“And don’t think I won’t do it,” she calls after me. “I’ve tanned your hide before!”
“That was a long time ago,” I mutter, amused despite myself.
“I still have the paddle,” she says sweetly.
I bite back a chuckle as I step into the light again. The village buzzes with life as I dust the crumbs from my fingers. My cloak trails behind me like thunderclouds stitched from shadow, but just for a moment, there’s warmth beneath the storm.
Aran is waitingin the war room, bent over a map littered with pins—black for guard stations, red for incursions, and a sickly, glowing green for the unnatural.
“The Moirvath are moving again,” he says.
Of course they are. The bark-skinned, nymph-like horrors never rest for long. Too many eyes, too many teeth. They cling to the blackened forest at the edge of Hell like rot, slipping from the Whillowing’s shadowed roots to raid the bordering farms. They kill for sport, breed like parasites, and feed on anything warm-blooded and smaller than themselves. Flamebeast younglings, ember hounds. Even children, if they can find them. I hate the little bastards. Just when you think you’ve exterminated them all, another hundred appear, crawling out from the trees.
“Move the eastern guard,” I say, stepping closer to the table. “Pull them from the central line and post them at the base of Whillowing. Double the rune traps and notify the flamebeast keepers. It’s hatching season, and the younglings will be perfect targets for the Moirvath.”
Aran nods, quickly scribbling notes without even asking me to repeat myself. He’s loyal as blood, and I trust him more than anyone. He gets the job done, is always by my side, and acts more like a brother than an assistant.
“The northern fields are stable,” he adds. “No breaches since the last cull. Cinderspine’s been quiet.”
“Good.” The main village holding. I can breathe easier knowing the forges are running smoothly and the children can laugh in peace.
“We got a whisper from Sovarith this morning,” Aran continues. “Another revision from the Codex scribes—something about lineage clauses and succession threads. I told them you’d look it over when the world isn’t on fire.”
I grunt. “Smart.”
He finishes writing, then glances at me from beneath his brow. “Vailith sent a message. She requested your presence in the Realm of Children.”
Of course. The quiet guardian of the dead and innocent always has impeccable timing. I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “One thing after another.”
Aran smirks faintly. “Welcome to ruling Hell.”
The Realm of Children is always quiet and peaceful. The air is sweeter here, sitting in the western side of Hell, where the skies are softer, and it’s away from any of the other threats that lurk in this godforsaken realm. The building is bright white marble, surrounded by glows that emanate from the spirit willows. It’s not a place of punishment, but of healing—where the broken souls of children, victims of war and abuse, come to be mended.
Vailith meets me near the healing grove. She stands beneath a flowering tree, its pale flowers glowing faintly in the dusk. Her presence radiates calm and motherly, glowing with a soft soul light. She doesn’t walk, she glides. Her robes shimmer with thread woven from memory and peace, white and grey like fog kissed by moonlight. Her long silver-blue hair flows in waves behind her, complementing her gleaming skin and soft, golden eyes.
There are children running through the wildflower beds, their laughter cutting through the quiet like birdsong. Others tend to the vegetation that they help grow for the realm as part of a peace project, helping them learn healing and nurturing. Some of them cower in my presence, one even steps behind one of the teacher’s cloaks to hide. I paint on the kindest smile I can manage before turning my attention back to Vailith. They don’t need a warlord here; they need soft, calming beings around them. Something I will never be, but I can pretend for them.
Vailith’s arms open, and she pulls me into a soft embrace before holding me at arm’s length. She smells like jasmine and old libraries.
“Korithax,” she says gently. “It’s worse. Too many children come now, and I cannot care for them all. Earth is becoming more corrupt by the day, and these sweet babies continue to suffer.”
Her voice trembles, and I see it, the grief buried under layers of calm. She’s held too many tiny hands through death. Buried too many souls too young to know what death even meant.
“I’ll find someone to help,” I promise. “I’ll reach out to Solara and Fjellheim Heights. Perhaps we can relocate those ready for warmth and light outside of Hell. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere they can begin again.”
Her eyes brim with grateful tears. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” I step gently out of her reach. I can give my word, my time, my soldiers. Anything except softness. “Is there anything else?”
“I think I need another teacher,” she admits, offering a smile that flickers with exhaustion. “They learn well, but as the group grows too large. It’s harder to manage. Maybe we can split their lessons and make smaller groups.” She smiles softly.
“Consider it done. I’ll have Aran vet someone suitable and send them within the week.”
Her smile grows. “Your help never goes unnoticed, Korithax. You’re a true king. Would you like to stay awhile?”
I shake my head, “I cannot, I still have other matters to tend to.”
She nods in understanding. “Safe travels then.”
