They called him Edward Kaelen, High Prince of Varethorn, bearer of the Silver Flame, the one who would lead the human armies against the Queen of the Seven Hells. The bards said he would be the one to pierce the veil of darkness with light. The priests said he was chosen. The people called him the Sword of Hope.
And he believed them.
When word spread that Asmodara Ashkaroth had returned, Edward Kaelen did not hesitate. He united the banners of ten kingdoms, led tens of thousands across the charred plains of the south, and swore before the gods that he would not return until the Queen knelt before mankind.
He stood atop the great black ridge overlooking the battlefield, his silver armor gleaming in the dying sun, a crimson cape trailing behind him. Beneath him, rows of soldiers in gleaming plate, beast tamers from Rovaria mounted on war wolves, battlemages with staves glowing in arcane runes, archers ready to rain fire from the sky. Drums beat. Horns roared... The march had begun.
And at the heart of the infernal valley, she waited.
Asmodara Ashkaroth, seated upon a throne of obsidian and bone, eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement. Her demons moved in silence, arranging themselves for war. Hulking brutes with molten skin, winged horrors from the sky kingdom of Dehrakh, slender assassins from the Halls of Whispering Screams.
But she? She did not rise.
A throne, carved from the corpses of kings, carried by four dreadknights, followed her wherever she went. Because standing was beneath her. Because war was beneath her. This entire day was, at best, entertainment.
A tall demon with silver armor, General Throzak of the Sixth Hell, stepped forward, his axe trailing sparks along the ground.
"Shall I send in the Crimson Maw, my Queen? They'll end it by nightfall."
Asmodara's eyes drifted to him, slow, bored.
"No. Let them entertain me."
He bowed and stepped back. The fighting began.
Prince Edward charged ahead with his vanguard, sword drawn, a blessing of light trailing behind him. The frontline met with a crash. Steel on steel, magic against magic. Soldiers screamed, dragons roared, fire met blood.
"Push through their line!" General Tavros yelled, his halberd cleaving into a winged demon's neck. "For the prince! For the pact!"
A beast from the second Hell surged forward, knocking aside three knights with a swing of its massive tail.
"Hold the left flank!" shouted General Mirelle, her robes soaked in ash and blood. "Mage line, cover us now!"
Spells flew. Lightning cracked. Earth shook. The battle surged back and forth. Demons fell in the hundreds. And yet, more kept coming.
Edward pushed deeper, leading a cavalry charge straight into the enemy ranks. His blade danced with holy fire. Three demons fell. Then five. Then ten.
But the tide refused to turn.
Behind it all, seated calmly, Asmodara watched. Her eyes followed Edward, slowly, as one might follow a leaf floating downstream.
"He's skilled," she muttered. "Too skilled."
Another of her generals leaned forward.
"Shall we crush his line, my Queen? I can summon the Ash Behemoth."
"No," she said. "They've only just started bleeding."
Hours passed. The sun faded and fires rose.
The human mages collapsed from exhaustion. The beasts of Rovaria were torn to pieces. The skyships from Kendros crashed in flames. The elite soldiers fought desperately, some with broken blades, others with bare hands.
And still, Asmodara did not move.
When Prince Edward finally fell to his knees, covered in blood, surrounded by the shredded remains of his banner, he looked up toward the throne.
"Please," he whispered. "Spare them."
She rose.
Gasps echoed across the battlefield because for the first time all day, the Queen stood.
She walked slowly toward him, heels tapping against the black stone.
The demons bowed as she passed. Not out of respect. Out of instinct.
She stopped before him.
"Kneel properly"
He was already on his knees, but he lowered his head.
"Now, show me what your pride is worth," she said.
He looked up, confused.
"Touch yourself."
Silence, even her demons blinked.
His generals turned away. His soldiers closed their eyes.
Edward trembled.
"Do it. Or I'll have your men scream until sunrise."
And he did, in front of everyone. In front of the dead. In front of the gods.
She watched with a blank face. No smirk, not even a frown. Just a pair of cold, molten red eyes.
When he was done, she turned.
"Spare them, strip their ranks. Chain them."
She walked back to her throne while Edward collapsed. He did not die that day, he died a week later, in a cage of gold. No chains, no torture. Just silence as he slit his own throat with a blade that had probably always been, quietly placed, like someone expected him to use it.
A demon whispered the news in her ear.
She didn't even look up.
"Pathetic."
And from that day, the Sword of Hope was broken.
And the war had only just begun.