I remember the moment I realized my power was only a shadow of what it could be. Dawn cracked above the Black Jungle as I tested the mark on my back—Pride's thorned crown, still smoldering from the Demon King's essence. I squeezed my fists, willing the darkness to bloom into my fingers. For a heartbeat, I felt its weight—calm authority, righteous conviction—then everything died. My vision flickered, and the shadow‐blade I summoned vanished like mist.
Nyxiel hovered beside me, its violet glow jittering. "You feel it, don't you? That you're incomplete."
I spat on the jungle floor, frustration searing hotter than any wound. "I carry his power, but it won't answer to me fully."
"Because you've only the seed," Nyxiel replied. "The rest lies scattered—Souls of the Fallen Kings, each trapped in an artifact. To claim your birthright, you must find them."
I nodded. Pride's gift had been enough to survive a lifetime's worth of torment, but it wasn't enough to forge an army or win a war. I steeled myself. "Then we begin."
We stumbled into the daylight hours later, following a torn banner that fluttered like a wounded bird. Beyond the trees lay a caravan road—rutted earth, half‐buried wheels, the stench of blood and sweat. I saw them before I heard them: chains rattling, muffled sobs, the crack of whips.
A line of demon slaves was strung along the road, burdened by iron collars and yokes. Their skin was sallow, eyes hollow with hunger. Beside them, Church enforcers barked commands: one cracked a slave's back with a whip, another beat a child until his ribs fractured. A pregnant woman groaned under a heavy pack; when she stumbled, a guard drove his boot into her belly.
I took a breath so cold it burned my lungs. Pride's power still throbbed—enough to steady my hands. Shadows coiled at my feet, hungry for purpose.
I stepped into the clearing. The enforcers froze.
"Release them," I said, voice low but carrying across the road.
The nearest guard laughed, whirling his whip. "Look who it is—the demon revenant. Come to save your kin?" He lashed the whip, but shadow sprang up like a blade, severing its leather lash mid‑air. The guard's eyes widened; I drove my fist into his chest, bone cracking under the blow.
Chaos erupted. Whistles shrieked. I moved through the caravan like a wraith: shadow‑forged blade flashing, chains snapping, guards flying back into wagons. Each strike was a promise: no mercy for those who sold our people. By the time the dust settled, the guards lay groaning, weapons shattered. The slaves stared, terrified.
An old warrior, skin scarred like a battlefield map, lifted his head. "Valen El'Aranor?" His voice cracked. "You… you live?"
I knelt beside him, blade still humming with shadow. "I live," I answered, my chest tight with emotion. "But not for my sake. For yours. For all of you."
Tears glistened in his rheumy eyes. Around us, the caravan wagons stood abandoned—food, water, medicine half‐burned by the enforcers. I turned to the freed demons. "Come with me." I pointed toward a cavern mouth smeared in vine and moss. "There is safety there."
We marched through winding tunnels, Nyxiel lighting the way. Beasts growled in the dark—fanged horrors that slipped from shadow into torchlight. I steeled myself for a fight but found only empty nests and broken bones. The beasts had fled deeper, wary of the revenant's mark.
At last we emerged into a vast cavern rimmed with stone columns. Bioluminescent fungi painted walls in sickly greens and purples. The ground sloped toward a subterranean river as wide as a lake. Along the edge, torches flickered where a handful of survivors had made rough shelters.
They looked up in awe as we approached. Some fitted arcs of rusted metal over their shoulders—shackles repurposed into cooking pots. Children clutched tattered dolls; elders rubbed swollen feet that had trudged miles for sanctuary. Fear and hope warred in their eyes.
I raised my voice. "This is your home now. Build here. Fight for here."
A young woman with a branded cheek stepped forward, voice trembling. "Why follow a killer of kings?"
I met her gaze. "I was blind," I said softly. "I killed a Demon King I should have saved. But I've returned—broken, repentant, and armed with powers he entrusted to me. If you take a chance, I will use those powers for you, not gold or glory."
A murmur spread. The old warrior knelt, voice cracking: "We'll follow you, King Valen—if you prove your cause is true."
I felt the weight of that moment pinning me to the stone floor. I bowed my head. "Then let us build a haven worthy of our names."
We worked through the night. Survivors handed me stones; Nyxiel guided feet as we laid a perimeter of sharpened stakes. By dawn, a ring of torches marked the edge of our new village—a settlement of caves hollowed into homes, watchtowers welded from scavenged metal, and a central firepit for gatherings.
Inside, I found a flat ledge above the river. I sat there, back to the rock wall, and pressed my palm to my mark. Pride's crown glowed, then dimmed—hungry. I closed my eyes, seeking its power.
"Focus on your first success," Nyxiel prompted. "The pride of protecting your people once more."
I inhaled the cavern's damp air. I saw the freed faces, heard the hushed gratitude. I pictured steel and shadow guarding them. The glow returned—gentle at first, then roaring like a hearth fire. My vision lit with memories of the first Demon King: his stand against traitors, his surge of magic into a world that despised him.
Pain lanced down my spine. I grit my teeth, letting the Soul's memory carve itself into my bones. My fingers tingled; ash fell from my fingertips.
When I opened my eyes, the mark burned bright. I rose, boots echoing on stone. "I feel his strength now—enough to guard this place." I faced the villagers. "We begin anew."
They cheered, voices cracking like newborn wind. Children danced around me; elders nodded in respect. I saw—truly saw—the spark of hope I'd nearly thought dead.
That morning, I called an assembly by the river. Korak and Mirra—soldiers from my former life—stepped forward as captains of our fledgling force. I handed Korak a black‐steel axe, then dubbed Mirra "eyes of the night," giving her a cloak of woven shadow.
"Each of you," I told the gathered demons, "has suffered at the hands of men and gods. Here, we bind ourselves together. We train, we fight, and we reclaim what was stolen. Seven Souls shall crown me—and seven tribes will stand by our side."
A hush fell. Some nodded, others swallowed hard. But in every eye I saw the ember of something reborn.
Night returned, and I walked the village edge alone. The river's surface mirrored torchlight like scattered diamonds. For a moment, I let myself wonder: Who will follow me when I carry the next Soul?
A whisper of wind. Nyxiel appeared. "One Soul, one village. But the world beyond waits."
I placed a hand on the cold stone. "Then let us build strength here, so we may stand unbroken out there."
In the shadow of betrayal, we forge our path—and in our scars lies the power to reshape the world.
Read the next chapter to discover which Soul tests endurance in the Hall of Endless Rest—and what price must be paid to wake from true slumber.
© 2025 Kael Virell. All rights reserved.
This is an original work of fiction. No part of this text may be copied, distributed, or reproduced without permission from the author. All characters, names, and places are the intellectual property of Kael Virell.