Meanwhile, in the demon realm, a gathering of the highest ranking demons was underway. The air was thick with the acrid scent of brimstone and the cacophony of their malevolent laughter echoed through the cavernous halls. Their eyes, like embers of a dying fire, flickered with the anticipation of the coming chaos.

The topic of this discussion was the youthful Jezebel Grande, the ambitious daughter of the fallen demon Queen, Melissa Devereaux. Her lineage was undeniable, her beauty unmatched, and her cunning had earned her a reputation that had even the most seasoned demons wary of her intentions. The question at hand was whether she was fit to rule the realms of the demons after her mother.

Barthlomeu, Melissa's own flesh and blood, had long harbored a burning desire for power. He watched the shadows of the throne room dance on the walls as he spoke in hushed tones with his trusted ministers, Isiah and Bo. The two were as different as night and day, yet together they formed a formidable trio. Isiah, with his sharp intellect and silver tongue, could charm the very snakes that adorned the walls of the realm. Bo, on the other hand, was a brute force, his hulking form a living embodiment of the chaos that reigned in the hearts of the demonic hordes.

Together, they had uncovered whispers of a being that could shift the balance of power. In the distant lands of Qliax, a being of untold power was rumored to have emerged from the abyss, a child born of a union between a mortal and a minor deity. This being, they believed, could be the key to their ascension.

Their eyes fell upon a map of Avaricia, the mortal world above, where the rumors spoke of a divine lineage. "We must find this so-called demi-god," Barthlomeu hissed, his eyes gleaming with malice. "With its power, we could not only claim the throne but reshape this world to our will."

Isiah nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "The ancient texts speak of children born with the Pledge of Birthright, beings capable of bending the very fabric of reality." His gaze shifted to Bo, who nodded in silent understanding, his fists clenching in excitement.

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Barthlomeu's grin spread wide, revealing the sharp points of his teeth. "The time has come," he declared, slamming his fist upon the stone table. "We shall not wait for the second wave. We will make our own destiny."

The two ministers shared a knowing look before bowing low before their would-be king. "As you wish," Isiah murmured, his voice as smooth as velvet.

In the mortal realm of Avaricia, Castrol, stood before the tavern door in Sovereign. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the stoic figure of Wyatt, the burly man who had been loyal Tobias. Castrol had come seeking an audience with Barley's charismatic 'leader', Tobias Kingg, whose reputation for supposedly leading the refugees of Barley had spread like wildfire.

"You cannot pass," Wyatt's voice was firm, a wall of unyielding resolve. His hand balled into a fist, a clear indication that he was not to be trifled with.

Castrol's eyes narrowed. "I seek an audience with your 'savior'," he spat out the word as if it were a curse. "Why would you stand in the way?"

Wyatt's gaze didn't waver. "Tobias Kingg is busy rebuilding a future for those who have suffered," he replied. "His time is precious, not to be wasted on the likes of you."

The whispers grew louder in the street, a mix of curiosity and fear. Their confrontation had attracted a crowd.

Arteus stepped in, his hand still resting on the axe. He had heard the rumors, the whispers that had been weaving through the town like a serpent since the first refugees had arrived. They all knew that Tobias Kingg had been in Sovereign long before the rest of them, that his arrival had been no coincidence. His intentions remained as murky as the shadows he seemed to inhabit.

"Move aside," Castrol's commanding tone cut through the street's murmurs, his eyes fixed on Wyatt. The man's presence was a stark reminder of the chaos that had once gripped Barley, of the fear that had driven them to the brink.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Wyatt said calmly, his stance unyielding. "Tobias is not to be disturbed."

Castrol's eyes flashed with irritation. He was used to his commands being met with obedience, not stoic refusal. "You dare to deny me?" he growled, his hand tightening into a fist as well.

It was then that Arteus stepped forward, his eyes locking with Castrol's. "Let me take it from here," he said, his voice as calm as a still lake. "Let me, meet with Tobias."

Wyatt's gaze flickered to Arteus, then back to Castrol. For a moment, it seemed as if he might argue, but then he stepped aside, allowing the boy to pass.

It appears, at the least, that Wyatt still sees a use for the boy.

-To Be Continued-