Page 5 of Fated to the Demon Lord

Steam curled into my face, and I opened my eyes, anguish burning through me. Each stir of the stew turned rougher, my fury seeping into the rhythm of my hands. It felt as if my malice seeped out of me into the pots. They’d stolen and murdered my people and separated me from the person who mattered more than anyone else in the world while treating us worse than dogs.

Tonight, their reckoning would come.

I returned to the first pot and stirred without adding anything. Timing was everything. I’d do whatever it took to escape and find my brother.

Tricken sauntered over, an Inferna imp about my height with sharp goat-like horns and large, unblinking eyes. He belonged to the numerous hired soldiers in the camp—a military force consisting of a loose alliance pulled from four of the five demon kingdoms.

“Hey slave, the general’s getting hungry. You finished with the food?” Tricken asked in his gargled voice—as if he wasn’t supposed to be overseeing the entire operation from start to finish. He never did. He sniffed and glanced around. “Where are the others?”

“They are down with an illness. We didn’t think you’d want diseased humans near your food, so I started early to make sure it would be ready on time.” I suppressed a flinch at my own words and at the way his gaze swept over me, as though weighing my proximity to their sustenance. Smiling, I showed him my palms. “I cleaned my hands and everything before starting.”

He sneered and walked up to me before backhanding me so hard that I fell to the dirt. “Don’t get smart with me, human.”

I set my jaw against the pain radiating through my cheek.

“Is. The food. Ready?” he demanded.

I kept my focus on the ground. My hateful gaze would betray me if he saw my face. “Yes,” I whispered.

Out of the corner of my eye, Tricken lifted the ladle from the first pot and sniffed it. “This better be good. Lord Vaelor has deigned to visit our camp and has vowed to make us richer than our wildest dreams. If this turns out to be rancid slop, you’ll get the beating of your life.”

Something vindictive rose in me. I’d heard stories of Vaelor from the other demons in the encampment. They called him the Waiting Ruin. Some spoke of him in awe, others with open disgust, but everyone in camp agreed on a single point: he was sinister, depraved, and without remorse. A cast out among his own kind.

And yet from what I’d seen from the mercenaries these past months, they didn’t care. They cared about the weight of his coin purse and little else.

Let him join the list of the dead. Anyone who sought to employ this band of brutes deserved their fate.

Tricken tasted the stew.

That first pot was designated for the general and the other leaders. It always was the one that Tricken tested, which was why I needed to add the poison to that one at the last minute.

“Is it to your liking?” I fought to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I’d spent hours preparing my mother’s famous venison stew. It was good. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at his face.

His eyes widened, but he covered up his surprise. “It will do. Bring the pot.” He swiveled toward the miniature imp demon that stood behind him, gesturing at the other vats. “Feed the troops,” he said to his assistant.

“Yes, sir,” the demon said.

A moment of nerves shot through me. This was it. Once the bowls were doled out, I had a limited amount of time. If every demon in camp didn’t taste the soup, or if some started showing symptoms before the others and someone figured it out, I’d be just as dead as the demons devouring my food. Which was why I had chosen venenum—it was slow-acting, but swift once signs appeared.

I reached into my pocket and palmed the last venenum leaf. For you, Gerand. Despite my head and neck still aching, I climbed to my feet. Lifting my fist from my skirts, I gathered my apron in my hands before taking the pot of stew from the heat and followed my overseer into the sea of tents.

It jostled as I released a hand from the handle and rubbed my palm until the leaf peeled away from my skin.

“Watch it.” Tricken glanced back at me and growled. His fingers balled. The stew was probably the only thing keeping him from striking me again.

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, and he turned and stalked ahead.

With another jostle, the leaf slid from my palm and dropped into the pot. The anxiety in my chest, a constant companion, loosened a bit.

“I said watch it,” Tricken snarled.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I gripped the handle and hurried forward. Hopefully, the sloshing of the pot as I walked would help dilute the poison throughout the stew.

We came to a massive tent in the heart of the camp. Its black canvas almost matched the dirt beneath my feet. The large opening, though currently shut, always made me feel as insignificant as an insect when I walked inside.

“You'd better hope they enjoy it.” My overseer stepped in and motioned for me to follow. The tent afforded ample room, its ground adorned with rugs and strewn pillows for the various demons assembled within. They sat in a wide semicircle, facing one another, while a large map lay spread out in the middle.

Most of the leaders hailed from Kingdom Aeria, situated in the northern mountains. If I looked out the tent door, I’d be able to see their snow-capped peaks looming over us. There was a reason Kingdom Aeria led. They were clever, hardened, ruthless, disciplined, and calculating. Something frigid always accompanied tales of the winged fiends to the north.