Careth's face was a blank mask as she gazed at the tall demon who sat across the stone table from her. Three others sat around it, of varying shapes and kinds of magical creatures, but her eyes were fixed on Igmath as he addressed her in a sardonic, sandy tone.
"In other words, you assembled us here for the urgent announcement of no new developments in your egg-sitting. May I take it this has been accomplished so that we may direct our efforts elsewhere, Domestic Minister Careth?"
The other members of this dark council stirred uncomfortably in their seats but kept their contributions to sidelong glances at each other. Careth and Igmath hated each other, and both were dangerous demons, in different ways.
Power Igmath stood over seven feet tall unarmored, with broad shoulders and a mountainous build that belied both the practiced, sprightly movements of a trained and seasoned killer and a general's cunning of many campaigns. As the reigning head of House Abbadon he oversaw the military forces of Pandaimon, or what remained of them in these dark days of peace and prosperity for human and demi-humankind. In his state dress he looked no less intimidating than in his hell-wrought plated armor, and his horn-crowned head cast a long shadow on the lower-ranked demons at the table. He was the only House head present, at the special request of Careth.
This very Careth, a succubus of House Merihim, was the only one who seemed completely unaffected by Igmath's pressure. Though dwarfed by his physical presence and air of majesty, in her simple robes of state and with a small stack of documents beneath her splayed hands on the table, she responded to his heavy condescension with no more concern or change in her demeanor than if she had received a report from a messenger imp; a coolness that seemed more of an affront than belligerence in the face of such intimidation.
"Of course, if Your Grace wishes this one to take on faith House Abbadon's readiness to welcome our imminent new Lord as the primary representatives of all demonkind, then I will humbly report such to Dominion Shareva. However, I wished to offer you the chance to provide a more detailed report should it suit the honor of your House, as this is the most critical development facing Pandaimon presently. The scholars of House Belial currently studying the Nexus believe we may have as little as a week before the Lord's rebirth." The representative of House Belial, who sat to her right, nodded silently at this without meeting the eyes of either conversant.
Though a high-ranking official of House Merihim, which managed affairs of agriculture and production in addition to overseeing the large population of monsters and the few human slaves in Pandaimon, Careth was nevertheless by far the lowest ranked of the demons present; House Merihem was the lowest of the four Houses in prestige and power. But no one understood "soft power" as well as her. In every House, even Abbadon, demons of responsibility and influence knew Careth and understood how critical she had made herself to the workings of Pandaimon as the demon whose favor one wanted in order for things to go smoothly. She knew every important official and held favors from most of them, spending most of her time moving resources and personnel to where they would be most needed, requesting assistance on behalf of everyone and quietly, subtly taking future influence as payment. Though she was by no means capricious, the inconvenience it would bring if she became one's enemy kept even her superiors as obsequious as decorum permitted in her presence; and in turn, she wisely restrained her actions within the same bounds even as her influence grew. Only the most powerful demons could afford to flout her, and Igmath, who regarded her as an upstart and a schemer, was foremost among them. To get caught between the two of them would be disastrous.
Careth had quietly maneuvered herself within House Merihel to become the primary official overseeing the rebirth of the new Demon Lord, an event which occurred some hundred years after the death of the previous one as the world's excess magical energy gathered and concentrated in the corrupted, arcane reservoir known as the Nexus, which lay in the very center of the demon nation Pandaimon. As the most powerful magical being in the world and the natural ruler of all demons and monstrous races, the Demon Lord's rebirth was the most important event in the nation, with every House required to contribute in some way to its administration and celebration. House Belial monitored the progress of the phenomenon, sending their foremost magical technicians and scholars to watch over the Nexus with sensitive equipment, House Mammon gathered and saved resources to place at the new Demon Lord's disposal, House Abbadon prepared the ceremony to welcome the new Demon Lord and pledge the nation's allegiance on behalf of all the world's monsters, and House Merihel coordinated between everyone to ensure the entire process would be a success. A mere ceremony it may have been, but it would be the reborn Demon Lord's first impression of the nation he would lead as well as of the world itself, and first impressions were key.
* * *
Power Igmath restrained his emotions in the face of the impudence before him. The succubus seated across the table from him, not yet a century old, at an age where she ought to be bearing demon and cambion children to swell the ranks of his armies instead of playing at politics, had somehow amassed enough power under his nose to interrupt his schedule and demand his time in the presence of others, and now met his gaze with a steadiness that would have been brazen from one of his own commanders as she stated obvious facts to him in the bland, inoffensive tone one might hear from a tired shop clerk. It was infuriating and humiliating to the general of more than three centuries, who had outlived two Demon Lords and been the right hand of the last, that Pandaimon had deteriorated this much in the hundred years since the death of his former master. Politics, backroom dealings, and wheedling had supplanted the honest rule of strength and his military efforts were hamstrung by bickering and hesitation from creatures who would have been demoted to domestic slaves or concubines in the glory days of the past.
"The officers currently on campaign in Phicia are scheduled to return, victorious, tomorrow, with a fresh tribute of wealth and slaves to greet our new Lord. You can set Dominion Shareva's insecurities to rest, and yours."
Dusting off his jacket front as if to cleanse himself of the accumulated filth of bureaucracy, he stood and left the council chamber without another word, sparing only a glance at the empty throne that stood at the far end of the stone table.
Soon enough this will all be set right, he thought darkly. You'll find out what meaning your little schemes hold when a real power stands at the head of Pandaimon once more.
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* * *
Some time after the chilly conference drew to its abrupt close, the instigator Careth sat in a monster-drawn carriage, her various reports, official documents, and other affairs neatly tied in a bundle beside her, ready for delivery to her superior, Dominion Shareva. She was not headed to House Merihem's seat yet, though; she had given the driver a detour first.
After traveling a fair distance back and forth up a steep incline, the carriage finally stopped in front of a perfectly unassuming opening in a stony bluff. Stepping down from the carriage Careth turned to face downward for a moment before stepping into the natural cave. The palatial seats of the four Houses, the Demon Lord's Castle, waiting patiently and ominously along with the nation for its coming master, and the great wastelands of Pandaimon, brown and rocky, crawling with fierce monsters and even fiercer people, scrabbling and struggling for life against the harsh, unyielding land with the sprawl and detritus of their bleak lives laid out in defiant squalor beneath the sun, all of it was but an adjective to this one unremarkable place, where unknown to the unfortunate wretches of mortalkind all the world's wickedness and magical pollution gathered and condensed into the living calamity who would soon be unleashed once more upon the world.
The Nexus.
Careth walked inside the narrow opening, which quickly opened out into a large natural chamber lit by the spectral illumination of the mana-rich crystal formations that ran through the walls and ceiling in eldritch, twisting tendrils that stretched up and across from the massive object that stood in the center; a faintly glimmering coccoon of condensed magical energy that pulsed and twitched like a living organ, nursing at its core the being who would soon emerge. Around it, at a safe distance, an array of tables, pedestals, and various arcane equpiment had been set up, manned by a team of technicians of House Belial. One of them, a slender male with dark green hair and a single horn protruding from his forehead, called out to Careth and approached her as she entered.
"Careth! I take it you've finished your conference already. Is Ilmon outside? I assume you accompanied him back."
"He had other business at the Castle, I'm afraid," Careth replied. "I'm just checking in on my way back to Merihem myself. I take it there is nothing new to report, Yechen? I may as well provide Shareva the absolute latest information if I'm to provide any."
Yechen glanced back at his teammates, who were heedlessly working on their various duties further back. Careth was a familiar sight by now; she had made regular appearances there ever since Dominion Shareva had placed her in charge of coordinating the new Demon Lord's awakening ceremony. Yet still he acts like that, she thought to herself. As if I were an outsider he might be caught and punished for leaking secrets to, instead of the official coordinator of this entire affair.
Succubi were considered low ranking demons, often treated as little more than incubators for boosting demon numbers during times of need; since they possessed little prowess in combat and only moderate magical talent they were held in low esteem by their more powerful relatives. Even Dominion Shareva, head of House Merihil and the only succubus to achieve such a high station in remembered history, was known as much for her prodigious number of offspring as for her wisdom and judgment in heading the domestic matters of Pandaimon.
"Well," Yechen said, and drew slightly closer to Careth as he turned back toward her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and said quietly "Everything is proceeding according to our projections regarding the Demon Lord's development inside the chrysalis, except,"
He drew closer still and spoke nearly into her ear, as a lover might whisper sweet words or a conspirator might give instructions to an accomplice. "There is still no presence of a mind, even now, when he should be nearly complete and semi-conscious."
Careth did not react to Yechen's touch, and her expression remained blank. He drew back, anxiety written plainly on his face, and after a meaningful look turned back to his colleagues and his work. Careth waited a moment then walked past the ring of researchers straight up to the glowing, pulsing chrysalis and placed her hand on it.
What are you waiting for? she silently asked. What changes will you bring, you almighty doll?
This situation had, on Careth's own authority, been told to no one outside the team present here and Shareva herself: to all indications the Nexus was producing a brainless Demon Lord, a mere husk. A physique mightier than the brute forces of nature in all its wrath, an apocalypse's worth of magical energy stuffed into a frame only slightly larger than a person, but an empty doll that might never move, speak, or command anything or anyone. For now the panic, chaos, and fear were confined in this chamber with their cause, but soon enough it would be impossible to conceal.
Change was certainly coming, but no one knew what to expect.
* * *
I'm an old man, thought Hierophant Pavlos as he stood alone in the silent chamber. Was it too much to ask that I could pass happily into the next life without having to see this?
Cool, still air that seemed to deaden one's senses the longer one remained fed the freshly lit torches lining the walls in this otherwise unlighted chamber deep beneath the Phicia Temple, where the goddess for whom the kingdom was named was glorified in the capital city of Nemia. Lining the walls were statues standing two meters tall, all of men dressed in heraldic armor and wielding wide-bladed swords - or, rather, a wide-bladed sword, the same one. At their feet were sarcophagi, marble inlaid with gold filigree and carved with names stretching back through milennia of history. This was the Hall of Heroes, where rested the memory, and some of the remains, of those who had offered their lives to stem the tide of evil that had threatened the world in their day by slaying its incarnation, the Demon Lord.
At the far end of the chamber, overlooking the assembled stone figures, stood the second-largest and oldest image of the goddess, not a statue but a mosaic image composed of over a hundred thousand individual stones and rising just over seven meters in height. History had forgotten the name of whatever genius craftsman who had created it, if indeed any human hands were involved.
Earlier that morning, the acolytes whose duty it was to refresh the chamber had come back in a panic with a report that chilled Pavlos' aged blood more deeply than the air of an early spring morning. After a hurried breakfast he had come down to verify it himself, and so it was:
The goddess in the mural was weeping liquid tears of blood, which ran shockingly down the ancient, massive icon in snaking rivulets to drip slowly onto the cold stone floor.
Pavlos awaited the arrival of someone else to whom message of this event would be given, and soon enough sharp footsteps bespeaking a firm, manly stride rang out behind him. Pavlos did not turn to face their source as a deep voice spoke quietly from behind him.
"So, this is why the demon forces have been so bold this year."
Aris Anaphicia, the Anointed, stood a full head higher than the aged Pavlos, and wore simple, unadorned garmets over his broad, warrior's frame. At his waist hung the sword whose image was held in twenty stone hands as if in salute to their original.
"Yes, Anointed," said Pavlos sadly, turning finally to face him. "The great, bloody dance of history that has drunk the life of your great-grandfather and so many of your ancestors before him has begun again, to drink yours, as it will those of your children's children, and theirs, I suppose until the end of time."
Aris did not reply, and after a gesture of worship toward the eerily weeping image of the goddess, he walked back, accompanied by the old priest, toward the farthest and newest statue. He placed his hand on the name carved into the sarcophagus in quiet reverence, and the statue that loomed above the two men resembled him closely.