"Welcome to Avalon, Trespassers." The deep voice awakened all primal fears in all who heard it.

Terrified murmurs rippled around the Demon Lord, making him realise his army was about to flee in panic. Acting quickly, before the fear could spread further, he stepped forward and raised his voice.

"Why don't you show yourself? It's easy to pretend to be something else in the darkness." His words steadied most soldiers, but their momentary hesitation allowed the Arcadians to push them dozens of metres back.

Amused laughter pierced through the black fog, and a terrifying sight emerged from the darkness. A scale-clad beast with a sharp head and piercing eyes slowly descended from the fortress wall, leaving deep gouges in the stone—stone that had previously withstood the magic and onslaught of the Devilkin army.

"How do I look to you now?"

Panicked screams from the rear of his army nearly drew the Demon Lord’s gaze away from the Dragon. He tried to convince himself that he could defeat such a beast, but the terror spreading like wildfire among his soldiers was also slowly overtaking him. Before the Dragon fully descended from the wall, several fireballs struck it, enraging the creature and sending it flying toward the insolent attacker.

The Demon Lord regained control as the Dragon furiously sped off, most likely to annihilate Balthazzar and his winged battalion. Steeling himself, he ordered his forces to push forward.

"We have only one chance, Kažhûn. If we fail today, we will never return here..." the Demon Lord's voice trembled.

"I know..." the General growled quietly, and together they moved to join the front line.

Under the relentless assault of swords and magic, the soldiers of Arcadia were finally pushed back. What was meant to be a formality—a final push to fulfil the prophecy—had become a desperate fight for survival. With the fierce Arcadian forces in front of them and the Dragon looming somewhere above, the Devilkin army was rapidly losing momentum. They had been trying to reach the Leylines' cardinal point as quickly as possible, but their progress had stalled, and the Demon Lord now realised his army was at a massive disadvantage.

The fortress's strange layout prevented his forces from spreading out, robbing them of the advantage their overwhelming numbers should have given them. Instead, the narrow paths funnelled them toward the other gate, all while being pounded by fire from both walls, making their losses barely acceptable.

"My Lord! My Lord!" a distressed voice called out to him.

"What?!" he snarled, taking another laboured breath. The fighting was intense, and even his strength had its limits.

"The Arcadians! They've cut off our retreat!"

"What did you just say?!" Cold sweat prickled down his back as the words hit him.

"Once our forces entered the fortress, four Arcadian armies, each ten thousand strong, entered the Shadow Realm using the shadow portals. They’re sporting large crimson banners with the ancient numbers one, two, five, and nine. We can’t retreat, and we can’t fight them. They’re even stronger than the soldiers holding us back here!" the messenger cried, his voice filled with panic.

"Impossible..." the Demon Lord's voice trembled.

Towering walls blocked his view, and he dared not take to the air, fearing the deadly Arcadian archers. For the first time in centuries, the Devilkins were facing defeat. As hard as it was to admit, the reality was undeniable—his army could not continue fighting in such unfavourable conditions.

"Imps! Evacuate the army! Teleport us out of here!" he snarled angrily, knowing he would be blamed for failure.

After a few moments of silence, when nothing happened, he glanced at the nearest Imp. The lesser demon looked stunned, and after several more failed attempts, he collapsed to his knees.

"I can't use Teleport, my Lord!" the Imp wailed in terror. "We’re trapped..."

"Impossible!" General Kažhûn growled.

"The only way left is forward..." The Demon Lord’s gaze shifted to the menacing shield wall of Avalon's defenders, despair creeping into his voice.

Knowing his only chance was to unleash all his power—despite the risk that some Devilkins might betray him—he had no choice. He glanced at Kažhûn, who grimly nodded, and together, they tapped into the powers granted to them by their nameless gods. Darkness swirled around them, and he felt his body grow, stretching painfully. Agonised cries filled the air, and the surrounding Devilkins looked on in fear.

When their transformation was complete, both towered over the rest of the army. They charged toward the enemy lines, crushing any resistance beneath their sharp talons. The surprised cries behind them soon shifted into chants of support and victory. A manic grin spread across his face, and he laughed madly as they neared the next gates. As he rampaged through the enemy lines, quickly dispatching the previously superior soldiers, he started to worry about the rest of his army. Though the exact number of fallen soldiers was impossible to know, the thinning ranks around him were a grim omen.

"We must regroup," he ordered, his stentorian voice booming loud enough for the remaining soldiers to hear.

"That will be difficult..." Kažhûn growled, punching a soldier in front of him and sending him flying, his death inevitable. "Aside from the two of us, no one else can move freely through this battlefield."

"Even so, we must do it or risk being crushed and routed. I can't believe that man has gathered such powerful soldiers..."

The Demon Lord wasted no time with idle chatter. As he spoke with the general, he began smashing at the gates. Arrows rained down on them, and boiling water was poured from the walls and gatehouse. The scalding water was especially effective, as it was nearly impossible to avoid the splashing droplets. His reluctant soldiers hesitated, constantly casting fearful glances at the foggy sky of the Shadow Realm in search of the Dragon whose roars and mocking laughter echoed over the battlefield.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

That hesitation cost them dearly. Arrows and spells tore through their ranks, and the Devilkin army quickly lost momentum. Each passing moment added to the Demon Lord’s growing unease, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. The creeping realisation that they had walked into a trap and that his entire army was being toyed with gnawed at him incessantly.

With a furious, defiant roar, he began smashing the gates in front of him, trying to drown out the doubts clouding his mind. He poured all his wrath into each punch, hacking and pounding at the thick gates that stood between him and his ultimate prize. He could feel it—the pulse of mana from Nilmerthis, just beyond. It had to be stopped. But the stubborn wood resisted every blow, indifferent to his rage and despair.

Kažhûn threw himself against the doors, attempting to ram them, but even his brute force barely made them shake. With a roar of desperation, the Demon Lord summoned Dark Flames and unleashed them upon the wooden planks. To his excitement, the gates caught fire, and with renewed vigour, he attacked again.

He couldn’t tell how long it took to finally break through or how many of his soldiers had perished during the delay, but as the gates swung open, his heart sank. Yet another set of gates stood before him, lined with arrow slits on all sides and overhead. The heavy grate of a portcullis blocked the way forward, making it extremely dangerous to push forward.

There was no other choice. The enemy had trapped them by sealing the teleportation spell and cutting off their escape route. Still, his armies were vast, and according to the constant reports received, they had managed to secure the lower layer of the fortress. The losses were heavy but not yet crippling—thirty thousand of the initial two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers were dead or unfit to continue fighting. His commanders were regrouping the forces faithfully, and despite the fierce resistance, the Devilkins still had the numerical advantage over the Arcadians.

Their enemies were exceptionally skilled and disciplined, initially catching them off guard. Still, the Devilkin forces had begun to adapt to their tactics, and the battle was becoming more balanced. While the enemy had superior armour and weapons, they were slowly losing ground under the relentless pressure of the advancing Devilkin army.

Kažhûn started hurling fire into the murder holes, focusing on the obstacles before him. He tapped into the power of his unnamed patrons, summoning a giant, dark fireball that shook the entire gatehouse but failed to destroy it. He knew, however, that he could break through and destroy everything—he just had to push harder. With immense effort of his will, he conjured an even more powerful Fireball that melted the portcullis and dented the doors of the gatehouse.

The giant Demons behind him fastened an improvised battering ram made from the remnants of the previous gates. They rushed forward, smashing violently into what they hoped was the last barrier several times. After several long, gruelling minutes, the gates finally gave way.

"You reek of ungodly powers, Dark One," a familiar voice, thick with disgust and apprehension, greeted him as he stepped into the large courtyard beyond the gatehouse.

He froze in his tracks, sensing Kažhûn and the others filling the limited space behind him. However, no one dared step forward or raise a hand against the woman seated atop the large Dragon that blocked the only way forward. It wasn’t fear of the Dragon that halted them, but the woman herself. Her beauty was paralysing, and her eyes, coloured like the purest amethysts, gazed upon them with disappointed disgust.

She wore a strange armour that accentuated her allure, yet its incredible quality emphasised it wasn’t just for show. She showed no concern for the presence of the Devilkin army, lounging on the Dragon’s elongated neck as if almost to embrace it. But the Demon Lord knew her actions were deliberate—she was displaying her magnificent black-feathered wings, the traditional symbol of Devilkin royalty.

As much as he wanted to kill her, it wasn’t that simple. She wasn’t alone. Another woman stood by, tall and blonde, casually leaning against the wall. Her gaze upon the Devilkin army was that of a butcher appraising helpless cattle. Beside her stood a tall knight clad in black armour, wearing the Royal Coat of Arms of Arcadia on a vibrant blue tabard. However, the Demon Lord wasn't sure if that man was the King of Arcadia himself. Behind them, hundreds of soldiers in black and gold armour stood ready, their eyes glowing with a menacing blue light through their visors.

"Cahrona Ashes! You’re alive!" The Demon Lord forced an uncertain smile, taking in her unusual form and the new power she now wielded—power she would undoubtedly use to challenge him.

"I am, despite your plot to sacrifice me," she replied with a fake smile. Her words stirred murmurs among his forces, and a creeping panic began to settle in him. "Undoubtedly, that would’ve cemented your claim to be a demon lord, you pathetic imitation."

"That was the highest of honours—your brother begged for it to be bestowed upon your family! You should be grateful." He quickly feigned shock at her accusations. "A weakling like you has no right to—"

"Silence," she interrupted, her voice sharp and impatient, instantly forcing his mouth shut. "I am Princess Cahrona Ashes, you fool. You stand before royalty. TO YOUR KNEES, WORMS!"

Her words struck like a hammer, forcing him to listen. Without a doubt, she was the real deal now, far more powerful than he was. Unfortunately for her, he was now blessed by the Gods. With a titanic effort of will, bolstered by his newfound power, he managed to defy her command. He barely masked his shock and laboured breathing, stealing a glance at Kažhûn, who also managed to remain standing. However, the rest of the soldiers behind him had fallen to their knees, fear and shock painted on their faces. He knew that his position had never been more precarious.

"I see..." he said slowly, trying to mask the strain in his voice. "I should have taken you as my queen instead of listening to your foolish brother."

"Back then, I might have considered that an honour and my duty as a Devilkin noble," she said, her face grimacing in disgust. "But don’t hold your breath if you think I still feel the same. I’ve changed, Sârtuuh. You’re not worthy of my time."

"Traitor!" he yelled, putting all suggestive influences he could muster to convince the surrounding army of his authority that had dwindled significantly.

"I have no patience for your petty accusations." She scoffed at him, shaking her head disapprovingly, and then took her gaze away from him. "I'm disgusted with myself that I ever considered you a king."

"Then fight me and take the crown," he snarled, his voice thick with bloodlust. "I will crush you—"

"I don’t think so," a male voice interrupted.

A tall man appeared in a bright flash of light, standing directly in front of the Dragon. His armour was richly decorated and masterfully crafted, yet devoid of any symbols indicating his rank. Despite this, the hundreds of black-and-gold-clad knights snapped to attention, offering a knightly salute by smashing their fists against their chests, hinting at the man's identity. Cahrona Ashes, the Black Knight, and the mysterious red-eyed, blonde woman bowed deeply in a display of the highest respect. Even the Dragon rose from the ground and lowered its massive head, lifting Cahrona onto its back. Only then did everyone realise she had been seated in a saddle atop the beast as if it were her mount.

But the tall man ignored them, focusing solely on the Demon Lord. For a fleeting moment, Sârtuuh felt an overwhelming emptiness, as though Death itself had already claimed his soul. It was the single most terrifying experience of his life. As the shock passed, the Demon Lord scrambled to collect his wits.

"You see," the man’s calm yet offended voice cut through the silence like crushing thunder. "You’ve forgotten something very important, you pest. You dared to invade my country and attack my cities..."