the Crimson Border remain undefended. Their harvest stores are full, their warriors few. The raiding season
approaches its peak."
Murmurs of approval rippled through the assembled court. Ancient protocols demanded the discussion of raids, the planning of terror, the careful cultivation of mortal fear that had sustained their realm for a thousand years. It was the way of things, as natural as breathing to the creatures that served him.
But Malphas felt only a cold weight in his chest where enthusiasm should have burned.
"And what of their children?" he asked quietly.
The question fell into the hall like a stone into still water. Silence rippled outward,
confused and uncomfortable. Vorthak's molten eyes flickered with uncertainty.
"My lord?"
"Their children," Malphas repeated, leaning forward in his throne. "The mortal young. What of them during these raids you propose?"
"They..." Vorthak hesitated, glancing at his fellow generals. "They flee, my lord. Or they
do not. It matters little to our objectives."
It matters little. The words echoed in Malphas's mind as he studied his court. These beings had served his father faithfully, and his father's father before that, stretching
back through generations of Demon Kings who had ruled through fear and might. They expected him to be like them hungry for conquest, delighting in terror, finding joy in the suffering of the weak.
But when Malphas closed his eyes, he didn't see cowering humans ripe for plunder. He saw something else entirely.
He saw a future.
Not the blood-soaked future of endless raids and mounting corpses that stretched behind his dynasty like a crimson road. Instead, he envisioned something that would have horrified his
ancestors: prosperity shared across species, trade instead of warfare, cooperation instead
of domination. He saw demon-forged tools improving human harvests, saw human knowledge
expanding demon understanding of the world beyond their shadowed realm.
He saw peace.
"My lord?" Vorthak's voice carried a note of genuine concern now. "Are you... well?"
Malphas opened his eyes and found his entire court staring at him with expressions ranging
from confusion to barely concealed alarm. How long had he been silent? Long enough for them
to wonder if their king had finally succumbed to the madness that allegedly claimed all
rulers eventually.
"I am well," he said, though the lie tasted bitter. "Continue with your reports."
The remainder of the morning passed in familiar routine. Reports of border tensions, updates
on the realm's defenses, discussions of resource allocation and territorial disputes with
the other demon lords who ruled neighboring domains. All of it felt like performance art, a
play he'd been forced to star in since the crown had passed to him five years ago.
As his court dispersed for the day, chattering among themselves in the sibilant languages of
their various species, Malphas remained on his throne. The great hall emptied until only the
shadows remained, dancing in the light of the ever-burning braziers that lined the walls.
"Troubled thoughts, my king?"
The voice came from beside his throne, soft and melodious despite the sadness that always
seemed to underpin its tones. Malphas didn't turn to look he'd recognized the speaker
immediately.
"Hello, Seraphel."
She materialized from the shadows like dawn breaking over a battlefield, her form resolving
from mere suggestion into solid reality. Once, she had been among the most beautiful of the
celestial choir, her six wings pure white as fresh snow, her face radiant with divine
purpose. The fall had changed her, as it changed all who tumbled from grace into the
Shadowlands, but remnants of her former glory remained. Her wings were now the color of
tarnished silver, her perfect features marked by lines of ancient sorrow, but she moved with
the same ethereal grace that had once made mortals weep to witness it.
"You're thinking about it again," she said, not really a question.
"About what?"
"About changing things. About being different than your father was." Seraphel's voice
carried no judgment, only understanding. It was why he trusted her above all others in his
court she alone seemed to see past the crown to the being who wore it.
Malphas finally turned to look at her, this fallen angel who served as his closest advisor.
"Would that be so terrible? Being different?"
"For you? No." Seraphel moved to stand before his throne, her silver eyes meeting his
without fear. "For them?" She gestured toward the empty hall, indicating his departed court.
"It would be the end of everything they understand about the world."
"Maybe the world they understand needs to end."
The words hung in the air between them like a confession. Seraphel was quiet for a long
moment, her expression thoughtful.
"Change is possible," she said finally. "But change has a price. Are you prepared to pay
it?"
Before Malphas could answer, the great doors of the throne room burst open with a sound like
breaking thunder. A scout rushed in, his lupine features twisted with urgency. The werewolf
dropped to one knee before the throne, his chest heaving from exertion.
"My lord! News from the eastern border!"
Malphas felt his heart sink. Border news was rarely good, and given the morning's discussion
of raids and harvests, he suspected he knew what was coming.
"Speak," he commanded.
"The human settlement of Millhaven burns, my lord. Baron Razeth's forces struck in the pre-
dawn hours. The granaries are destroyed, the population scattered." The scout paused, his
yellow eyes flicking nervously between Malphas and Seraphel. "There were... casualties among
the non-combatants."
Children. Malphas closed his eyes again, but this time he saw not visions of a peaceful
future, but the reality of his present. Somewhere to the east, human families mourned their
dead while Baron Razeth's forces returned home laden with stolen grain and satisfied with
their successful raid.
All done in his name. All justified by the crown that sat heavy on his brow.
"How many dead?" he asked quietly.
"The scout estimates forty-three confirmed, my lord. Perhaps more in the fires."
Forty-three lives. Forty-three futures cut short so his people could eat stolen grain
through the winter months ahead. The mathematics of rulership, his father had called
it the cold calculation that weighed the needs of demons against the lives of humans and
found the equation acceptable.
But Malphas found he could no longer accept the mathematics.
"Send word to Baron Razeth," he said, his voice carrying across the empty hall with newfound
authority. "He is to report to the throne room at sunset. I would hear his account of this
raid personally."
The scout bowed deeper, sensing something in his king's tone that made him grateful not to
be Baron Razeth. "At once, my lord."
As the messenger departed, Seraphel moved closer to the throne. Her expression had grown
troubled.
"What are you planning?" she asked.
Malphas stood from his throne for the first time that day, his tall frame unfolding like a
storm cloud taking shape. The crown a circlet of blackened metal and crimson gem caught
the brazier light and threw dancing shadows across his face.
"I'm planning to be the king I choose to be," he said. "Rather than the king they expect me
to be."
"And if those two things prove incompatible?"
Malphas looked out through the great windows that dominated the eastern wall of his throne
room. Beyond the Shadowlands, beyond the perpetual twilight that shrouded his realm, lay a
world he had never truly tried to understand. A world he had inherited as his enemy, but
which he increasingly saw as his responsibility.
"Then I suppose we'll discover what kind of demon I truly am," he said.
Seraphel followed his gaze toward the distant mortal realm, her expression unreadable. In
the growing silence of the throne room, neither of them spoke the truth they both
understood: the path Malphas was contemplating would change everything, not just for him,
but for every soul demon and human alike who called this corner of creation home.
The only question was whether the world was ready for such change.
Or whether it would destroy him for attempting it.