The parchment was still warm from the candlelight when they pressed the wax seal into its surface, the sharp scent of molten resin curling into the air. At the top, in bold, deliberate strokes, was his name: Ares Caelum. Below it, four signatures, each a jagged betrayal, penned by hands he'd guided to victory after victory. The war tent was stifling, the oil lamps casting long shadows that danced like specters across the canvas walls. Four pairs of eyes avoided his, their owners feigning sorrow, guilt, anything but the truth: they feared him.
Leon Vael, the Hero of the Holy Alliance, leaned back in his carved oak chair, his golden hair catching the lamplight like a halo. His smile was practiced, polished to perfection by bards and mirrored steel, but tonight it wavered, a crack in his saintly facade. "Don't take this personally, Ares," he said, voice smooth as velvet but sharp beneath. "This isn't about you. It's about the future. Your methods—they're… divisive."
Ares didn't look up from the flickering lamp on the war table, its flame trembling as if it knew the storm brewing. "Divisive?" His voice was quiet, a blade sheathed in silk. "You mean effective. My strategies won you three campaigns in a month. Or do you prefer the old days, when we lost half our men to raider ambushes?"
Leon's smile twitched, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It's not about the wins," he said, leaning forward, gauntleted hands splaying on the table. "It's how you win. You don't fight. You scheme. You manipulate. You turn men into pawns."
"Pawns who live," Ares replied, his gray eyes cold as the snow outside. "Three hundred raiders dead without a single blade drawn. No losses. No widows. You're welcome."
Kael Redmane, the Hero's Blade, slammed his fist on the table, the clatter of his sword hilt echoing. His red beard bristled, eyes blazing with the kind of righteous fury only a warrior could muster. "You call that victory?" he snarled. "The men cheered in public, but behind your back, they whisper. They call you a shadow, a puppetmaster. You didn't kill those raiders—you trapped them in a gorge and let them starve. That's not honor. That's sorcery."
Ares met Kael's gaze, unflinching. "You're angry I made your blade obsolete. Tell me, Kael, how many men did you lose in your last 'honorable' charge? Twenty? Thirty?"
Kael surged to his feet, chair scraping against the wooden floor. "You're a coward who hides behind tricks and women's skirts!"
"Enough!" Selene D'oriel, the High Priestess, raised a delicate hand, her voice soft but cutting through the tension like a hymn. Her silver hair shimmered under her hood, and her eyes—once warm when they lingered on Ares—were now clouded with doubt. "Ares, we're grateful for your service. Truly. But your presence… it unsettles the troops. They fear you more than the enemy."
"Victory unsettles them?" Ares tilted his head, a faint, sardonic smile curling his lips. "Or is it that I see through their lies? The generals who skim rations, the priests who hoard relics, the Hero who craves glory over sense?"
Leon's face darkened, but he masked it with a chuckle. "You're projecting, Ares. This isn't about us. It's about unity. The men need a leader they can trust, not one who makes them feel like pieces on a board."
"Then you've made a mistake," Ares said, his voice low, final. He unpinned the Hero's Party crest from his cloak—a silver star encircled by thorns—and set it on the table. The metal clinked softly, a sound like the first pebble before an avalanche. "You'll miss me when your enemies stop dying."
No one spoke. No one met his eyes. Not even Selene, whose fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach out but didn't dare.
"I'll escort him out," Kael growled, stepping toward the tent flap.
"Don't bother," Ares said, rising smoothly. His cloak swept the floor, a shadow trailing him like a loyal hound. "I know the way."
He stepped into the night, and the cold hit him like a slap, snow falling in soft, relentless flakes, like ashes from a funeral pyre. His boots crunched through the slush, leaving clean tracks past the stables, past the guards who turned away, pretending not to see the man who'd orchestrated their survival. The campfires flickered behind him, orange tongues licking the darkness, and Kael's voice carried faintly, already spinning a tale where he was the hero of this moment.
Ares' lips curved into a bitter smile. Fools. They had no idea how fragile their camp was. The western ridge—unguarded after dusk. The eastern slope—blind in the snow. The food stores—one well-placed fire could starve them in days. With five men and a night's work, he could erase them from Ruveria's map.
But revenge was too small. Too predictable.
He walked until the camp was a fading glow, swallowed by the storm. The forest loomed ahead, skeletal trees clawing at the sky. He stopped, breath clouding in the air. Something was wrong. The wind carried no animal sounds, only the steady rhythm of snowfall—and something else. Footsteps, too precise for beasts.
They sent someone.
Ares crouched behind a fallen log, then slipped into the underbrush, his movements silent, practiced. His mind mapped the terrain—patrol routes he'd designed himself, choke points, blind spots. He veered toward a cliff's edge, where a hidden crevice waited, cloaked by brambles and stone. He'd marked it two years ago during a skirmish, a secret only he knew.
Inside the cave, it was dry, black, and silent. He shed his soaked cloak, struck a sparkstone, and let a faint glow illuminate the damp walls. Leaning against the rock, he slowed his breathing, muscles loose but ready. No pursuit followed. Either they'd lost him, or they'd never cared to chase.
He closed his eyes, the sparkstone's light painting his pale face in amber. How long will Leon last without me? The thought was almost amusing. His vision blurred, exhaustion pulling him under.
He woke to the weight of being watched.
No sound. Just a presence, like a blade hovering over his throat.
His eyes opened slowly, not startled, just weary. The sparkstone had burned to embers, casting a dim red glow. And there, against the cave wall, stood a woman.
Her armor—red and black, lacquered like scales—clung to her curves, leaving deliberate gaps at her thighs and hips, as if daring the eye to linger. Obsidian hair cascaded over her shoulders, glinting with violet in the faint light. Her lips, painted the shade of poisoned wine, curved into a smile that promised cruelty, mischief, and something far darker: hunger.
She didn't move to attack. Ares didn't reach for a weapon—he had none.
"Velvira," he said, voice steady as stone.
Her smile widened, eyes glinting like a predator's. "Oh? You know me." Her voice was a low purr, dripping with amusement.
"I knew we were being watched for weeks," Ares said, sitting up slowly, brushing soot from his sleeve. "Two Demon Lords had outposts close enough. The others are too far. You lead in person. You love the theatrics."
Velvira clapped, her leather gloves making a soft, sensual sound. "Darling, the tales didn't lie. You're sharp as a blade." She stepped closer, her movements fluid, deliberate. The air carried her scent—spice, incense, and something forbidden, like a promise whispered in the dark. "But I'm curious. Why hide here, alone, when you could've burned that camp to ash?"
Ares leaned back, studying her. "You could've razed it yourself. It's vulnerable—western ridge unguarded, eastern slope blind. Why didn't you?"
She tilted her head, lips parting slightly. "I prefer to wait for the perfect moment. A crack in the armor. And you, Ares Caelum, are a very… valuable crack."
Her nails—clawed, polished—traced his collarbone, not threatening, but testing, sending a shiver through him. "Bold," he murmured, eyes locked on hers.
"You're not afraid," she said, leaning closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I like that."
"You didn't come to kill me."
"No." Her voice dropped, husky. "I came to claim you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"You're clever, discarded, and burning with rage." She crouched before him, chin resting on her palm, her armor shifting to reveal more than it concealed. "You were the Hero's brain. Without you, he's a pretty boy in shiny armor, stumbling blind."
She leaned in, lips inches from his. "I want a human strategist. My strategist."
"Risky," Ares said, voice low. "I'm not one of your kind."
"If I wanted safe, darling, I wouldn't wear armor that begs to be torn off." Her smile was a challenge, her eyes gleaming with ambition. "I'm not the strongest Demon Lord. Not yet. But with you, I will be."
Ares exhaled, his mind racing—probabilities, outcomes, traps. "You're gambling," he said.
"So are you." Her voice was a whisper, a dare.
He met her gaze, unflinching. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
Velvira's glove slid off, revealing smooth, clawed fingers. She clasped his hand, and crimson light erupted between them, a twisting seal branding itself across his skin. The pact's magic surged—hot, chaotic, intoxicating, like a lover's touch laced with venom. His breath caught, a low groan escaping as the mark burned into his flesh.
Velvira's eyes softened, almost affectionate, as she leaned closer. "Welcome to my side, strategist."
Ares stood, the embers flaring behind him, casting their shadows long and tangled. He looked toward the horizon, where the Hero's camp slept, oblivious.
"Let's begin," he said, his voice a promise of ruin.