The fire in the cave had dwindled to a nest of glowing coals, casting a faint red pulse across the jagged walls. Ares sat on the cold stone floor, studying the mark on his hand. The sigil, a swirling, crimson knot, writhed under his skin like ink stirred in wine, warm and alive, sending faint tendrils of heat up his arm. It didn't hurt. It felt… intimate, like a lover's whisper etched into his flesh. The pact with Velvira was more than a contract; it was a chain, a promise, a temptation.
Outside, snow drifted past the cave's mouth, carried by a biting wind. Velvira stood near the entrance, her silhouette framed against the gray dawn, steam rising where snowflakes kissed her skin. Her red-and-black armor gleamed faintly, the curves of it catching the light like a deliberate provocation. She didn't turn, but her voice carried, low and teasing. "You're thinking of going back, aren't you?"
Ares didn't answer immediately. His mind was already spinning, mapping the Hero's camp in precise, ruthless detail. "There's a supply cart between the main tent and the eastern ridge," he said, voice calm as a frozen lake. "Covered in pitchcloth. Highly flammable. One spark would set the lane ablaze. The command tent's on high ground, good for oversight, bad for defense. Exposed to archers from the western slope."
Velvira glanced over her shoulder, her lips curling into a smirk. "Darling, you were exiled hours ago, and you're already planning to burn their world down?" Her violet eyes glinted with amusement, but there was something else, curiosity, maybe respect. "That's a lot of rage for such a cold face."
"I want them to remember who they discarded," Ares said, his gaze steady, unyielding. "They'll beg for my plans when their swords fail."
Her smile softened, less predatory, almost fond. She stepped closer, her boots silent on the frost-dusted stone, armor creaking faintly as it hugged her form. "You're adorable when you're angry in that dead-eyed way," she purred, crossing her arms beneath her chest, the motion deliberate. "But let's talk strategy, strategist. What do you gain from torching their camp? A moment's satisfaction? A pile of ash?"
Ares' expression didn't shift, but his mind churned. The camp's layout unfolded in his head like a chessboard: guard rotations, blind spots, wind patterns. He could see it—the flames licking up the supply cart, the chaos spreading like a plague, Leon's golden heroics crumbling under the weight of his own incompetence. It was so easy, so perfect. And that was the problem. Too small. Too soon.
"Revenge is like sex," Velvira continued, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as she leaned closer, her scent—spiced wine and forbidden incense—flooding his senses. "It's best when you take your time. Savor it. Build it."
Ares blinked, his dry humor surfacing. "I'm sorry, are we still talking about strategy?"
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed in the cave. "You're clever, darling. You don't need me to spell it out." Her clawed fingers brushed the air near his cheek, not touching, but close enough to raise the hairs on his neck. The pact mark pulsed in response, a warm throb that felt too much like desire.
He exhaled, forcing his mind to still. "Fine," he said, voice cooling. "No strike. Not yet."
Velvira's smile widened, triumphant. "Good boy."
"But if we're not hitting them," he continued, "where are we going?"
She turned, pacing the cave's interior with the grace of a panther, her hips swaying just enough to draw the eye. "To my domain. My capital."
Ares raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "You have a capital?"
She spun on her heel, giving him a mock-wounded look. "I'm a Demon Lord, strategist, not some roadside succubus peddling cheap charms." Her lips twitched, teasing. "Though I could be persuaded to play the part, if you ask nicely."
"Most minor Demon Lords don't bother with capitals," Ares said, ignoring her bait. "Too costly. Too hard to defend."
"Mine isn't a city," she clarified, pausing to meet his gaze. "It's a fortress. Floating. Crimson Fang."
Ares' eyes narrowed, recognition sparking. "The aerial citadel. Built on the bones of an ancient wyrm, tethered by blood runes. Expensive. Ambitious."
Velvira's smile was all teeth, a delighted expression. "You do read the forbidden scrolls." She leaned against the cave wall, one leg cocked at a lazy angle, her armor catching the emberlight in a way that made it look like liquid fire. "Then you know I'm not exactly the darling of the Demon Lords. They call me a parasite, a pretender. 'Plague Queen,' they sneer, all because I don't bow to their ancient bloodlines or swing a sword the size of a horse."
"You're young," Ares said, piecing it together. "Modern. Unaligned."
"And clever," she added, her voice a sultry challenge. "Dangerous."
"To them?" He tilted his head. "Terribly."
She laughed again, the sound rich and unfiltered, and stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her. "I've clawed my way out of pits filled with drooling brutes who thought they could take my throne with muscle and steel. I've killed, seduced, schemed my way to a seat they swore I'd never hold." Her clawed finger pressed lightly against his chest, right over his heart, the pact mark flaring in response. "But I'm done defending. I want to conquer."
Ares didn't flinch; his gray eyes locked on hers. "You want the Demon Throne."
"I want everything," she whispered, her breath warm against his jaw. For a moment, the cave seemed to shrink, the air thick with her presence, the mark on his hand pulsing like a second heartbeat.
She stepped back, breaking the spell, her smirk returning. "And to do that, I need you not just for your brooding charm, but for that terrifying mind of yours. You ruin people without lifting a finger. I find that… irresistible."
Ares allowed a faint smile, dry as dust. "You make destruction sound romantic."
"Oh, strategist," she said, her voice dripping with mock affection. "This is demon courtship. If I weren't interested, I'd have devoured you by now."
He snorted softly, gathering his sparse gear—a worn map case, a dagger, the sparkstone. "We move in ten minutes," he said, rolling the map tightly and tucking it into his cloak. "Your magic might block scrying, but it won't hide us from eyes on the ground."
"Then stay behind me," Velvira teased, mimicking his tone.
"No," Ares said, standing and brushing frost from his knees. "You stay behind me. There's a blind path through the eastern trees, down a dry ravine to the old goat pass. The border's unguarded there."
"Border?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Between human lands and demon territory. You'll feel it. The air turns… bitter."
She licked her lips, slow and deliberate. "Sounds delicious."
Ares gave her a flat look. "If you listen, we'll reach the pass by sundown."
"If I listen?" she echoed, feigning offense, one hand on her chest. "Darling, I'm a model of restraint."
"You have a habit," he said, eyeing her, "of getting bored and doing exactly what I tell you not to."
Velvira grinned, stepping closer, her armor glinting. "I'm a shadow, strategist. Silent. Invisible."
"A shadow in crimson-trimmed lingerie," he deadpanned.
She winked. "Everyone needs a signature."
They slipped into the snow, moving like wraiths through the pine forest. Ares led, his steps precise, his mind mapping every root and ridge. Velvira followed, graceful when she chose to be, her presence a warm contrast to the biting cold. The snowfall had eased, and dawn's light filtered through the clouds in pale gold streaks.
An hour passed in silence. Then another. No patrols. No tracks. Just the distant caw of crows, sharp against the quiet.
"Almost clear," Ares murmured, scanning the trees.
Velvira hummed behind him, her voice low, playful. "You know, I haven't had this much fun in decades. The chase, the danger—it's thrilling."
"This isn't a game," he said, his tone clipped.
"Oh, but it is," she purred, her breath tickling his ear. "And you hate losing."
Ares slowed, his eyes catching a flicker of light through the trees—east slope, a faint glow. He raised a hand sharply. "Stop."
"What is it?" Velvira whispered, her body close, too close, the pact mark tingling.
"Torchlight. Patrol. Four men, maybe five. If we're lucky, they're half-drunk from last night's watch."
"And if we're not?" Her voice was a challenge, her lips brushing his ear.
"They'll sound the horn."
She rolled her eyes, stepping past him. "Four men? What's the worst they—"
"Velvira!" His hiss was sharp, but she was already moving, bold as a courtesan at a ball, her hair catching the dawn like spilled ink. She stepped into a patch of light, snow crunching under her boots, and deliberately waved.
Ares froze, his mind racing through outcomes. Idiot.
The guards halted, their lantern swinging wildly. "Demon!" one shouted, voice cracking. Another fumbled for his horn, the sound piercing the forest like a blade—sharp, urgent, echoing.
Velvira turned back to Ares, her smile sweet as poison. "Oops."
Behind her, the forest glowed with distant firelight, the camp stirring awake.