Page 6 of A Heart Disguised 1

We spoke little of what awaited me in Lunaria; instead, we cherished our remaining time together, each moment etching itself into my memory as a precious treasure to carry with me into an uncertain future.

Henry and Gavin’s visits were less comforting, their cruel jests and lewd remarks only adding to my trepidation as they sauntered by to gloat under the guise of brotherly concern.

“Better keep your legs closed tight, little brother,” Henry would sneer. “Or you might just lose more than your virtue to that demon duke!”

“Unless you’re planning on using that forked tongue of yours,” Gavin would add with a barking laugh. “Might be the only way to tame his… broadsword.”

“Hope you’re ready for your wedding night,” Gavin sneered one afternoon. “A monster like him… You’re a perfect match. I wonder if you’ll even be able to walk afterward.”

Henry snickered beside him. “Just be careful with your… backside. They say he’s hung like a stallion. You might not leave the bed for days.”

Their crude innuendo confused me more than it offended; I knew little of such intimacies between men. “I’m sure I’ll manage,” I retorted, though my voice lacked conviction. “Perhaps I’ll develop a sudden and severe case of lockjaw.”

“Oh, he’ll find other uses for you,” Gavin leered. “I hear demons have quite the appetite. You might be too sore to sit, let alone walk.”

“And don’t worry about passing as a girl,” Henry added with a smirk. “You already look like one. Though I doubt the duke will care either way when he’s… sheathing his weapon.”

Their laughter grated on me like nails on slate as they departed, leaving me to stew in confusion and dread, pondering the mysteries of the flesh in ways that both bewildered and frightened me. What on earth did they mean bysheathing his weapon? And why would I be sore? The more they spoke, the less I understood and the more my anxiety grew.

When the Lunarians arrived, their presence announced by the thunderous clatter of hooves on the cobblestone drive, I peered out from behind partially closed shutters, my heart pounding so fiercely I feared it might burst from my chest. The sight before me was enough to make even the bravest man’s blood run cold, and here I was, a mere slip of a boy, barely a man, tasked with facing these monsters and their master.

The demon soldiers were a terrifying sight to behold, towering over their human counterparts like great, shadowy monoliths. Their skin ranged from deepest obsidian to the pale gray of storm clouds, and some bore horns that twisted like the branches of ancient oaks. Their eyes glowed with an otherworldly light that seemed to pierce right through me, even from a distance. Their armor, black as night, seemed to drink in the sunlight, casting them in an eerie, shadowy aura.

“Sweet Aethoria, protect us,” Meredith whimpered beside me, her trembling hands clutching her prayer beads so tightly I feared they might snap. She began to chant, her voice a barely audible whisper of protection and deliverance.

I knew these were merely the lower-ranked soldiers, not the duke himself or his high-ranking officers. Yet if these werethe underlings, what terrors awaited me in the form of their master? The rumors Meredith had shared suddenly seemed less outlandish and more like horrifying possibilities.

“Well,” I muttered to Russet, who pressed close to my side, his warm fur a small comfort against the chill of fear, “at least I won’t have to worry about standing out in a crowd. I’ll be the one without horns and glowing eyes.”

The human soldiers appeared almost boyish beside their demonic counterparts, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and awe that did nothing to calm my racing thoughts. As I watched the imposing figures, my fate seemed to solidify before me. The time of my departure was drawing near, and with it, the beginning of a life I could scarcely imagine.

I clutched Russet close, drawing what little courage I could from his steadfast presence. “At least you’ll still love me,” I whispered into his fur, “even if I come back with horns and a forked tongue.”

That night, and for many nights after, my dreams were plagued by visions of glowing eyes and twisted horns, of shadowy figures with forked tongues and insatiable appetites. I’d wake in a cold sweat, Meredith’s tales of the duke’s monstrous nature blending with my brothers’ crude innuendos to weave a nightmare in my mind.

The future loomed before me, dark and uncertain, but I was determined to face it with whatever wit and courage I could muster. After all, I reasoned in my more lucid moments, if I could survive years of Henry and Gavin’s torment, surely I could handle one demon duke. Couldn’t I? Yet as I gazed out at the fearsome soldiers, their very presence an omen of what awaited me, I couldn’t quite convince myself of that bravado.

3

Darius

In the uppermost chamber of Argentum Keep, Darius Shadowbane, Duke of Lunaria and Shadowmere, sat ensconced in his study, a room that rivaled the opulence of the rest of the fortress. The demon lord’s imposing figure commanded attention, even in solitude. Standing at six foot eight, his broad-shouldered frame exuded raw power, barely contained by his attire. He wore a long, flowing black kaftan over fitted trousers, a style favored by Aethorian nobility. The kaftan, made of the finest silk, was richly embroidered with intricate gold motifs, its open front revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his chiseled chest. The luxurious fabric draped elegantly over his imposing physique, a perfect blend of Aethorian fashion and demonic allure.

His long raven-black hair cascaded over his shoulders like a midnight waterfall, framing a face that was the epitome of demonic beauty—sharp, angular features softened just enough by full lips that often quirked into a sardonic smile.

Darius’ most striking feature, however, was his eyes. Molten gold in color, they seemed to glow with an inner fire, capable of piercing through any deception or weakness. His gaze was known to make even the most stalwart demons weak at theknees. Sleek obsidian horns curved elegantly from his temples, their polished surface gleaming with an otherworldly sheen, a silent proclamation of his power and nobility.

Among demonkind, Darius was considered the pinnacle of masculine allure. His mere presence in court was enough to set hearts racing and ignite fierce competition for his attention. Both men and women vied for even a moment of his time, drawn by his raw magnetism and the promise of pleasure his reputation suggested. Yet Darius remained aloof, his legendary appetites sated only on his own terms, leaving a trail of longing admirers in his wake.

The chamber was a masterclass in extravagance, with walls paneled in dark, rich mahogany that gleamed under the warm sunlight streaming through the grand windows. A massive desk of the same polished wood stood at the room’s center, its surface littered with parchments, inkwells, and various seals of office. Towering bookshelves framed the room, filled with tomes of knowledge and history that stirred his intellect and provided a constant reminder of the legacy he was building.

Behind him, the windows offered an unobstructed view of the city below. Lunaria sprawled beneath the midday sun like a living mosaic, its bustling streets and gleaming rooftops a vibrant display of the prosperity under his rule. The city’s beauty was mesmerizing, a captivating counterpoint to the monotonous paperwork that demanded Darius’ attention.

The duke’s fingers danced across the documents spread before him, his eyes scanning each line with the precision of a hawk sighting its prey. The paperwork was a relentless tide—requisitions for the Shadowmere garrison, missives from King Azrael that demanded immediate response, and tax ledgers from the silver mines that were the lifeblood of Lunaria. Each piece of parchment required his seal, his decision, his attention to detailthat could make or break the delicate balance of power within his region.

Beside him stood Alaric, his ever-faithful aide—a man whose presence was as discreet as it was indispensable. The assistant moved with an efficiency born of years of service, sorting through the endless stream of paperwork, prioritizing each task with quiet competence.

“Your Grace,” Alaric said, his voice a low murmur as he organized a stack of reports on the edge of the desk. “The reports from the Silver Mines indicate a significant surplus this quarter.” He handed over the relevant documents, his silver-edged spectacles perched delicately on the bridge of his nose.

---