They were standing in the aftermath of a massacre.

Reaped like fields of wheat, primitive warriors in various stages of dying and death were strewn for hundreds of feet, blotting out the desert sand. The bodies ranged in size and shape, color and features. Humanoid yes, a mockery of the men and women who had been raped by demons to spawn their hated kind, but each uniquely grotesque. Horns on one, scales on another. Claws and fur, tails and hooves.

The only commonality they shared, as far as Isren was concerned, was that each and every one of them was an abomination.

Cries of pain and agony were a disjointed melody, the impacts of an axe carving into a massive cadaver the surviving horde surrounded, a beat to the macabre harmony. The chopping paused as one of their males standing atop the titan severed the final tendons of its neck, head tumbling free to ricochet off the corpses heaped around it and wobble to a halt on one of its horns.

As the weapon began anew its tempo upon the sternum, one of the guards approached the skull to shove a spear into its mouth. Instinctively the jaws clamped, serrated teeth cracking on the metal as venom dribbled out of the corners of its formless lips, an eye rolling upwards in its socket.

Isren swallowed. Swallowed again as saliva flooded his mouth when vomit splattered his boot. Beside him Darl, the only commoner of their four, continued to retch up what had been their meager provisions. The sick-sweet smell of ripening meat and eviscerated innards was so overpowering, he couldn't fault the poor man.

Their host waited until the human had finished emptying his stomach before addressing them in Demaic. It was the reason Darl had been kidnapped along with Isren and the two other nobles that stood beside him. Or at least, the reason Isren hoped he had.

"As you can see, the numbers we lose in a single encounter are devastating," Darl translated shakily, wiping his mouth across his sleeve. "In this battle alone we've lost thousands to bring just one Archfiend down."

"That isn't that many," Lord Saurel muttered irritably. The other three men silently agreed with him; it was no real loss that these feckless mules were being slaughtered.

Handing the axe down to one of the warriors who remained on guard against the corpse, the butcher caught a sword tossed up to him by another. He freed both hands by impaling the blade into the torso he stood upon before kneeling to grip the split breastbone. Strength swelled his arms and shoulders, lats flaring wide as cracks echoed, ribs and cartilage breaking to expose the titans entrails.

Drenched in splatters of oily black gore, he was mesmerizing in the way all predators were; beautiful and horrific. He appeared to be a male in his prime, but they knew cambions could have lives that spanned centuries without ever truly aging. His features had Isren contemplating more than once if his sire had been an incubus. Yet his physique attested to unending violence and temperance, until skin stretched taut over slabs of muscle across his entire frame.

It was that same male who had kidnapped them, leading his cadre with a level of expertise most men would never grasp in their whole lifetimes. During their relentless flight across the human realm, past the wall and out across the cambion territories, Isren had ascertained he was the warchief's beloved Second in Command. An assassin-turned-soldier, if the rumors were true.

Isren knew their abductions had been because of the king's disregard for honoring their side of The Pact, but never had they even imagined that these savages were capable of carrying out such an incredible feat. It meant they had more intelligence than any scholars or historians had given them credit for, more knowledge of their lands and politics than they had anticipated.

That they had spies, and knew exactly who the key players were.

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No harm had befallen them besides the shroud of extreme fatigue and hunger after covering hundreds of miles in a span of days to reach the conflict in time. With the humans safely delivered, he had then walked out onto that field and unleashed himself in a way that had Isren wondering if he'd ever hear his firstborn's sweet laughter again.

No, not an incubus, but bred of something far more dangerous.

This battle they had been brought to witness had driven more than one of them to their knees in disbelief. The realm soldiers were trained, hardened by skirmishes along the wall where their forces clashed, but no one needed to be told just how substantial their losses would be in comparison.

The warchief whom Darl had been orating for turned his full attention on them at Saurel's response and Isren took the opportunity to study those piercing tawny eyes. There was a depth of wisdom in them, and weariness that a life spanning centuries had bestowed. Five hundred years ago, he had once been known as The Collared Talons of King Janius. The Enslaved's Salvation in the Cambion War of Isren's great, great grandsire, and now warchief of all their mangy tribes.

Zidaii.

The short, wily old male could never pass for human due to a prominent brow bisected by bumps under taupe skin. Those nodes gradually rose and peaked, cresting into a crown of tiny horns in wiry grey hair that swept back from his skull as if constantly blown by the wind. He did nothing to hide his deformities, as if there was no reason to be ashamed. As if he was proud of his mixed heritage— of being a cambion. The Race of Bastards, banished and reviled by their human cousins.

"This is the second this year, and it is not even the turning of the seasons. Last was three, and the year before two."

Isren blinked, the only sign of surprise he let slip at the numbers of dead that estimated.

"My legions at the wall report disquieting news," Darl continued for Zidaii as they returned to watching his commander's methodical butchering. "Soldiers requiring higher bribes, your patrols finding need for increased vigilance. My harvesters publicly tortured and their bodies left hanging to rot in city squares for all to see."

Retrieving the sword, the male angled it into the expanded cavity to cut through organs with practiced ease. With a final slice he abandoned the weapon and shoved an entire arm into the viscera, his features impassive despite the task.

"The king has turned a sympathetic ear to the losses the western provinces have to bear," Isren spoke up, his companions shifting uneasily. "I will see to it your harvesters meet no more resistance than what my people are willing to sacrifice."

"Might I remind you the necessity of your people's sacrifice, that we may continue to be your defense against these monsters. I don't need significant losses your side of the wall when I have more than enough here…"

Darl trailed off, uttering a prayer as a still-palpating heart larger than an infant was extracted. Lifting it into the air the surviving warriors erupted into cheers, beating weapons against shields and stamping their feet, churning the soaked dirt as sounds of their victory reverberated in both earth and sky.

He slid off the dismantled body and picked his way over the corpses with feral grace, pausing in front of their host to offer him the twitching organ.

As one they flinched when the warchief's blade shrieked free of its scabbard, cutting the heart apart and returning to its sheath in two graceful arcs. All of it accomplished faster than their human eyes could follow; a reminder, a warning.

His subordinate let the pieces fall from his hands as he bowed low, all of the soldiers falling silent as they emulated the motion. Zidaii stared at the ground for a long moment as if warring with emotions, though his expression remained stoic. Finally reaching down, he dug his fingers into the sand and scooped up a handful. Isren noted the amount of blood saturating the earth caused a line that ran deep, deep below the surface.

The cambion leader faced them, his protégé finally straightening to turn eyes the color of fresh murder onto the humans. Hatred was a riptide in their depths that none of them could meet, though he remained positioned behind his warchief like the obedient mongrel he was.

"I care little that your king does not think his people should know the truth. The Pact must be honored in order to keep this war off your doorstep or else," he tilted the glob of mud, letting it fall and splatter between them. "This will be your people's blood, not just ours. You will be returned safely behind your wall, and you will tell him all that you have witnessed today. I expect the message is very clear."

"Thoroughly," was Isren's sincere reply.