The war room of Crimson Fang was a fortress of shadow and flame, its obsidian walls swallowing the glow of lava channels that snaked through the city beyond arched windows. Ares sat at the head of a massive stone table, its surface buried under parchments—reports of troop movements, enemy strengths, and supply routes.
His fingers traced the pages with surgical precision, his gray eyes scanning each line as his mind wove strategies with preternatural clarity. The faint hum of demonic voices drifted from the outer hall, where commanders debated tactics, their words a low buzz against the hearth's crackle.
Barely an hour had passed since he'd stepped into this underworld, yet the weight of command already settled on his shoulders like a second cloak. The Alliance's hidden supply line in the eastern marshes was his target, and tonight's strike would be his first move in Velvira's game.
The iron doors creaked open, and a demon aide with silver hair slipped in, her claws clicking softly on the stone floor. "Lord Ares," she said, bowing, "the latest enemy movements." She placed a stack of parchments before him and retreated, her emerald eyes lingering with curiosity.
Ares nodded, already diving into the reports. His mind hummed, processing distances, patrol patterns, and weather shifts with an ease that bordered on uncanny. The marshes were vulnerable—unguarded, overconfident.
A precise strike could cripple the Alliance's logistics, forcing them to expose their true stronghold. He adjusted his plan, tweaking entry points and timing, each decision slotting into place like gears in a machine.
A crackle of crimson energy split the air, and a warm weight settled in his lap.
Ares froze, his breath catching as Velvira materialized, her curves pressed against him with deliberate intimacy. Her silk gown—black as midnight, with slits baring her thighs—clung to her like a lover's embrace, its cursed lace veil glowing with infernal runes. Her scent—spiced wine, forbidden incense, and a dangerous sweetness—flooded his senses, and the pact mark on his wrist pulsed hotly, a living tether between them. She shifted, her hips molding to his thighs, her arms draping around his neck as she leaned in, her lips hovering perilously close to his.
"Is this a bad time, darling?" Velvira purred, her voice a velvet tease, her violet eyes glinting with mischief.
She tilted her head, letting her obsidian hair cascade over one shoulder, brushing his chest through his rune-trimmed coat.
Ares' heart thudded, his hands twitching on the table, caught between pushing her away and staying still.
The demons in the outer hall continued their chatter, either oblivious or accustomed to their lord's theatrics. "Velvira," he said, his voice strained but steady, "I'm working."
"Oh, I can see that," she murmured, her fingers trailing down his collar, her nails grazing the skin beneath with a touch that sent a shiver through him. The pact mark flared, warm and insistent.
"All these papers, all this brooding intensity…" She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, her lips brushing the skin just enough to make his pulse spike. "You're far too serious, strategist. Let me distract you."
He swallowed, forcing his mind to stay sharp. "This isn't the time."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed in the hall, her body shifting again, pressing closer in a way that was anything but accidental. The gown's slits parted further, revealing smooth, toned skin, and her fingers danced along his jaw, teasing the edge of his restraint.
"You've been here an hour, and my court's already whispering your name," she said, glancing toward the outer hall where demons murmured. "Let's see what they think of my new strategist, shall we?"
She turned, still perched in his lap, her hips shifting provocatively as she addressed the room. "My generals, my advisors—what do you make of Ares Caelum? Has he earned his place at my table?"
The demons paused, their eyes flicking to Ares. A tall figure with red tattoos—Zorya, from the earlier council—spoke first, her voice sharp but measured. "He's sharp, my lady. His dismantling of Rithessa's plan was… impressive. But he's human. Trust takes time."
Another demon, with silver hair and claws like daggers, smirked. "His mind's a weapon. I'd follow his lead, but I'm not bowing to a mortal yet."
A third, her wings folded tightly, nodded. "He sees what we don't. That's enough for now."
Velvira's smile widened, her fingers weaving through Ares' hair, tugging gently. "Mixed reviews, darling," she purred, her lips brushing his ear again, sending another jolt through the pact mark. "But they're intrigued. You've made quite the splash in my little underworld."
Ares felt heat creep up his neck, his composure fraying under her weight and the court's scrutiny. Her closeness was a weapon, disarming and deliberate, and the pact mark's warmth was a constant reminder of her claim.
"They respect results," he said, his tone clipped, trying to ignore the softness of her against him. "That's what I'm here for."
"Oh, you're here for so much more," she teased, her nails tracing a slow, deliberate line down his chest, stopping just short of scandalous. She leaned back, her curves still pressed against him, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and hunger.
"You've earned more than their respect, strategist. You've earned me." Her voice dropped, suggestive. "And I promised to make it up to you for that little hike through the snow, didn't I?"
Ares' breath hitched, the memory of her earlier taunt—I'll make it up to you later—flashing through his mind. "Velvira—"
"Let's get out of here," she whispered, her lips brushing his jaw, her voice a sultry promise. "I'll show you where you'll be staying… with me. A private tour, just the two of us. I owe you a reward, after all." Her fingers lingered on his collar, the pact mark pulsing in sync with her touch.
He gripped the table's edge, forcing his thoughts to the plan. "I've already made arrangements," he said, his voice steadier now. "The assault on the Alliance's supply line. Tonight. I need to finalize the routes, coordinate with Rithessa."
Velvira's eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. She leaned back, studying him, then laughed—a rich, unrestrained sound that filled the hall. "Oh, darling, you're no fun at all," she said, sliding off his lap with feline grace, her gown swishing as she stood.
Her heels clicked on the stone, and she turned, her veil catching the firelight like liquid flame. "Fine. Work now, play later. But you're too valuable to wander alone in my city."
She snapped her fingers, and a demon aide appeared—a wiry figure with emerald eyes and a scar across her cheek. "Klyra," Velvira said, her voice firm but laced with amusement, "you're with him. Guide him, protect him. I doubt anyone would dare touch my strategist, but let's not tempt fate."
Klyra bowed, her gaze flicking to Ares with a mix of curiosity and respect. "As you command, my lady."
Velvira's eyes lingered on Ares, her smile wicked. "Don't disappoint me, darling," she said, her voice a velvet threat. "I expect results. And when you're done…" She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear one last time, her breath warm and teasing. "We'll finish that tour."
She swept out, her gown trailing like a shadow, leaving a trail of crimson energy in her wake. The doors closed behind her, and the room seemed to breathe again.
Ares exhaled, his pulse still racing, the pact mark a lingering warmth on his wrist. He turned to the reports, forcing his focus back to the plan. The Alliance's supply line was the key—hit it hard, hit it fast, and the rest would crumble. He scanned the new parchments, his mind calculating routes and risks with effortless precision. The marshes were a maze, but he knew their paths, their blind spots. Rithessa's Legion would need to move like a scalpel, not a hammer.
Klyra stepped closer, her voice low. "The surface gate, my lord. It's near General Rithessa's outpost, through the southern tunnels. I can take you there."
Ares nodded, standing, his coat settling around him like a mantle. "Good. We move tonight. Tell Rithessa to have her forces ready."
Klyra's lips twitched, almost a smile. "The Demon Lord… she's taken a liking to you. That's rare. Be careful, Lord Ares. Her favor is a double-edged blade."
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'm not here for her favor. I'm here to win."
Klyra inclined her head, gesturing to the doors. "This way, my lord."
As they left the war room, the weight of Velvira's presence lingered—her teasing, her promises, the heat of her touch. The pact mark pulsed, a reminder of their bond, but Ares' thoughts were on the battle ahead.
He was no pet, no pawn. He was the strategist who would turn Crimson Fang into a force the Alliance would fear, and neither Velvira's games nor the court's doubts would stop him.