Perched atop the roof of a crumbling tavern, Jason swayed with his head tilted back and arms outstretched as he soaked in the intoxicating, unrelenting pulse of mana saturating the world around him. The air crackled with a resounding explosion, and a maelstrom of mana swept across the city. Moments earlier, a shimmering dome had enveloped them, forcing a temporary ceasefire as every fighter—from vampires to beastkin, holy knights, and refugees—turned their gaze skyward at the protective barrier.
For thirty long minutes after the explosion, the dome stood firm, protecting the city until it seemingly evaporated into nothingness, leaving no trace of who had summoned it. With the barrier gone, the muffled sounds of clashing swords and crackling magic erupted once more amidst the swirling gale, as the unrestrained maelstrom aftermath of the explosion roared through the streets.
Jason cocked his head to one side, glancing down at the chaos as the unspoken ceasefire crumbled with the barrier. A needle-sharp grin spread across his blood-streaked face as he drew in a deep breath, reveling in the sheer power swirling around him. He stood on that precarious perch, feeling the raw energy course through his veins. Yet, even as he basked in the elemental fury, he was caught off guard by the sudden flood of undead monsters pouring into the fray. Undead had been present before, but never in such a variety of creatures or overwhelming numbers. The spectacle made him frown, a pout curling his lips as he lamented the Slaethians being cut down before he could fully sate his bloodlust.
With his arms still outstretched, Jason leaned back and let himself fall, his body plunging toward the cobblestone street below.
A bloodied vampire stumbled back as a barbarian laughed, raising his battle axe—only to freeze mid-swing as a dark fae passed between them, landing and vanishing into the darkness. The vampire and barbarian exchanged bewildered glances, their confusion painted across their faces. The vampire shrugged, unable to make sense of the encounter, while the barbarian shook his head and refocused on the fight—until a blade pierced his back and jutted out from his chest. The vampire staggered back, eyes wide with shock.
Frozen in indecision, the vampire watched, mesmerized, as the blade moved with deliberate precision, sawing back and forth in a circular motion as though carving out the barbarian’s heart. With the final cut, the sword withdrew, revealing a dark fae the vampire recognized as one of Lady Aurelia’s attendees—Jason, if he remembered correctly. Jason stood there, biting into the barbarian’s heart like an apple, savoring each crimson drop that trickled down his chin.
“T-Thanks,” the vampire stuttered, uncertain of what he had just witnessed.
Jason ignored the vampire’s gratitude while focusing solely on savoring his delicious prize. He turned to the nearby wall and stepped into the shadow draped across it, disappearing from view. Casually slipping through the darkness, he reappeared on the ledge of a nearby building, gazing down at the scene below. Undead monsters continued to surge against the Slaethians, pushing them back in an unrelenting tide. Jason watched with a cold, detached interest, munching thoughtfully on his gruesome bounty.
Looking back toward the vampires’ frontlines, Jason nearly dropped the heart clutched in his grasp. A grizzled figure cloaked in black robes stood among the ranks, his face obscured beneath a hood, only two ominous, glowing red irises visible within the darkness. Beside him stood a goblin with the bearing of royalty. But Jason dismissed the green pretender, his gaze locked on the shadowy figure.
“Fucking Demidicus,” Jason grumbled under his breath.
It had been quite some time since Jason had laid eyes on that old bastard. The last encounter was when he and his so-called friends—though he refused to acknowledge those other Earthlings as such—had escaped the dungeon, only to be thrown into the castle’s prison cells. The memory left a bitter taste, and Jason toyed with the idea of ripping out the vampire lord’s heart. Yet, he knew better than to rush headlong into a fight with Demidicus, uncertain of how powerful that ancient vampire was. Begrudgingly, Jason held back, biding his time. If the worst came to pass, he could always vanish into the shadows and slip away from the old vampire’s grasp.
Jason tore his gaze away from Demidicus, shifting his attention back to the chaotic clashes raging across the city. His eyes scanned the battlefield, only to freeze when he spotted a particular figure. The delectable heart slipped from his grasp, splattering onto the ground unnoticed as he stood transfixed.
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Vorigan sauntered through the city streets with the air of someone wandering through a bustling market, casual and seemingly unconcerned with the chaos around him. His two captives—or rather, allies—trailed closely behind. As fellow vampires clashed with Slaethians, Vorigan often had to sidestep abruptly, easily maneuvering around the skirmishes. His… companions, on the other hand, were visibly on edge. Jumpy and twitchy, they seemed unsure of whom to attack. Instead, they clung close to Vorigan, with Craycroft occasionally casting a barrier spell to fend off a stray sword strike or spell from either side.
“Where in the bloody hells are we headin’?” Gimona Grimmail swore as her gaze darted to the battles raging around them. “And why the feck are we walkin’ down the middle of the road? Shouldn’t we, I dunno, be sneakin’ through the alleys or somethin’?”
“Not sure, but I’d agree—” Craycroft began to say before reinforcing his barrier spell as a vial of something bubbling and green shattered against his ward, sizzling ominously. “Argh, what a nightmare,” he muttered. “Our best option is to stay close to our current… friend, hoping for his generosity once this battle reaches its conclusion.”
“Aye, but that don’t mean I’ve gotta like it,” Gimona muttered as she clung to the vampiric frog’s tattered rags. Around them, the battle raged on, with corpses littering their path and undead beasts running amok.
“Well, if anything, you smell like shit. I doubt anyone would want to get close enough to you to take your head,” Craycroft chuckled nervously, casting a sidelong glance at Gimona as he tried to mask his unease with humor.
“I’m more worried about a vamp bitin’ me neck after,” she muttered.
“Then I’d say the same thing goes.”
Gimona was about to deliver a sharp retort, but the words died on her lips as Vorigan was ripped off the ground in a blur of speed, a deafening boom ringing out. Nervously, she and Craycroft glanced around, heads whipping back and forth in confusion, much like the others caught up in the fighting.
But it was the old wizard who first noticed Vorigan, pinned against a wall, his feet dangling helplessly as a needle-toothed dark fae held him aloft with one hand. Horror washed over the wizard, and gasps of sympathy and pain rippled through the onlookers. The dark fae plunged a sword directly into the frog man’s groin, pinning his hips to the stone as he pulled Vorigan’s face close, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent.
Craycroft’s fingers ignited in panic, the incipient magic swirling around them like dancing fireflies. But the battlefield, once a cacophony of clashing steel and desperate cries, hushed. Warriors froze mid-swing, their blades suspended in tense anticipation. All eyes shifted, drawn to the unlikely tableau unfolding before them.
Vorigan, his voice a velvet croak that cut through the war’s clamor. “Oh, daddy,” he breathed, longing and danger woven into the syllables. “I’ve missed you.”
Craycroft, battle-hardened and spell-weary, hesitated. His glowing hands faltered, the magic flickering like a candle in the wind. The world seemed to hold its breath, frozen in stunned silence. Even Duchess Gimona Grimmail’s jaw went slack as she stared at the pair, unable to comprehend the spectacle unfolding before her eyes.
And then, with a recklessness that defied the chaos around them, Vorigan closed the distance. His lips met the fae man’s, and the moon itself seemed to tremble. The kiss was deep, desperate, and unapologetically intimate. The onlookers, their own desires and secrets hidden behind stoic masks, grimaced. But Vorigan, groin pinned against the cold stone wall, only moaned in delight.
In that stolen moment, amidst the clash of steel and the scent of blood, the dark fae and the vampiric frog found solace. Like the magic that bound them, their passion defied reason and consequence.
And the moon seemed to hold its breath for all its violent fury, as if even war could pause for love daring to bloom in the shadow of death. The battlefield stood still, bound in stunned silence, until the dwarf woman broke it with a muttered growl, “I’m going to be fuckin’ sick.”
“I believe I’ll be joining you,” Craycroft nodded in agreement.
“Seriously, is that the frog’s cock layin’ there on the ground?”
“Hmm—oh, I believe you’re correct,” Craycroft replied, a grim resignation crossing his face as he fought the instinct to shield his own groin in sympathy.
“EZAD!” came a loud shout, snapping the frozen spectators’ gazes down the cobblestone street.
There stood Vanya Anlyth, her sword pointed forward. Every eye followed her line of sight to the other end of the street, where General Ezad Anlyth stood beside a high elf woman and a wood elf man. Vanya’s husband—ex-husband—held his gaze firm, his expression unreadable as tension crackled through the air.
“Vanya?” Gimona muttered, before feeling a tug on her shoulder. She glanced up to see Craycroft trying to pull her out of harm’s way, closer to the two oblivious monsters locked in their passion, which resembled a shark-feeding frenzy more than anything.
“This is one spousal dispute we don’t want to be in the middle of,” he whispered urgently.
“Aye,” Gimona nodded in agreement.