Page 4 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
The door to her cage opened and two more demons with spears entered. The first had speckled feathered wings, marking him from Kingdom Aeria, the air stalkers. The other had reptilian eyes that shuttered from the side and an elongated snout, and crimson scaled skin. He was from Kingdom Inferna, the underworld dwellers. What were so many different demons doing in the same place? What did it mean?
The one with wings carried her cloak. After a quick but harsh pull on her chains to make sure they were secure, they threw the covering over her. Taking her by the arms, they pulled her out of the wagon. The cloak hung loosely on her back, and if she moved or struggled, it would fall off, exposing her to daylight. Damn them. They did it on purpose to keep her docile, to keep her from fighting or bolting.
They knew how to handle a vampire.
At least until she got inside.
She studied the ground as they walked. The clean cobblestone and scent of flowers, of all things. She heard heavy doors being opened. So most likely a castle of some sort.
They guided her down a well-lit hallway. From under her cloak, she noticed beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows. The guards clutching her arms drew her to the edge of the light so that they could easily pull her in should she try to fight. Another set of doors clicked open, and Aryana was dragged forward. They swept away her covering.
She was in a throne room that was mostly gray, made of granite. Long umber drapes fell over thin, color plated windows. Her stomach hollowed. Chained to the cold stone walls hung the skeletalremains of various demons, twisted forms frozen in silent testament to the horrors they had endured.
A massive minotaur with immense horns jutting out from the sides of his bull’s head sat on a huge throne. His broad shoulders were enveloped by a tyrian purple cloak. A slight gray tinged the dark, coarse fur covering most of his body, the only sign of his age. He observed Aryana with beady, angry eyes. His hands clutched the ornate handle of a falx, a double edged curved weapon with a blade so sharp it cut through flesh with ease, leaving nothing but rough, splintered bone in its wake.
She didn’t need an introduction. This was King Salen, the Skin Flayer, ruler of Terra Monstrum.
Two other demons stood to the king’s right. One was enormous and bulky, twice as tall as Aryana and twice as big as any of the troll guards surrounding her. His coarse, mottled outer skin resembled the earth. His massive fists were clenched and hanging down like meat cleavers. This colossal beast had to be at least half-giant. The other demon, standing next to the first, looked similar to the king, though younger. He wore battle armor and maintained his position at attention. He observed her with a look of cool calculation.
Another demon stood on King Salen’s left, exuding a scent she recognized. It was the same aroma from the night before.
He moved with confidence, if not the full weight of regal grace. His skin shimmered like smoke, horns curling through shadow-dark hair, and vast, bat-like wings were unfurled behind him. But it was the twisted silver crown, gleaming atop his brow, that spoke the loudest, telling her all she needed to know.
This was Zarathos, the demon arch king.
She should have realized that only one thing could unite demons from different nations—service to their infamous ruler. An icy serpent slithered down her spine. He was the great monarch renowned for holding the fates of others in his hands, for making or breaking them on a whim.
He gazed at her with dark eyes that had a heated yellow tint around the iris. They glowed slightly, as if they were on fire. She glared in return. This was the demon who had captured her and given every order since.
“Aryana, is it? Princess of the vampires?” the Skin Flayer, sitting on his throne, asked in a gruff, ungiving voice. “I'm King Salen.”
“I know who you are.” Aryana’s shackles clanked as she focused on him. “As niece to the vampire king, and heir to the throne, if you do not wish to go to war, then I demand that you release me this instant.”
“War? Was it not your vampires that stole our land?” The outrage in King Salen’s voice echoed throughout the vast room.
Aryana’s heart sank. Not only had her uncle allowed encroachments into the human kingdom, but he had also sought to expand vampire lands by invading the northern edge of the Terra Monstrum nation.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed, and he rose, taking a step toward her on large hooved legs that bent the wrong way. “My son, Kaelroch, witnessed the devastation that your kingdom wrought on ours in the north and barely escaped with his life.” He motioned to the demon thatwas nearly his twin on his right. “Luckily, his body has healed from his injuries in time for the upcoming Demon Trials.”
She straightened, attempting to hide her surprise. Every hundred years, they held the Demon Trials to determine who would become the next arch king. Each of the five nations chose two contestants and the current arch king also competed. They endured four grueling tests, each forcing them to fight one another to the death. The victor became the new demon arch king.
Since Aryana's kingdom separated from the demons, that was a merciless event that the vampires no longer took part in. She hadn’t realized the next trials were so close to occurring.
King Salen puffed out his chest. “He and Tigon here,”—he indicated the glowering half-giant—“will be our champions in the upcoming Demon Trials.” He cut a glance at the arch king, trying to either show off or intimidate him.
Arch King Zatharos didn’t appear moved.
The leader of Terra Monstrum ran an agitated hand over a gold band attached to his forearm. “Slave, bring me water! I thirst!” he shouted.
A human woman approached, her body bound in dirty bandages, her eyes sunken. She shuffled forward, carrying a tray with a pitcher and a glass of water over to the king. A golden collar wrapped around her neck, looking tight and uncomfortable. The human’s body was slight and trembling, pain etched in every movement of her too thin limbs.
Aryana didn’t move, her blood boiling. She’d seen human slaves before, even though she hated it.
And yet, the vampires were no better. In her uncle’s throne room, a map hung on the wall, dotted with small red pennant pins marking the human towns they had conquered. And sitting on display in front of that map were little straw dolls impaled on pikes, each taken from a town they had destroyed; taken from someone’s child that lived in that village, now nothing more than a symbol of conquest.
She looked at the poor woman. What was the throne room like in the human kingdom? Did it contain trophies of violent subjugation meant to strike fear into their enemies? She’d always imagined it being a place where they mourned loss instead of celebrating pain and death. How would it feel to be a tiny bird and live in the light of their presence?
