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“That won’t be necessary.” I know that the offer is not a polite request, it’s a dagger hidden in velvet. If I do not go where I am ordered, then I will be brought, even as a Prince. “Who am I to deny His Royal Excellency?”
Who is anyone to deny him? My father would grind their bones to dust with a glance. My servants bow their heads in respect at the mere mention of his existence.
I slap the rump of the razorfiend and address my servants. “Take my kill to the butcher’s and have it cleaned for mounting.”
It will join the wall with my many other kills. Other razorfiends.
I tire of this world and its easy prey.
Two bodyguards flank me as I walk towards the arena. Even at this distance I can see it, the oily black stones that creep into the storming sky, and the dark purple glow of magic light. A deep hum emanates from the stone, cursed with strong chaos magic, so strong that my horns vibrate with the hum until we’ve passed the threshold and entered the private royal box seats, only accessible to those my father favors.
Any other demon will be cast down below, in the stone seats.
An enemy will be sent even further below, to the arena itself. More than once has a demon who thought himself in my father’s graces found himself battling for his very life in the red sand arena while the crowd roars.
“You have kept me waiting.”
I have never seen my father without his hood, not once, not even as a child. It shrouds his entire face in darkness, with only the red glow of his eyes visible. His armor is thick, but I suspect he doesn’t need it. I’ve seen him kill more than one enemy with nothing more than a glance. The chaos magic surrounding him crackles and pops, and his voice is rife with it, vibrant and lethal.
“I apologize.” I bow, horns pointed to the sky. “I was on a hunt.”
“Another one?”
I’m not sure what to say. He’s my father, but I have never been able to read him. Asmodeus, King of Demons, does not show his face and he does not show his hand, not even to his own kin.
“And what did you catch this time, my son?”
“A razorfiend.”
There was a time this accomplishment would see me beaming like a fool for the rest of the day, but now it’s nothing but a dead thing to hang up for my own vanity. I long for a challenge, for a real fight, and I’ve scoured the edges of Galmoleth in search of one. I do not let the restlessness show on my face, but even I can hear the frustration in my voice.
“Yes. I have heard of your accomplishment, and I can see that the victory you’ve found is empty.”
Startled, I look up from the arena where a goliath of a gilak battles a pack of firebonded Ur'gin with his bare hands. The pack have torn at his flesh until his hands have become bone, and the stench of burned skin has filled the arena when their soz’garoth master commands them to throw fire from their mouths.
I have never seen a Gilak lose in battle, and my attention should be rapt, but my father has found my weakness without even trying. He is not one for idle words. Unease prickles up my spine.
“I would not have found a mission to Protheka empty.”
Soldiers cheered in the streets with human prizes stretched upon their shoulders, and they filled the evening with their tales of a green, dangerous world. Disappointment colored my nights ever since, but there must be a way to convince my father to let me lead the next excursion.
I long to leave the confines of this small, tiny, self-contained world. He must know this. He knows everything else.
“You will find all of life empty until you procure a mate. It is beyond time.”
I stare at the black arena floor, stunned. A mate?
Does he know about Yedina? Suspicion roils in my gut. Did he send her? No wonder she was so insistent if she had the King’s blessing.
Perhaps I have less choice than I thought.
I make a soft noise of assent and focus on the fight while my mind turns over his demand. I know that he’s been trying to increase our population, and that he doesn’t have the centuries it takes to build one naturally. Matrons are deliciously oversexed, but only fertile by demonic standards. A typical matron might only spawn once every hundred years.
Not fast enough for someone who wants to build an army.
“I have no objection to mating, as you well know.”
“Mating,” he spits. “You must have a child. Children. And you must begin now.”
