Estingoth wiped the last of the blood and gore from his enchanted gauntlet, eyes sweeping over the fallen—soldiers and beasts alike—strewn in gruesome heaps. He allowed himself a moment's relief. "Finally," he murmured, "some peace…" But the gauntlet chimed, a low, urgent clang. Estingoth's heart thudded. "No…" he whispered, leaping to his feet and sprinting for his horse.
He galloped toward the palace, heart in his throat. Smoke curled above the ramparts and distant shouts pierced the dusk. "No," he muttered again, spurring his mount for the gate. There, grim sentries—his own guards—hung impaled on broken pikes, their armor caked with dried blood.
Shock froze him for a heartbeat. Then fury surged. He vaulted off his horse and burst through the gate, blades clashing around him, courtiers and enslaved monsters alike cut down in chaotic clusters. "Where are you, Esmirelda?" he roared over the carnage as he tore toward the throne room.
Crimson puddles glistened beneath toppled benches. He waded through corpses, heart pounding, until something clicked in his mind. He darted past the baronial dais, found the hidden panel in its base, and slipped into the secret corridor. Orc bodies littered the stone floor, but one corpse brought him to his knees—Jeremiah, his oldest, eyes empty, skull cleft.
Estingoth gathered his son's body, trembling. The gauntlet glowed; he set Jeremiah down gently and pressed a hand to the boy's brow. He inhaled. Jeremiah's eyelids fluttered; he gasped. "Father… I tried to save Mother. I'm sorry"—blood bubbled in his throat—"I… failed."
Estingoth's throat tightened. "You did your best, son. Where is your mother and Joseph?" he asked, voice cracking.
Jeremiah coughed, clutched his chest. "Mother… she was hurt… I don't know. Joseph—I sent him to run." And then the light faded from Jeremiah's eyes. Estingoth held him for a moment before laying him gently aside and pressing on, dread knotting his stomach.
He found his children's chamber in disarray—robes and toys tossed across the floor. A heavy pendant lay crushed beneath his boot. He stooped, recovered it—it had belonged to Esmirelda—and his vision blurred with tears. "I'll find you," he promised, slipping it into his tunic. He followed a trail of bloody footprints into the winding servants' passages, until a low moan stopped him.
In the next room, Esmirelda was bound by rope to the wall, stripped almost bare, bruised and bleeding. Her chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths. Estingoth didn't hesitate—he wrenched her free, cradled her to his chest, shaking. "My love, you're alive. Open your eyes."
She blinked, saw him. "You came back… so Joseph found you?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "I've only seen Jeremiah." He swallowed his grief. "Where's Joseph?"
She offered a weak, trembling smile. "He ran… he's brave. I love you." She coughed.
Estingoth laid his hand on her wound, channeling the gauntlet's healing power: dull warmth spreading into torn flesh, bone knitting back. She drew in a long, shuddering breath. He kissed her forehead. "Rest here. I'll find Joseph."
He emerged into the courtyard as twilight deepened. Orcs and dark creatures swarmed over wounded townsfolk. Estingoth's fury ignited. The gauntlet whined—a warning cry that froze friend and foe alike. Then he charged, axe swinging in wide arcs. Each strike felled a monster; blood spattered the stones. When they tried to flee, a pulse of energy from the gauntlet shattered their ranks, tearing them apart in bursts of crimson mist.
By the time he stopped, silence had fallen like a shroud over the courtyard. Bodies lay shattered in pools of blood and ichor. Estingoth's breath came in ragged gasps as he stared down at his gauntlet—its cold iron straps biting into his skin like a promise fulfilled. Mercy was dead; only vengeance remained. He bellowed until his voice cracked, summoning every wounded survivor to form up and report.
Soldiers—young and old, scarred and trembling—fell into rough ranks before him. Estingoth's eyes burned. "These monsters stormed our palace, slaughtered our kin, desecrated our home—and dared think there would be no reckoning? Tonight, they will drown in their own blood!" A roar erupted from his men, steel striking shields, boots pounding earth. "We ride into their lair with no pity, no surrender. We will be their apocalypse—let them learn the price of crossing Estingoth!"
With that, the soldiers broke to tend fallen comrades and embrace trembling loved ones. Estingoth strode back through broken gates into the palace. Inside, he found Jeremiah limp in his wife's arms. He swept his son into his arms, chest heaving. "My boy," he murmured, voice thick with grief and fury, "I will carve your name into every demon's soul." He laid Jeremiah on a bed, blanketing him gently. Turning to his wife, tears streaked his soot-darkened face. "Go to the dungeon. Hide there until this is done. I swear on my honor: I will come back for you both."
Clutching helmet and sword, he summoned a cavalry battalion. Older guards manned the gate alongside archers and shield-bearers; all watched in solemn silence as the riders spurred their mounts onto the churned path. Estingoth muttered, "They'll die slow, agonizing deaths."
Through the night they galloped, torches flickering, hoof-beats pounding earth into dust. At dawn the enemy stronghold rose like a blight on the horizon: an obscene fortress of black stone and twisted metal, its towers leaning at impossible angles, bridges arching like broken ribs. The air stank of sulfur and rot.
Estingoth raised his gauntlet. The battalion skidded to a halt. "Remember," his voice thundered, "show them the mercy they showed our families." Moonlight glinted off steel and hatred alike.
A low horn bellowed from the ramparts. Monsters of all shapes scrambled into defenses. Estingoth's lips curled into a savage grin. "Perfect. Let them watch us come." The gauntlet pulsed with malignant energy; cracks spidered beneath his horse's hooves, steam curling from the fissures. "For Jeremiah! For our fallen!"
He spurred forward. The charge crashed into the gates like an earthquake. Barbed arrows and crude bolts hissed through the air, but a scarlet barrier flared around Estingoth, shattering the worst of the assault. The wooden gates, sheathed in stolen steel, splintered under his horse's weight.
He leaped down, axe in one hand, gauntlet crackling in the other. Goblins snarled, orcs roared—none lived to tell the tale. Each swing of his axe sent limbs spinning; each pulse from his gauntlet turned flesh to ash. His soldiers fought behind him with desperate fervor, but it was Estingoth's wrath that tore the defenders apart.
Blood slicked the uneven cobblestones as Estingoth carved a path deeper into the fortress. With each life he extinguished, the gauntlet grew warmer against his skin, drinking in the carnage like a thirsty beast. His men followed in his wake, their faces grim and spattered with gore.
"Find their leader," Estingoth commanded, voice raw with hatred. "Bring me the one who ordered the attack."
A hulking orc chieftain bellowed a challenge from atop a heap of rubble, wielding a massive club studded with human teeth. Estingoth didn't break stride as he approached. The orc swung—a blow that would have crushed a normal man's skull—but Estingoth caught it with his gauntleted hand. The metal glowed crimson as he squeezed, splintering the wood.
"Where is Joseph?" he demanded, lifting the orc by its throat. "My son. Where?"
The creature gurgled, black eyes bulging. "Taken... to the pits... for the ritual."
Estingoth's heart turned to ice. He crushed the orc's windpipe and let the body fall, already sprinting toward the central tower. "To me!" he shouted to his closest guards. "The pits! Now!"
They descended through spiraling corridors that reeked of decay and dark magic. Screams echoed from below—some human, some not. Each step fueled Estingoth's rage until it threatened to consume him whole.
The gauntlet flared, sensing his fury, offering its power. He had always been careful with the ancient relic, knowing its price. But now, with Joseph's life hanging in the balance, restraint seemed a luxury he could ill afford.
"Yes," he whispered to the gauntlet, feeling its magic pulse through his veins. "Take what you need. Give me strength."
The metal bands tightened around his forearm, digging into flesh. Pain lanced up to his shoulder as the artifact's runes flared brilliant scarlet. His vision sharpened; his muscles swelled with unnatural vigor.
They burst into the ritual chamber—a vast cavern lit by pools of molten rock. In its center stood a stone altar, and upon it lay Joseph, pale and still, surrounded by chanting figures in black robes. Above them all loomed a massive demon, its skin like cracked obsidian, horns spiraling toward the ceiling.
"Father!" Joseph's terrified cry cut through the chamber.
Estingoth's world narrowed to a tunnel of rage. "RELEASE HIM!" The gauntlet discharged a wave of energy that knocked the robed figures sprawling.
The demon turned, lips peeling back from jagged teeth. "Estingoth," it rumbled. "We've been expecting you."
"Mordukai." Estingoth recognized the demon lord who had haunted the borderlands for centuries. "You dare touch my family?"
"Your family?" The demon laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Your family was payment—for your interference in matters beyond your comprehension."
Estingoth's men engaged the cultists while he advanced on Mordukai. "Release my son," he repeated, "and I'll grant you a quick death."
The demon's claws tightened around Joseph's small arm. "Your arrogance is remarkable. You wield power you don't understand, human. That gauntlet was never meant for your kind."
"Yet it serves me well enough to end you." Estingoth lunged forward, faster than any mortal had right to move.
The battle shook the very foundations of the fortress. Mordukai's claws raked across Estingoth's armor, leaving deep gouges in the enchanted metal. But for every blow the demon landed, Estingoth returned three. The gauntlet blazed with unholy light, drinking in the demon's essence with each strike.
Joseph lay forgotten on the altar, eyes wide with terror as his father transformed before him. Estingoth's movements became less human with each passing moment—his eyes glowing the same crimson as the gauntlet, veins of power spreading up his neck and across his face.
"Father!" Joseph cried again, but Estingoth barely heard him through the roaring in his ears.
Mordukai faltered, black ichor spilling from a dozen wounds. "You cannot... control it," the demon gasped. "The gauntlet will consume you... as it has consumed all who wore it before."
Estingoth seized the demon by its throat. "So be it," he snarled, "if my family is avenged."
The gauntlet pulsed once, twice—then erupted with power. Mordukai's body convulsed, crumbling like ash from the inside out. The demon's essence flowed into the artifact, its dying scream reverberating through the chamber.
When it was done, Estingoth stood alone amid the carnage, breathing heavily. The gauntlet had gone quiet, but its runes still glowed faintly beneath a coating of black ichor.
"Father?" Joseph's voice trembled.
Estingoth turned, struggling to focus through the haze of power. His son's face swam before him, frightened and uncertain.
"Joseph." His own voice sounded strange to his ears—deeper, resonant with power not his own. He forced himself to move carefully as he gathered his son into his arms. "Are you hurt?"
The boy shook his head. "I want to go home. I want Mother."
"Yes." Estingoth swallowed, tasting copper and something else—something ancient and terrible. "We're going home."
His men averted their eyes as he carried Joseph from the chamber. None dared speak of how their lord's skin had begun to darken, or how his eyes now burned with an inner fire that was not entirely human.
As they rode back to the palace, Estingoth felt the changes spreading through him. The gauntlet no longer felt like a separate thing—it was becoming part of him, its metal fusing with his flesh, its power threading through his veins.
He looked down at Joseph, sleeping fitfully against his chest, and wondered what price he had truly paid for his vengeance. And whether, when they reached home, Esmirelda would recognize the man who had promised to return to her.
The fortress burned behind them, a pyre to mark the death of Estingoth the man, and the birth of something altogether different.
A voice echoed ominously from behind Estingoth and his son Joseph, sending a chill down their spines. "So, the overlord still lives. How unfortunate." The voice carried a disconcerting blend of innocence and malevolence, as if spoken by a creature that had once known goodness but had long since surrendered to darkness. Estingoth turned slowly, his heart pounding in his chest, to confront the source of the chilling words.
Before them stood a demon of unsettling proportions, its height both towering and compressed, creating an uncanny presence that defied natural law. Its arms were sinewy and powerful, each movement fluid yet menacing. Atop its head, horns jutted out, adorned with a grotesque collection of jewelry and human skulls, trophies of its conquests and a testament to its sinister existence. The air around them grew heavy with the scent of sulfur, and Estingoth's grip tightened protectively on Joseph's shoulder, bracing for the confrontation that lay ahead.
"Father," Joseph whispered, trembling against Estingoth's side. "What is that thing?"
Estingoth pushed his son behind him, the gauntlet pulsing with crimson energy that matched the unnatural fire in his eyes. "Azmodaeus," he growled, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. "I thought you were banished to the Outer Void."
The demon's lips peeled back in a mockery of a smile, revealing row upon row of needle-like teeth. "Banishments are merely... suggestions to beings like me." His voice slithered through the air like oil on water. "And I couldn't miss your transformation. It's quite... spectacular."
Joseph peeked around his father's leg, his small face pale with terror but eyes burning with a defiance that mirrored Estingoth's own. The sight of his son's courage sent a surge of clarity through Estingoth's power-addled mind.
"You won't touch him," Estingoth declared, the veins of power creeping further across his face pulsing with each word.
Azmodaeus tilted his head at an impossible angle. "Oh, I don't want the boy. I want what's fusing to your arm." His gaze fixed on the gauntlet. "The Devourer of Souls isn't meant for humans. It's wasted on your kind."
With blinding speed, Joseph darted from behind his father and snatched a fallen cultist's dagger, brandishing it with shaking hands. "Stay away from my father!"
"Joseph, no!" Estingoth lunged for his son, but Azmodaeus was faster.
The demon's elongated arm shot forward, seizing Joseph by the throat and lifting him off the ground. "Brave little morsel," Azmodaeus cooed, bringing the struggling boy closer to his face. "Your father is no longer fully human, child. Soon, there will be nothing left of the man you knew."
"Put. Him. Down." Each word from Estingoth's mouth emerged as thunder, the gauntlet responding to his rage by crackling with energy that scorched the stone floor beneath him.
Azmodaeus laughed, a sound like breaking bones. "Make me, Overlord."
Something snapped inside Estingoth. The gauntlet's power surged through him unchecked, tearing through flesh and bone, remaking him from within. His armor cracked as his body expanded, skin hardening into scales where the crimson veins had spread. A roar escaped him that shook the very foundations of the fortress.
"Father!" Joseph cried out, still struggling in the demon's grasp.
The sight of his son's terror pulled Estingoth back from the brink. With newfound power, he launched himself at Azmodaeus, moving faster than mortal eyes could track. His gauntleted fist connected with the demon's jaw, sending a shockwave through the chamber that shattered stone pillars and sent cultists flying.
Azmodaeus stumbled backward, releasing Joseph who tumbled to the floor, gasping for air. The demon's face split into a grotesque grin despite the black ichor flowing from his shattered mandible.
"Yes," he hissed. "Embrace it. Let the power consume you."
Estingoth stood protectively over Joseph, his transformation accelerating. Horns of bone and metal erupted from his temples, his eyes now pools of liquid fire. "I will use this power to destroy you and all your kind," he promised, voice resonating with otherworldly harmonics.
"Father," Joseph tugged at what remained of Estingoth's cloak. "Your face... what's happening to you?"
For a moment, doubt flickered in Estingoth's transformed features. He caught his reflection in a pool of blood—the face looking back was barely recognizable. The distraction cost him dearly.
Azmodaeus struck with the force of a battering ram, sending Estingoth crashing through a wall into an adjacent chamber. Joseph screamed, scrambling to follow as the demon advanced on his father.
"You fight it," Azmodaeus observed, circling the fallen warrior. "How quaint. The gauntlet chose you because of your capacity for rage, for vengeance. Stop resisting what you were born to become."
Estingoth rose, chunks of stone falling from his shoulders. The gauntlet had spread its influence to his chest now, metal and flesh fusing in intricate patterns. "I choose what I become," he snarled.
With a wordless cry, Joseph hurled himself at Azmodaeus, plunging the stolen dagger into the back of the demon's knee. Black ichor spurted from the wound as Azmodaeus howled in surprise and pain.
"You insignificant gnat!" The demon whirled, claws extended toward Joseph.
Estingoth moved with impossible speed, intercepting the blow. The demon's talons sank deep into his transformed flesh, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he grabbed Azmodaeus by the throat with his human hand, the gauntlet pressed against the demon's chest.
"You were right about one thing," Estingoth said, his voice unnervingly calm. "This power isn't meant for humans. But I'm not fully human anymore, am I?"
The gauntlet began to glow with blinding intensity, drawing power not just from Azmodaeus but from the very air around them. The demon's eyes widened in genuine fear.
"No," Azmodaeus gasped. "You don't know what you're doing!"
"I'm protecting my son," Estingoth replied simply.
The explosion of power that followed shook the entire fortress to its foundations. Joseph was thrown backward, shielded from the worst of the blast by his father's transformed body. When the dust settled, Azmodaeus was gone—not destroyed, but banished to some distant realm, his essence scattered to the winds.
Estingoth fell to his knees, the transformation having spread to cover most of his body. Only patches of human skin remained, islands of his former self in a sea of otherworldly transformation.
"Joseph," he called, his voice a ragged mixture of human and something else. "Come here, son."
Joseph approached cautiously, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. "Father? Are you... are you still you?"
Estingoth reached out with his human hand, gently touching his son's cheek. "I am. But I'm changing. The gauntlet... it's becoming part of me. I can't stop it now."
"Then I'll help you," Joseph declared, taking his father's transformed hand without fear. "We'll find Mother, and we'll fix this."
Estingoth managed a smile, though his transformed face made it look more like a grimace. "We need to leave this place. More will come."
As if summoned by his words, howls echoed from deeper in the fortress—surviving monsters rallying to defend their territory. Estingoth rose unsteadily to his feet, his new form still unfamiliar.
"Father, you're hurt," Joseph said, pointing to where Azmodaeus's claws had pierced Estingoth's chest.
"It will heal," Estingoth assured him, though the wounds leaked a strange mixture of blood and glowing essence. "We must find the others and return to your mother."
They made their way through the crumbling fortress, Joseph leading his father through passages too narrow for Estingoth's transformed bulk. The surviving soldiers stared in shock and fear at their lord's new appearance, but none dared speak of it.
As they emerged into the pre-dawn light, Estingoth looked toward the horizon where their home lay. The transformation had slowed but not stopped. He knew that when he returned to Esmirelda, he would not be the same man who had left.
"Will Mother be afraid of you?" Joseph asked quietly as they mounted their horses.
Estingoth considered the question, feeling the gauntlet's power pulsing through his veins like a second heartbeat. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But she will understand why I did this."
As they rode toward home, Estingoth felt the presence of more demons watching from the shadows, drawn by the power he now wielded. The gauntlet had marked him as something new—neither fully human nor demon, but something in between.
And deep in his transforming heart, he knew this was only the beginning of their troubles.