“I believed you had reneged on our contract, Flesh-sculptor.”

“I am simply inconvenienced at the moment, Lord Mammon. Your assistance in this will greatly accelerate my ability to fulfil your request.”

The two guards who were supposed to watch Jakob, while he worked on making the Daemon-powered phylactery, lay dead on the ground, their blood glistening on the claws of the Demon Lord.

“What work is this that you are undertaking?”

“They wish to have some person of importance brought back to life. I have given them my word and will fulfil their request. My word, once given, is inviolable.”

“An ethic many of your kin lack,” the Demon Lord noted with some satisfaction, wandering across the stone floor, as though sightseeing.

“Amusing.” Mammon leaned over the dead man on the slab. “Are you aware that this is the Crown Prince of Helmsgarten?”

“I was not, but it hardly matters. Once my work here is complete, a nuisance will be gone from my life, and I can focus on what matters.”

“Do you believe they will let you leave here unharmed.”

“I am no fool, but they will let me live until the work is complete. What comes after is a consideration for then and not now.”

After conveying the requirements and ideas Jakob had formed about the Daemon-phylactery, the Demon Lord asked a question he had not expected:

“Do you resent me for claiming this vessel?”

Jakob looked at Mammon’s unreadable face. Once it had belonged to a human, but now it was transformed to the Demon’s whims and constantly struggling to accommodate the impossibly-powerful soul within.

“Why should I?”

“Was he not your friend, this Veks?”

“Friend? I have no use of such bonds. Relational ties are the chains by which we are bound and enslaved.”

Mammon laughed darkly. “Are you certain you are not a Proud Demon in disguise?”

Unblinking, Jakob stared back and answered, “I am worse than a Demon. My Pride is not inherent to my being, but it is earnt. Demons are short-sighted like an explosion, while I have the long-lived smouldering flame of ambition within me.”

“See!” the Demon Lord remarked, excitedly. “This is why I enjoy the Mundane Realm! You humans are an endless source of entertainment!”

Jakob frowned beneath his scent-mask. “I was being serious.”

The subsequent demonic laughter echoed down the long and winding corridors of the tomb.

With the aid of Lord Mammon, Jakob drew his most complex summoning-and-binding sigil to date. It had seven overlapping circles, a fever-pitched reimagining of a septagram crossing through them, and many smaller symbols and sketches within, as well as lengthy written incantations that essentially eliminated the requirement for the Invoker to chant a long and water-tight contract. If not for the hyper-specificity of the sigil, he could have potentially reverse-engineered it and used it to summon a different daemon, or even a Demon Lord such as Mammon himself.

“Who decided to name this daemon ‘Guillaume’?” Jakob wondered. The Demon Lord had provided him not only with the knowledge of the ritual itself, but also the name of the entity he was summoning.

“A name given cannot be retracted and has the power to alter any given being’s fate. But for an Invoker such as yourself, only the power which it holds over a being is of any import.”

The reverence and significance the Demon Lord put on names made Jakob slightly ashamed of his own capricious approach to naming entities. Grandfather seemed far more adept at naming his creations. After all, Heskel wielded a name that Jakob had not encountered before, and from what he had learnt of other languages, it seemed to hold a multitude of meanings, which, to a being such as Mammon, likely meant that Heskel’s potential was limitless. Jakob’s name-giving on the other hand were simple and straight-forward, such as with “Stelji”. If the Demon’s words were true, the Lightning-wielding Wrought Servant would never evolve beyond her name, her potential forever confined to matching her name. But, there was a beauty in the simplistic and straight-forward, Jakob thought. After all, the simple invention of the spear had forever changed the trajectory of humankind, both in warfare and hunting.

Following the arduous and painstaking brushwork required for the sigil, Jakob took the bowl-like vessel he had constructed from the bones of the two dead sorcerers using the Amalgam Hymn. It was his hope that their magically-attuned corpuses would provide a stronger base than normal bones. Mammon made several precise cuts on the inside of the vessel with his wickedly-sharp claws, each collection of cuts representing some Chthonic abstract law.

“How is it that demons know Chthonic? Your own language and symbols are potent enough by themselves.”

“Even the proudest of my kind do not neglect the veneration that the Great Ones are owed. Their voices echo in the darkness between our realms, and even our powers, strong as they are, remain only errant sparks from the flame of their magic.”

On some innate level, Jakob knew this truth. After all, had he not used Chthonic to command Tchinn? A language that could spontaneously manifest a Great One was one which ought to be revered and feared, even by demonkind.

“What of the Betrayer, the Flayed Lady?”

“Oh, she is powerful, and has many followers across the realmscape. But she cannot match the Watcher and his Vassals. But then, her insidiousness is a flame that burns neither bright nor leaves trails of smoke, though its heat is intense to those who feel its touch.”

“I noticed that Sig the Eyeless was amongst your retinue.”

“She has regained her eyes.”

“Be wary that her insidious flame does not remain as warm embers.”

“She renounced her Lady to me as she slew her own cult and adulated the Watcher before my own ears.”

“Humans are insidiousness incarnate. They may say what is pleasing for you to hear, but beneath the façade they possess a different tongue that speaks only behind your back.”

“You speak as if you do not count yourself amongst them,” Mammon noted with a chuckle, before becoming serious again, “But you are quite right. It was after all a devious human who entrapped me within a blade once.”

Though he would not say it out loud, he found it strangely ironic how naïve and direct demons were. After all, they took a word given as law, even though they had the notoriety of being silver-tongued and devious. If not for their sincere straightforwardness and simplicity, they would have been unconquerable foes to humankind. Most of Jakob’s Demonological spells-and-rituals hinged on these contract and word-as-law concepts that demons held in high esteem.

Jakob had a sudden thought. “What if a demon believes itself above a contract? Can it break free of the bonds? After all, are they not merely imaginary concepts?”

“Perhaps if all Demonkind decided to unanimously ignore contracts, it could be possible to make all words and promises null. But the will and belief of the whole of our species bind the errant strays who would deviate. Likewise, you humans follow arbitrary concepts that in actuality have no power over you.”

“Such as laws? I think you know that such concepts do not bind everyone equally.”

“Not laws, they are after all transient and according to the age and whims of those in charge of your hives.”

“Then what?” Jakob asked. For once in a long time, he felt like a student before a mentor, enraptured by the words of one wiser than him.

“Humans such as yourself, yes you are not exempt, hold steadfast to the idea of Time. After all, are there not whole communities amongst you that dedicate their life to tracking time and who give names to concepts such as ‘days’, ‘weeks’, ‘months’, ‘seasons’, ‘years’, and so forth?”

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“But these are inviolable concepts based on fact.”

“Are they? Or do you simply believe that they are? How are you sure that today is in fact today and not three hundred years hence? What assurances do you have that time is a fact? You only believe what everyone else believes, and they are no more informed than you on the matter.”

Jakob opened his mouth to retort, but realised he had no argument to counter with. As he considered the Demon Lord’s words, he realised that Time was but one amongst many things that humans vehemently believed were fixed and unchangeable, but were in actuality no less transient than the laws that defined borders and schooled a populace into subservience.

“You have expanded my perspective,” Jakob answered finally.

“Only a willing listener can receive wisdom,” Mammon replied.

Steps echoed through the tunnel and Jakob hastily addressed the Demon Lord.

“With your assistance, I should be able to wrap up this matter within a few days at most. I pray that Heskel has already begun the preparations without me.”

“Of course. Your companion is diligent. The eight-legged construct and your two servants have also found refuge within my golden hall. They await your return.”

Jakob nodded curtly, as Mammon turned to golden flakes that dispersed into the air and became dust within moments.

“… Tarry not … Flesh-sculptor …”

While the demonic voice faded into the stones, the steps of the approaching men grew louder-and-louder, before eventually manifesting into Sirellius and four guards, two of them obviously sorcerers given their lack of meaningful weaponry and loose-fitting armour. It was quite amusing how they always dressed according to their assigned roles, he thought.

“Just in time,” Jakob answered as though he had expected their arrival.

Sirellius narrowed his eyes and his retinue spread out, two with their swords pointed at him, the other pair behind them, hands lifted and waiting for the signal to chant their magic. To assuage their fears, Jakob set Tchinn down on a nearby slab.

“I briefly lost the ability to divine on your work,” the Advisor said, an unspoken accusation hiding behind it.

“You were scrying on me?”

“Obviously.”

“How?”

Sirellius ignored him and continued his interrogation. “Why have you slain your guards?”

“They attempted to stop me.”

“From doing what?”

“What I promised to do. It seems their constitutions were too weak to allow my work to progress.” It was only a half-truth, though what they had attempted to halt was his summoning of Mammon. “They were not as loyal or obedient as you promised.”

Sirellius bristled at his words, taking the insult personally. “That does not explain why my divination failed.”

“Have you tried summoning a Daemon before?” Jakob asked, indicating the complex patterns that covered the floor near the centre of the room.

“No.”

“Neither have I. I do not pretend to understand all that such an undertaking involves, but I am aware that it may have a profound impact on the stability of nearby rituals.” It was another half-truth. In actuality, Mammon had provided the magical aura that prevented scrying, though it had been meant to conceal their interaction from Grandfather, not the Advisor, though it made sense that the Old Man possessed the ability to scry on him, since there were no other logical explanations as to how he managed to coordinate his Royal Guardsmen from the castle, while they roamed many kilometres to the south amongst the populace of Helmsgarten. Sirellius’ ability to scry also explained the Crown’s infamous ability to locate anyone, no matter where they went nor how well they hid.

Sirellius nodded slowly as if conceding the point and he let the accusation drop. In the end, he had more use of Jakob than two guards of middling capabilities. It seemed Jakob yet retained the upper hand.

“We will stay to oversee the rest of the ritual.”

“Sire, what about the invasion?” asked one of the sorcerers.

“They will manage without us; this takes precedence. The Major is capable of making her own choices.”

The Diviner nodded curtly to Jakob, indicating that he may continue his work.

Jakob smiled grimly beneath his mask, before taking a full drag of the Misty Reminiscence within and peeling it off his face. After stuffing the mask in a deep pocket of his oversized Magister’s Robe, he let out the cloudy air with a steady breath, then walked to the edge of the elaborate ritual circle and knelt within the small ring made for the Invoker.

Unlike those beyond the confines of this particular circle, he would be untouched by any sort of magic or aura that the summoned Daemon naturally exuded. Normally, such an inclusion was paramount to pulling off a flawless Contract Binding, but it was not a necessity here, given that the ritual contained the contract within and he needed only Invoke the rite. But, he was dealing with an Undying Daemon, who had one of the most devastating natural auras amongst Demons and their Spawn, so it was a precaution even the Demon Lord had advised.

Grandfather had once mentioned that a newborn Undying Daemon could decimate a city in days, while it would take a Covetous one like Tchinn months. Complimentary Daemons, such as Tchinn, whose halves were able to coexist, were strong not because they had a bigger reserve of power than normal demons, but rather because they could combine the nature of their halves in dangerous ways. On the other hand, Conflicting Daemons, whose two halves were opposing forces, were fuelled by a limitless supply of power, but were also constantly experiencing inner turmoil as their halves attempted to overpower the other.

Perhaps not unsurprisingly, Pride Demons often produced Conflicting Daemons when they mated with other demonkind, given that their spirits were unbendable and overpowering. The Proud Saint was after all the first of the Seven Saints to fall to Vice, spawning Proud Demons and their Realm from the pure strength of his soul alone.

It was unheard of for such Daemons, like the Undying whose halves were Pride and Sloth, to exist in a stable balance, thus they were impossible to control. However, the genius in the contract that Mammon had constructed, was that there was no attempt at control, only a simple trade that any Demon would gleefully accept, especially one where Sloth held sway.

Jakob placed his hands on the symbols Mammon had personally drawn, and he felt quietly amused that the Advisor and his retinue all took several steps back from him. In reality, there was nowhere for them to hide from what was coming, given that Jakob occupied the only sanctuary.

“Guillaume, heed my beckoning call.”

Every single flame in the morgue, and no doubt every last one in the entire castle and its vicinity, was smothered as the entity came forth within the bone-melded bowl. It appeared as an oily black flame with a core of brilliant pale blue. The instant the Daemon arrived, the words of the contract, which inscribed the many rings of the summoning ritual inside-and-out, were set alight by its gaze.

Its voice came like a whisper, and Jakob immediately heard the five people behind him collapse to their knees, while whining in agony and pleading for death. “…your deal…is…favourable…”

“I am pleased that you say so,” he replied. Already, one of the sorcerers lay dead, his eyes turned black and ooze dripping from his ears. Moments later, he struggled upright, his black eyes now serving the Entity in the bowl at the centre of the ritual.

“…what trade…doth thou…seek…?” Guillaume asked, his drawling-and-slow voice causing the other sorcerer’s head to open with a terrible crunch of cranial bone as a new limb covered in thorns emerged from within. His eyes too were black as tar and served the Daemon.

“Return the soul and wits to the man whose corpus occupies the dais,” Jakob replied, noting with self-satisfaction that the protections placed around the Crown Prince’s stone slab kept him from the magic of the Daemon. “As stated in the contract, you will be gifted a gallon of blood at dawn every second day, which the Advisor in the white-and-purple robe will ensure. If an offering is neglected, you may take your offering from him, before the summoning is annulled and you are released.”

“…I accept…these terms…”

Satisfied, Jakob smiled to himself, “You may keep those whose minds you’ve already consumed, as a show of good faith. The Advisor will be at your beck-and-call, if you need it.”

“…thank you…Jakob…I will…remember…your gifts…”

He looked up, feeling a tinge of unease trail down his spine. If not for Lord Mammon’s assurances, he would have worried that the Daemon could place him under its thrall, after all, it had managed to enkindle the two sorcerer guards with its flame, despite the fact that the ritual severely limited the reach of its aura. It was quite a thing to behold that even the tiniest fraction of an Undying Daemon’s aura had such tremendous power within it still. He had no doubt that several others within the castle had fallen under its flame of undeath, chosen either by random or according to some unknowable logic.

Sirellius wiped blood from his nose and glared at Jakob, who remained kneeling within his sanctuary.

“What have you done!?”

“What I was asked,” he replied calmly.

The Old Man attempted to chant his magic, but found himself unable to, perhaps due to the internal trauma he had experienced, yet miraculously survived, or perhaps because of the lingering aura of the Daemon.

When his magic would not come to him, he picked up one of the unconscious guards’ swords and startled shambling towards Jakob, with the intention to kill him clearly written on his face.

“Enough, Sirellius! Put down the sword.”

The Advisor froze, turning his head to the source of the admonishing voice.

From the stone slab, the Crown Prince of Helmsgarten had arisen, his body no better than moments before, with frostbite, gangrene, and putrefaction corrupting it, but life returned to him nonetheless.

The naked man regarded Jakob, then the bowl and the oily flame within, as well as the two black-eyed Undying Slaves, the blood-drawn ritual lines, and the room they were in.

“How am I alive? What sort of magic is this?”

“My Liege—” Sirellius began, but the Prince was incensed.

“I will speak with father. I know he orchestrated this.” He quickly stormed for the exit.

“But, your body…!”

Halfway across the room already, the Prince paused and took-in his body in the sickly light of the Daemon in the bowl. “How long was I dead, Sirellius?”

“…Eight days, my Liege.”

“Eight? Eight days!? I am a corpse, you incompetent fool! Look at me! Look what has become of me!”

Jakob arose from his spot and turned to look at the Prince after reattaching the scent-mask. “I can fix your body. I can make you more than you were.”

“Are you the one who brought me back from the Afterlife?”

“I am.”

“Very well. You may correct the mistakes that Sirellius caused.”

“My Liege, I was not responsible for—”

“Silence!”

Jakob stepped out of the ritual circle and walked towards the pair, retrieving Tchinn on the way and stuffing the spell tome into one of the pockets of his robe.

“Let us leave this undercroft first,” he told them, then he turned towards the Advisor, who already seemed to be regretting the actions that had led him to this moment. “I will need materials.”

“You will have them,” the Prince answered on behalf of the Old Man who suddenly looked twice his natural age in the Undying light.