The ruins of Venadyl were eerily quiet, the air thick with the lingering scent of ash and decay. Deumus lounged idly near the shattered remnants of a once-grand citadel, his elongated claws idly carving patterns into a nearby stone. The silence was a torment in itself—not for him, but because it robbed him of the cries and pleas of the helpless.

He thrived on suffering, especially from those who were weak and innocent. It was his joy, his purpose. Yet now, with the dragons gone and his demon forces obliterated, there was no one left to torment. All that remained was the summoning circle, pulsing faintly with demonic energy.

Deumus stared at it with disinterest.

“Protect the circle,” Stolas had commanded.

Deumus scoffed at the memory. Protecting the circle was a task beneath him. He would obey as long as it amused him, but he had no intention of sacrificing himself for its sake. He cared only for his own survival—and for finding the next helpless soul to destroy.

As he sat pondering his boredom, his attention was drawn to movement on the horizon. A low, rumbling hiss reached his ears, followed by the rhythmic thuds of approaching footsteps. Squinting, Deumus spotted a group of Crocods marching toward him, their primitive weapons glinting in the dim light.

The Crocods had long been a thorn in the side of his forces, their swamps a haven for their savage kind. Now, they sought revenge, their cold-blooded rage propelling them forward like a tidal wave of scaly fury.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Deumus leaned forward, intrigued.

“Fascinating,” he muttered, his lips curling into a cruel grin.

He attempted to weave his venomous whispers into their minds, sowing seeds of doubt and fear. Yet, the Crocods trudged on, their reptilian physiology rendering them nearly immune to his mental assaults.

Deumus frowned. His grin faded as the horde drew closer.

“Troublesome creatures,” he hissed. “You’ll die all the same.”

Still, as they neared, it became apparent just how many there were. A relentless tide, their numbers stretched far into the distance. Deumus’ confidence wavered. Fighting them would be tedious, and more importantly, dangerous.

The thought of risking his own life for a summoning circle—a tool meant to serve others—disgusted him. Stolas might demand loyalty, but Deumus’ allegiance was to his own survival and entertainment.

As the Crocods let out a unified roar and charged, Deumus made his decision.

“This isn’t worth my time,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

With a wave of his claw, he unleashed a minor eruption of dark energy at the Crocods, creating a temporary barrier of chaos to slow them down. Then, without a second glance, he fled into the shadows of Venadyl’s ruined streets.

The Crocods, undeterred, surged into the kingdom, their battle cries echoing through the ruins. They trampled over the circle, claiming the land as their own, their victory complete.

Deumus slithered away into the wilderness, his mind already concocting a new plan.

“Let them play their little games,” he mused to himself, a dark smile creeping back onto his face. “There’s always more innocents to torture elsewhere.”

He would deal with Stolas’ wrath later—or find a way to twist the blame onto someone else. For now, he would seek out new victims, leaving the Crocods to celebrate their hollow triumph.