Darian & Arias vs. The Witch’s Coven
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Arias had made many mistakes in his life, but somehow, insulting an entire coven of witches in an online forum had landed at the top of the list.
“It wasn’t even that bad!” Arias huffed as he adjusted his jacket. “I just said that modern spellcasting lacks creativity.”
Darian, who had been dragged along for “moral support,” gave him a deadpan stare. “You called them ‘Pinterest witches with no sense of originality.’”
Arias scoffed. “Same thing.”
“No. No, it’s not.”
That was how they found themselves standing at the entrance of a remote, ivy-covered manor, deep in the woods, where an ominous glow pulsed through the windows. The wind howled ominously, leaves swirling in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate, like unseen hands were guiding them into sigils. The moment Arias stepped forward, the symbols shifted slightly, glowing faintly before vanishing back into the wind.
“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Darian muttered. “You’re the one who started this.”
Arias waved him off. “You’re my emotional support demon.”
Darian sighed. “I will let them hex you.”
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THE GATHERING OF THE WITCHES
The door creaked open before either of them could knock. A group of witches, clad in various shades of black and deep purple, stood in a perfect semi-circle, staring. The air crackled with magic, and a few of them were definitely levitating just to be dramatic.
One witch, taller than the rest with an air of regal menace, stepped forward. “Arias.”
Arias gave a winning smile. “Ladies.”
The temperature dropped instantly.
Darian sighed and subtly adjusted his coat. He had a feeling this was going to be a long night.
They were ushered inside to a grand hall lined with candles, floating grimoires, and at least three cauldrons bubbling ominously. A single chair sat in the center, illuminated by an overhead chandelier dripping with enchanted crystals.
“For the accused,” the regal witch said, gesturing.
Arias gulped and sat down. “This feels excessive.”
“Silence,” another witch intoned. “The trial of words shall commence.”
Darian, already regretting being here, leaned against the wall. “Great.”
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THREE HOURS OF ROASTING
For the next three hours, Arias was subjected to an elaborate spell-infused verbal roasting. Every minor flaw, embarrassing moment, and bad fashion choice from his past was displayed in holographic projections for the entire coven to see.
“Oh come on, that was years ago!” Arias whined as an image of him wearing an overly bedazzled leather jacket floated above them.
“You did that last week,” a witch corrected.
Darian, sipping a drink one of the witches had handed him, smirked. “This is the best entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”
At one point, the witches conjured a reenactment of Arias’ worst public failure—the infamous "Potion Catastrophe of Summer Solstice." An illusionary Arias was shown confidently presenting what he claimed to be a revolutionary alchemical mixture, only for it to explode in a cloud of neon pink smoke, temporarily turning half the audience into ducks. The witches howled with laughter as illusion-Arias flailed, trying to reverse the spell while being aggressively quacked at., complete with illusionary actors. The laughter was deafening.
Arias glared at Darian. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“No, I’m supposed to keep you alive. This is fair punishment.”
The witches cackled as they continued.
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A CHALLENGE IS ISSUED
Finally, when Arias was sufficiently humbled, the head witch spoke.
“There is only one way to redeem yourself,” she declared. “You must complete a task.”
Arias perked up. “Oh, finally! What do I have to do?”
“Win The Trial of Arcane Wit.”
A beat.
Darian frowned. “That sounds made up.”
“It is,” one of the witches admitted. “But it’s fun.”
Arias looked at Darian. “You got this, right?”
“No,” Darian said immediately. “You got yourself into this.”
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THE TRIAL OF ARCANE WIT
The trial consisted of a series of ridiculous challenges, including:
* A potions taste test, where Arias had to guess which one wouldn’t kill him. He failed twice, but Darian force-fed him the antidote in time.
* A riddle contest, which Arias barely scraped through by pure luck and Darian’s whispered hints.
* A dodge-the-animated-furniture event, where Darian had to physically pull him out of the way multiple times.
* A summoning challenge, where Arias managed to accidentally call forth a spectral chicken instead of an elemental spirit. The room went silent as the ghostly bird flapped its wings and let out a loud, echoing cluck. One witch gasped in horror, another muttered, "By the gods, it’s happened again." The head witch merely pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. We accept the offering."
* And finally, a spell-crafting freestyle competition, where Arias successfully cast a spell but only because he tripped and knocked over a cauldron, causing an unintended but effective explosion.
Against all odds (and logic), Arias won.
The witches, begrudgingly impressed, blessed both him and Darian as a reward.
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THE AFTERMATH
As they left the manor, Arias grinned. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Darian, flexing his fingers as faint golden runes glowed on his hands, scowled. “We are cursed with blessings.”
Arias, noticing the faint glow on his own skin, hummed. “Eh, I’ll take it.”
Darian gestured at a nearby floating book that now seemed determined to follow him. It hovered just out of reach, occasionally flipping its own pages as if sighing in impatience. Every time he tried to move away, it gently bumped into his shoulder like a particularly stubborn cat. Worse, it had started whispering spells under its breath—mostly harmless, but he was pretty sure it tried to hex his boots at least once. “You take it, then.”
From inside the manor, the witches cackled into the night. Somewhere deep in the woods, the spectral chicken Arias summoned refused to leave this plane, now existing as an eternal, mildly annoyed entity. Occasionally, travelers passing through the forest would hear an eerie, disembodied cluck in the wind, and some swore they glimpsed a faintly glowing, floating chicken watching them from the trees. Legends began to spread, and soon, whispers of The Phantom Fowl reached Arias. He pretended not to be concerned, but Darian was already placing bets on how long it would take before the witches sent it back to peck him in the face.
Arias vs. A Very Confused Demon
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Arias was used to supernatural encounters, but he hadn’t expected to be ambushed in his own kitchen by a demon who looked like he had just rolled out of bed.
“You,” the demon growled, rubbing his temples as if battling the worst migraine of his life. “You have a debt to pay.”
Arias, mid-bite into his breakfast, raised an eyebrow. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second, who are you?”
The demon squinted, clearly trying to remember. “I am... Vok’tir, Harbinger of Ruin.”
Arias took another bite. “Cool. And?”
Vok’tir hesitated. “And... you wronged me.”
Arias sighed. “You wanna be more specific, buddy? I’ve wronged a lot of people.”
The demon rummaged through a scroll that materialized in his claws, scanning the chaotic script. “You...uh... sabotaged a ritual of mine centuries ago.”
Arias snapped his fingers. “Oh! That thing. Yeah, you were trying to rip open a portal in the middle of a tavern. Not my fault you picked a terrible location.”
Vok’tir scowled. “I was banished back to the Abyss for a hundred years because of that!”
Arias shrugged. “Honestly, sounds like a you problem.”
Vok’tir’s eye twitched. “It was a me problem, until I got approval to make it a you problem.” He waved a clawed hand, and a stack of official-looking Abyssal paperwork materialized out of thin air. “I had to submit Form 66-H for ‘Delayed Vengeance Authorization,’ get it signed by three supervisors, then bribe an infernal notary just to get this meeting scheduled.” He scowled. “I hate the system, but it does allow for some spectacularly petty revenge.”
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NEGOTIATING WITH THE INFERNAL
Instead of launching into a fight, Arias noticed something unusual—the demon seemed seriously distracted. His eyes darted to the side every few seconds, his shoulders tense, and he kept checking over his shoulder as if someone was watching.
“You good?” Arias asked, finishing his breakfast.
Vok’tir sighed dramatically and slumped against the counter. “No, I’m not good. Bureaucracy in the Abyss is a nightmare. I had to fill out fourteen different forms just to be allowed to curse you.”
Arias whistled. “Sounds rough.”
Vok’tir groaned. “And don’t even get me started on the taxes. You think Hell doesn’t do taxes? We invented them. There’s a Sin Levy, an Eternal Damnation Surcharge, and don’t even ask about the Torment Maintenance Fee. If you make a deal with a soul and forget to file Form 999-F for ‘Souls Claimed in Fiscal Year,’ they send auditors. Demonic. Auditors.” And then we outsourced them to your world.”
Arias, sensing an opportunity, leaned forward. “Tell you what. What if—just hypothetically—we drop the whole curse thing and talk business instead?”
Vok’tir blinked. “...Business?”
Arias grinned. “Yeah. You’re clearly overworked. What if I help you get out of whatever demonic corporate hellhole you’re stuck in?”
Vok’tir hesitated, interest flickering behind his tired eyes. “Go on.”
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THE DEAL OF A LIFETIME
It didn’t take much convincing. Within an hour, Arias and Vok’tir had completely abandoned their original conflict and instead formed an unlikely business partnership.
“What if we invest in underworld real estate?” Arias proposed. “There’s gotta be so many cursed properties just sitting there.”
Vok’tir rubbed his chin. “Actually... there is a market for that. Mortals keep summoning demons into abandoned places. We could flip those locations, add some cursed decor, and resell them as high-value haunting zones.”
Arias snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Hell-themed renovations! Call it... Infernal Estates.”
Vok’tir’s eyes gleamed, his tail flicking in excitement as he sat up straighter. “I like it.”
Within an hour, Arias had drawn up a business plan on the back of a napkin, and Vok’tir had summoned an infernal accountant who immediately began assessing their startup capital.
“There are some zoning issues with Hellgate property ownership,” the accountant droned, flipping through an ancient tome labeled The Abyssal Guide to Land Management. “But with the right contracts, you can get around that.”
Arias nudged Vok’tir. “You see? This is already better than filling out curse paperwork.”
And just like that, Arias and the demon he was supposed to be cursed by became minor business partners.
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THE AFTERMATH
Later that evening, Darian walked into the kitchen, took one look at Vok’tir reading real estate market reports, and sighed. “Do I even want to know?”
Arias grinned. “Probably not, but long story short: I was supposed to be cursed, and now I own 10% of a demon-run property business.”
Vok’tir held up a document. “You interested in buying a vacation home in the Underworld? We have some lovely abyssal lakefront properties.”
Darian turned on his heel and left without another word, muttering under his breath, "This is why I don’t take days off."
Arias watched him go, then turned back to Vok’tir. “So, about branding—should we go with the classic fire and brimstone aesthetic or something more rustic?”
Vok’tir nodded thoughtfully. “Rustic Hell is in right now.”
A shadow flickered in the corner of the room, and the infernal accountant cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, before we finalize anything, we do need to discuss investment risks. For instance, how will you handle spectral tenants who refuse to pay rent?”
Arias tapped his chin. “Exorcisms seem too aggressive... Maybe charge extra for the haunted ambiance?”
Vok’tir snapped his fingers. “Premium ghost-friendly leases!”
The accountant nodded approvingly. “Now that’s innovation.” He straightened his posture slightly, his eyes gleaming with newfound ambition. "If this takes off, I might finally have enough leverage to break into the high-tier soul-trading market. Maybe even get a promotion out of the Third Circle."