Pixelcheeks
MEMENTO MORI, IF THE NINETH LION ATE THE SUN
Inner Sanctum Nobility
- Local time
- Today 4:33 PM
- Messages
- 440
- Age
- 28
- Pronouns
- She/Her/They
About Me:
Hey there! I've been a passionate writer and roleplayer for over 10 years and a D&D Dungeon Master for over 7. I'm a laid-back roleplayer who loves making friends and chatting OOC about our stories. I enjoy fangirling over characters, smut, and plot ideas.
Life can be hectic, so my post frequency might vary, but I always strive to be consistent. I can typically post several times a day, varying length depending on my partner. My average post length is 500 to 800 words but I can reach up to around 2k. I'm comfortable playing both male and female characters and have a soft spot for fantasy settings, but I'm open to exploring anything and everything.
Roleplay Preferences:
Hey there! I've been a passionate writer and roleplayer for over 10 years and a D&D Dungeon Master for over 7. I'm a laid-back roleplayer who loves making friends and chatting OOC about our stories. I enjoy fangirling over characters, smut, and plot ideas.
Life can be hectic, so my post frequency might vary, but I always strive to be consistent. I can typically post several times a day, varying length depending on my partner. My average post length is 500 to 800 words but I can reach up to around 2k. I'm comfortable playing both male and female characters and have a soft spot for fantasy settings, but I'm open to exploring anything and everything.
Roleplay Preferences:
- Genres: Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Apocalypses, Period Drama, and more! but I'm flexible.
- Themes: I'm all about adult themes—sexual content, violence, substance use, etc.
- Triggers: None that I've encountered, but if something comes up, let's chat.
- Post Length: I adapt to my partner's style, whether it's semi-lit (1-3 paragraphs) or more detailed posts (+1k words).
The soft laughter of a little girl echoed through Darius Thorne's mind, a sound so pure and innocent that it warmed his heart, even in memory. He knelt down, ruffling Annabelle's blonde curls as she beamed up at him with those wide, trusting gray eyes. The same eyes he saw in the mirror every day. She was only six, but she was the light of his life, as was her mother. Elara, his wife, stood nearby, watching them with a smile that made everything in the world feel right.
"Daddy, are you going to teach me to fight today?" Annabelle asked, clutching the wooden sword he had carved for her.
"Not today, my little warrior," Darius replied, chuckling. "Today is for playing, not for battles."
Annabelle pouted but then giggled as Elara joined them, wrapping an arm around Darius. He pulled them both close, feeling the warmth of their love seep into his very soul. It was moments like these that made him believe in something greater than himself, something worth fighting for.
But as always, the scene changed in an instant.
The smell of smoke was overwhelming. Flames licked the edges of the wooden house, consuming everything in their path. Darius could hear the screams—the agonizing cries of those trapped inside. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted through the burning streets, desperately trying to reach his home. He could see it now, the familiar stone walls blackened by soot, the thatched roof ablaze.
"Annabelle! Elara!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with panic. The door was ajar, and without thinking, he charged inside, the heat nearly unbearable. He saw them. His wife, cradling their daughter in her arms, her eyes wide with terror. Annabelle's small face was streaked with tears, her usually bright eyes filled with fear.
"Darius!" Elara's voice was weak, strained, as if it took every ounce of her strength just to call out to him.
"I'm here," he gasped, rushing to them. But as he reached out, something slammed into him from behind. A fiery force that sent him crashing to the ground. Pain exploded in his side, and when he looked up, all he could see was fire. Fire and the twisted, mocking faces of the demons responsible.
"Daddy!" Annabelle's voice cut through the chaos, filled with a mix of relief and terror. But before he could respond, before he could even stand, the flames surged between them, and the world went white with heat and pain.
---
Darius awoke with a start, his chest heaving as if he had been running for miles. Sweat drenched his bare chest, glistening in the dim light of the tent. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding with the residual terror of the nightmare. He ran a hand through his white hair, now damp with sweat, and exhaled deeply, trying to steady himself.
The past two years had done little to dull the pain of losing Elara and Annabelle. The sight of their lifeless bodies, charred beyond recognition, was etched into his memory, a permanent scar that fueled his hatred for demons. It was this hatred that drove him, that pushed him to rise through the ranks of Asgloria's military, eventually becoming one of King Marcus's most trusted generals.
The tent around him was dark, the only light coming from the dying embers of a nearby fire. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, the echoes of his nightmare still clinging to him. His breathing was ragged, his mind racing.
"Annabelle…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Despite the years since that night, the pain was still fresh, like an open wound that refused to heal. He could still see her face, could still hear her cries. The memory was a constant torment, a reminder of what he had lost, and who was responsible.
With a groan, Darius sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. His bare chest glistened with sweat, the muscles beneath tight with tension. He was a man of thirty, his body honed by years of battle. Scars marred his skin, each one a testament to the life he had led. A life defined by war, by loss, by an unyielding hatred for the creatures that had taken everything from him.
Demons. The word alone was enough to send a shiver of revulsion through him. He hated them with a passion that bordered on madness. They were abominations, monsters that had no place in the world of men. And Tenebris, their so-called king, was the worst of them all. A half-breed who dared to call himself a ruler, who had risen to power through treachery and bloodshed. The rumors surrounding him were endless, painting a picture of a being both feared and reviled. Darius had never met him, but he had seen enough of his kind to know what to expect. Deception, cruelty, the stench of evil clinging to every breath.
He stood, his movements methodical as he began to dress. The familiar weight of his armor settled around his shoulders, the steel cold against his skin. He moved with the ease of long practice, each buckle and strap a small ritual that helped him focus, helped him push aside the lingering dread of his nightmare. Today was not the day for fear. Today was a day for battle, for vengeance.
As he stepped out of the tent, the crisp morning air hit him, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of his dreams. The camp was alive with activity, soldiers bustling about in preparation for the fight to come. Darius's gaze swept over them, taking in the familiar faces, the men who had fought by his side in countless battles. He nodded to a few as he passed, his expression grim.
"General Thorne," a voice called out, drawing his attention. It was one of his lieutenants, a young man with a nervous energy about him. "The king requests your presence."
Darius's jaw tightened. King Marcus. The man was as much a tyrant as he was a ruler, his methods brutal, his ambitions unchecked. Darius had served under him for years, had risen through the ranks by sheer force of will and a talent for strategy. But there had always been a tension between them, an unspoken understanding that while Darius served, he did not agree. He did not approve.
"Very well," Darius replied, his voice clipped. He followed the lieutenant through the camp, his mind churning. He knew what this was about. The king had been clear in his orders. Tenebris was to be captured alive. Darius had balked at the idea, but he had given his word. He would not fail, though the thought of bringing the demon king to Marcus filled him with unease.
When they reached the king's tent, Darius paused, steeling himself. Marcus was already speaking to a group of officers, his tone commanding, almost arrogant. The man was tall, imposing, with a presence that demanded attention. But there was a coldness to him, a lack of humanity that made Darius's skin crawl.
"General Thorne," Marcus said as Darius approached, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Ready for battle, I trust?"
Darius inclined his head. "Always, Your Majesty."
Marcus's gaze was sharp, appraising. "Good. Remember, Thorne, Tenebris is mine. I want him alive. Do whatever it takes, but do not kill him."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Darius replied, though the words felt like ash on his tongue.
Marcus turned back to his officers, dismissing Darius with a wave. The general clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The king's speech had been full of bravado, of talk of glory and conquest, but Darius had seen the truth. This was no noble cause. This was greed, plain and simple. Marcus wanted Xatria, wanted its resources, its wealth. Tenebris was just an obstacle in his path. A prize to be captured, not a threat to be eliminated.
As he walked away, Darius couldn't help but feel a deep sense of foreboding. This battle… it was different. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the air seemed to crackle with tension. There was more at stake here than just land or power. But what, exactly, he couldn't say.
The soldiers were ready, their armor gleaming in the early morning light. Darius moved among them, offering a few words of encouragement, his demeanor steady. They looked to him for guidance, for strength, and he would not fail them. Not today.
As they marched toward the battlefield, Darius's thoughts turned once more to his family. To the life he had lost. He could still see Annabelle's smile, hear her laughter. She had been everything to him, a bright light in a world full of darkness. And the demons had taken that from him. They had taken everything.
The battlefield was a vast expanse of churned earth and scattered rocks, the ground already stained with blood from previous skirmishes. The Asglorian army spread out behind him, a sea of steel and leather, ready to clash with the forces of Xatria. Darius's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of the enemy.
And then, he saw him. A figure clad in dark armor, moving with a fluid grace that was almost unnatural. Tenebris. There was no mistaking him. The aura of power, the way the shadows seemed to cling to him like a second skin. Darius's hatred flared, a burning fire in his chest.
He drew his sword, the steel flashing in the light. The blade had been coated in oil, a trick he had learned years ago. As Tenebris approached, Darius struck the flint against the hilt, igniting the blade in a burst of flame. The fire roared to life, casting a flickering glow across his features. For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, the tension between them almost palpable. And then, with a roar, Darius charged.
The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos, the sounds of clashing steel and war cries reverberating in the air. But for Darius, all of it faded into the background as he faced Tenebris. His world narrowed to the enemy before him, the demon king who had brought nothing but pain and devastation to so many lives, including his own.
The fire on Darius's sword blazed as he charged, the flames crackling with an almost vengeful fury. Each step he took was heavy with purpose, his boots pounding against the blood-soaked earth. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being focused on the fight. The weight of his armor was familiar, comforting even, a testament to the countless battles he had survived. But this was different—this was personal.
Darius swung his sword with all the strength he could muster, aiming to cleave Tenebris in two. The force of the blow was immense, the air whistling as the blade cut through it. But Tenebris was fast, faster than any opponent Darius had ever faced. The demon king parried, the clash of their weapons sending a shower of sparks into the air.
Darius gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. He pivoted on his heel, bringing his sword around for another strike, the flames dancing along the edge of the blade. The heat was intense, the firelight casting an orange glow over his chiseled features, highlighting the lines etched into his face by years of hardship and loss. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, but he didn't dare blink. He couldn't afford to.
With a roar, he unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more powerful than the last. His muscles burned with the effort, the strain of wielding a flaming sword starting to take its toll. But he pushed through the pain, his mind consumed by a singular thought. End this. Capture him. The demon king had to fall, here and now.
Darius could feel the ground beneath his feet shifting, the earth giving way as he advanced. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale laced with the scent of smoke and blood. His eyes, cold and gray, never wavered from Tenebris. There was no room for doubt, no place for fear. He had to be relentless, had to overpower the monster before him.
His next strike came from above, a crushing downward blow meant to split Tenebris's skull. The sheer force of the attack sent tremors up Darius's arms, the impact resonating through his bones. But Tenebris met him head-on, their blades locking in a deadly embrace, the heat from Darius's sword searing the air between them.
For a brief moment, they were locked together, face to face. Darius's breath was hot and heavy, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes blazed with fury, the fire reflecting in their depths. His body was a coiled spring, every muscle taut, ready to explode into action.
He shoved forward with all his might, trying to overpower Tenebris with brute strength alone. His arms trembled with the effort, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening until his knuckles turned white. The flames roared higher, fueled by his anger, by his desperation. But Tenebris was unyielding, his resistance infuriatingly steady.
With a grunt, Darius disengaged, stepping back just enough to reassess. His breath came in heavy, labored gasps, each inhale burning his lungs. His armor, though designed for protection, felt like a leaden weight now, the plates rubbing against his skin, the metal heating up from the proximity to the flames. But he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Not until Tenebris was nothing but ash at his feet or a prisoner on his knees.
He feinted to the left, then brought his sword around in a wide arc, aiming for Tenebris's side. The maneuver was swift, precise. Darius's skill honed by years on the battlefield. But even as he attacked, a part of him was aware of the toll this battle was taking. His muscles screamed in protest, his stamina waning with each passing second.
But there was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.
With a roar of defiance, Darius pressed on, his strikes becoming more desperate, more savage. He was a force of nature, an unstoppable storm of steel and flame. His sword moved like an extension of his will, each swing a testament to the hatred that burned within him. Every ounce of his being was focused on one goal. Capturing Tenebris.
His heart thundered in his chest, the rhythm erratic, fueled by adrenaline. His vision tunneled, the edges of the world growing dim as he concentrated solely on the enemy before him. His attacks became more unpredictable, wild and frenzied, as if by sheer force of will he could break through Tenebris's defenses.
Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the soot and grime that coated his skin. His breath was a harsh rasp in his throat, the air thick with the stench of burning wood and flesh. But he didn't slow, didn't hesitate. He couldn't afford to. Failure was not an option.
His sword clanged against Tenebris's with a sound like thunder, the force of the impact jarring his arms. He grit his teeth, pushing back with all his might, using his weight and strength to his advantage. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, focusing instead on the fire that burned in his chest, the fire that demanded vengeance.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. Darius could feel the heartbeat of the battle, the rhythm of their deadly dance. He could see every detail. The flicker of the flames, the glint of steel, the sweat that dripped from his brow. And in that moment, he knew. He was close. So close.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, Darius brought his sword down in a brutal overhead strike, the flames roaring to life as if in response to his fury. The force of the blow was immense, the weight of it crashing down like a hammer. It was a strike meant to end this once and for all, to bring Tenebris to his knees.
But even as the blade descended, Darius knew that this fight was far from over.
"Daddy, are you going to teach me to fight today?" Annabelle asked, clutching the wooden sword he had carved for her.
"Not today, my little warrior," Darius replied, chuckling. "Today is for playing, not for battles."
Annabelle pouted but then giggled as Elara joined them, wrapping an arm around Darius. He pulled them both close, feeling the warmth of their love seep into his very soul. It was moments like these that made him believe in something greater than himself, something worth fighting for.
But as always, the scene changed in an instant.
The smell of smoke was overwhelming. Flames licked the edges of the wooden house, consuming everything in their path. Darius could hear the screams—the agonizing cries of those trapped inside. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted through the burning streets, desperately trying to reach his home. He could see it now, the familiar stone walls blackened by soot, the thatched roof ablaze.
"Annabelle! Elara!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with panic. The door was ajar, and without thinking, he charged inside, the heat nearly unbearable. He saw them. His wife, cradling their daughter in her arms, her eyes wide with terror. Annabelle's small face was streaked with tears, her usually bright eyes filled with fear.
"Darius!" Elara's voice was weak, strained, as if it took every ounce of her strength just to call out to him.
"I'm here," he gasped, rushing to them. But as he reached out, something slammed into him from behind. A fiery force that sent him crashing to the ground. Pain exploded in his side, and when he looked up, all he could see was fire. Fire and the twisted, mocking faces of the demons responsible.
"Daddy!" Annabelle's voice cut through the chaos, filled with a mix of relief and terror. But before he could respond, before he could even stand, the flames surged between them, and the world went white with heat and pain.
---
Darius awoke with a start, his chest heaving as if he had been running for miles. Sweat drenched his bare chest, glistening in the dim light of the tent. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding with the residual terror of the nightmare. He ran a hand through his white hair, now damp with sweat, and exhaled deeply, trying to steady himself.
The past two years had done little to dull the pain of losing Elara and Annabelle. The sight of their lifeless bodies, charred beyond recognition, was etched into his memory, a permanent scar that fueled his hatred for demons. It was this hatred that drove him, that pushed him to rise through the ranks of Asgloria's military, eventually becoming one of King Marcus's most trusted generals.
The tent around him was dark, the only light coming from the dying embers of a nearby fire. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, the echoes of his nightmare still clinging to him. His breathing was ragged, his mind racing.
"Annabelle…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Despite the years since that night, the pain was still fresh, like an open wound that refused to heal. He could still see her face, could still hear her cries. The memory was a constant torment, a reminder of what he had lost, and who was responsible.
With a groan, Darius sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. His bare chest glistened with sweat, the muscles beneath tight with tension. He was a man of thirty, his body honed by years of battle. Scars marred his skin, each one a testament to the life he had led. A life defined by war, by loss, by an unyielding hatred for the creatures that had taken everything from him.
Demons. The word alone was enough to send a shiver of revulsion through him. He hated them with a passion that bordered on madness. They were abominations, monsters that had no place in the world of men. And Tenebris, their so-called king, was the worst of them all. A half-breed who dared to call himself a ruler, who had risen to power through treachery and bloodshed. The rumors surrounding him were endless, painting a picture of a being both feared and reviled. Darius had never met him, but he had seen enough of his kind to know what to expect. Deception, cruelty, the stench of evil clinging to every breath.
He stood, his movements methodical as he began to dress. The familiar weight of his armor settled around his shoulders, the steel cold against his skin. He moved with the ease of long practice, each buckle and strap a small ritual that helped him focus, helped him push aside the lingering dread of his nightmare. Today was not the day for fear. Today was a day for battle, for vengeance.
As he stepped out of the tent, the crisp morning air hit him, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of his dreams. The camp was alive with activity, soldiers bustling about in preparation for the fight to come. Darius's gaze swept over them, taking in the familiar faces, the men who had fought by his side in countless battles. He nodded to a few as he passed, his expression grim.
"General Thorne," a voice called out, drawing his attention. It was one of his lieutenants, a young man with a nervous energy about him. "The king requests your presence."
Darius's jaw tightened. King Marcus. The man was as much a tyrant as he was a ruler, his methods brutal, his ambitions unchecked. Darius had served under him for years, had risen through the ranks by sheer force of will and a talent for strategy. But there had always been a tension between them, an unspoken understanding that while Darius served, he did not agree. He did not approve.
"Very well," Darius replied, his voice clipped. He followed the lieutenant through the camp, his mind churning. He knew what this was about. The king had been clear in his orders. Tenebris was to be captured alive. Darius had balked at the idea, but he had given his word. He would not fail, though the thought of bringing the demon king to Marcus filled him with unease.
When they reached the king's tent, Darius paused, steeling himself. Marcus was already speaking to a group of officers, his tone commanding, almost arrogant. The man was tall, imposing, with a presence that demanded attention. But there was a coldness to him, a lack of humanity that made Darius's skin crawl.
"General Thorne," Marcus said as Darius approached, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Ready for battle, I trust?"
Darius inclined his head. "Always, Your Majesty."
Marcus's gaze was sharp, appraising. "Good. Remember, Thorne, Tenebris is mine. I want him alive. Do whatever it takes, but do not kill him."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Darius replied, though the words felt like ash on his tongue.
Marcus turned back to his officers, dismissing Darius with a wave. The general clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The king's speech had been full of bravado, of talk of glory and conquest, but Darius had seen the truth. This was no noble cause. This was greed, plain and simple. Marcus wanted Xatria, wanted its resources, its wealth. Tenebris was just an obstacle in his path. A prize to be captured, not a threat to be eliminated.
As he walked away, Darius couldn't help but feel a deep sense of foreboding. This battle… it was different. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the air seemed to crackle with tension. There was more at stake here than just land or power. But what, exactly, he couldn't say.
The soldiers were ready, their armor gleaming in the early morning light. Darius moved among them, offering a few words of encouragement, his demeanor steady. They looked to him for guidance, for strength, and he would not fail them. Not today.
As they marched toward the battlefield, Darius's thoughts turned once more to his family. To the life he had lost. He could still see Annabelle's smile, hear her laughter. She had been everything to him, a bright light in a world full of darkness. And the demons had taken that from him. They had taken everything.
The battlefield was a vast expanse of churned earth and scattered rocks, the ground already stained with blood from previous skirmishes. The Asglorian army spread out behind him, a sea of steel and leather, ready to clash with the forces of Xatria. Darius's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of the enemy.
And then, he saw him. A figure clad in dark armor, moving with a fluid grace that was almost unnatural. Tenebris. There was no mistaking him. The aura of power, the way the shadows seemed to cling to him like a second skin. Darius's hatred flared, a burning fire in his chest.
He drew his sword, the steel flashing in the light. The blade had been coated in oil, a trick he had learned years ago. As Tenebris approached, Darius struck the flint against the hilt, igniting the blade in a burst of flame. The fire roared to life, casting a flickering glow across his features. For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, the tension between them almost palpable. And then, with a roar, Darius charged.
The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos, the sounds of clashing steel and war cries reverberating in the air. But for Darius, all of it faded into the background as he faced Tenebris. His world narrowed to the enemy before him, the demon king who had brought nothing but pain and devastation to so many lives, including his own.
The fire on Darius's sword blazed as he charged, the flames crackling with an almost vengeful fury. Each step he took was heavy with purpose, his boots pounding against the blood-soaked earth. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being focused on the fight. The weight of his armor was familiar, comforting even, a testament to the countless battles he had survived. But this was different—this was personal.
Darius swung his sword with all the strength he could muster, aiming to cleave Tenebris in two. The force of the blow was immense, the air whistling as the blade cut through it. But Tenebris was fast, faster than any opponent Darius had ever faced. The demon king parried, the clash of their weapons sending a shower of sparks into the air.
Darius gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. He pivoted on his heel, bringing his sword around for another strike, the flames dancing along the edge of the blade. The heat was intense, the firelight casting an orange glow over his chiseled features, highlighting the lines etched into his face by years of hardship and loss. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, but he didn't dare blink. He couldn't afford to.
With a roar, he unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one faster and more powerful than the last. His muscles burned with the effort, the strain of wielding a flaming sword starting to take its toll. But he pushed through the pain, his mind consumed by a singular thought. End this. Capture him. The demon king had to fall, here and now.
Darius could feel the ground beneath his feet shifting, the earth giving way as he advanced. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale laced with the scent of smoke and blood. His eyes, cold and gray, never wavered from Tenebris. There was no room for doubt, no place for fear. He had to be relentless, had to overpower the monster before him.
His next strike came from above, a crushing downward blow meant to split Tenebris's skull. The sheer force of the attack sent tremors up Darius's arms, the impact resonating through his bones. But Tenebris met him head-on, their blades locking in a deadly embrace, the heat from Darius's sword searing the air between them.
For a brief moment, they were locked together, face to face. Darius's breath was hot and heavy, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes blazed with fury, the fire reflecting in their depths. His body was a coiled spring, every muscle taut, ready to explode into action.
He shoved forward with all his might, trying to overpower Tenebris with brute strength alone. His arms trembled with the effort, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening until his knuckles turned white. The flames roared higher, fueled by his anger, by his desperation. But Tenebris was unyielding, his resistance infuriatingly steady.
With a grunt, Darius disengaged, stepping back just enough to reassess. His breath came in heavy, labored gasps, each inhale burning his lungs. His armor, though designed for protection, felt like a leaden weight now, the plates rubbing against his skin, the metal heating up from the proximity to the flames. But he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Not until Tenebris was nothing but ash at his feet or a prisoner on his knees.
He feinted to the left, then brought his sword around in a wide arc, aiming for Tenebris's side. The maneuver was swift, precise. Darius's skill honed by years on the battlefield. But even as he attacked, a part of him was aware of the toll this battle was taking. His muscles screamed in protest, his stamina waning with each passing second.
But there was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.
With a roar of defiance, Darius pressed on, his strikes becoming more desperate, more savage. He was a force of nature, an unstoppable storm of steel and flame. His sword moved like an extension of his will, each swing a testament to the hatred that burned within him. Every ounce of his being was focused on one goal. Capturing Tenebris.
His heart thundered in his chest, the rhythm erratic, fueled by adrenaline. His vision tunneled, the edges of the world growing dim as he concentrated solely on the enemy before him. His attacks became more unpredictable, wild and frenzied, as if by sheer force of will he could break through Tenebris's defenses.
Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the soot and grime that coated his skin. His breath was a harsh rasp in his throat, the air thick with the stench of burning wood and flesh. But he didn't slow, didn't hesitate. He couldn't afford to. Failure was not an option.
His sword clanged against Tenebris's with a sound like thunder, the force of the impact jarring his arms. He grit his teeth, pushing back with all his might, using his weight and strength to his advantage. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, focusing instead on the fire that burned in his chest, the fire that demanded vengeance.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. Darius could feel the heartbeat of the battle, the rhythm of their deadly dance. He could see every detail. The flicker of the flames, the glint of steel, the sweat that dripped from his brow. And in that moment, he knew. He was close. So close.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, Darius brought his sword down in a brutal overhead strike, the flames roaring to life as if in response to his fury. The force of the blow was immense, the weight of it crashing down like a hammer. It was a strike meant to end this once and for all, to bring Tenebris to his knees.
But even as the blade descended, Darius knew that this fight was far from over.
Caelan's body jolted upright, drenched in a cold sweat as if struck by a bolt of lightning. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only sound the ragged panting of his breath. The dreadful memory of Silvia's death seared into his mind, refusing to release its grip. It felt as though he were still there, trapped in that cursed moment, reliving the agony all over again.
He saw Tristan, his once-golden-haired comrade, standing beside Silvia as they faced the Demon King. The battle had been fierce, the outcome uncertain, until the moment Tristan turned. It was subtle at first, a hesitation in his stance, a fleeting glance at Caelan before his hand pushed Silvia forward, right into the demon's path.
Time seemed to slow as the demon's blade, dark and dripping with malevolence, sliced through the air. Silvia's eyes widened in shock, her lips parting in a silent scream as the blade cleaved her in two. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc, and her body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Caelan's heart shattered. "Silvia!" he screamed, his voice breaking as he lunged forward, but it was too late. The ground beneath him seemed to give way, and he fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he reached out to cradle her broken body. Her blood soaked into his clothes, warm and sticky, but he didn't care. He couldn't care.
Blind rage, hot and all-consuming, flooded his veins. His eyes, once full of light, now darkened with fury as he turned to Tristan, who dared to stand there with that same gallant smile, as if he hadn't just betrayed everything. With a roar that echoed through the desolate battlefield, Caelan sprang to his feet, his sword raised high. Tristan barely had time to react before Caelan's blade was upon him.
There was no mercy in Caelan's strikes. He slashed and stabbed with unbridled fury, each blow driven by the image of Silvia's lifeless form. Tristan's blood splattered across the stone floor, mixing with Silvia's, until finally, with one last savage thrust, Caelan drove his sword through Tristan's heart.
Tristan's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening as if to speak, but Caelan silenced him with a vicious twist of the blade. "You should have died, not her," Caelan hissed through gritted teeth. He yanked his sword free, letting Tristan's body collapse beside Silvia's.
The world around him seemed to fade as Caelan fell to his knees once more, gathering Silvia into his arms. Her body was cold now, her skin pale, but he held her close, pressing his forehead to hers as tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry…"
But sorrow wasn't enough. Sorrow wouldn't bring her back. As he rocked her lifeless form, a dark voice echoed in his mind. It was the Demon King, his voice as cold and smooth as polished stone. "Is this what you wanted, human? To see her die while you live on? Or will you take what I offer? Will you pay the price to undo this?"*
Caelan's breath hitched. He knew what he was about to do was madness, but in that moment, he didn't care. He'd already lost everything. What more was there to fear? "I'll do anything," Caelan rasped, his eyes narrowing with determination as he looked up into the Demon King's eyes.
The Demon King's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Anything?"
Caelan didn't hesitate. "Anything. I'll burn the world down if I have to. Just bring her back to me."
The Demon King chuckled darkly. "Very well, human. But remember, the price you pay will be steep. You may lose yourself in the process, but she will live. For now."
And with that, the pact was sealed. A dark, sinister power surged through Caelan's veins, filling him with a strength that felt alien, uncontrollable. The room around him seemed to warp and twist, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it all vanished.
Caelan's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding as the memory faded, leaving only the remnants of that dark power coursing through him. He shot up from his bed, screaming Silvia's name, his body shaking uncontrollably. The sheets clung to his sweat-drenched skin as he stumbled out of bed, barely registering that he was half-naked as he bolted into the hallway.
He didn't care. All that mattered was finding her, making sure she was alive, that she hadn't been taken from him again. His footsteps echoed through the stone halls as he ran, frantically searching for any sign of her.
He didn't stop until he nearly collided with Tristan, who stood in his path, his expression one of surprise and mild irritation. Caelan's eyes blazed with fury as he glared at him. "You," he growled, his hands balling into fists. "I'll kill you for what you did."
Tristan raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with condescension. "Caelan, what the hell is wrong with you? Have you completely lost it?"
Caelan snarled, his body trembling with the effort to contain the dark power within him. "You killed her, Tristan. You pushed her into that blade. I saw you."
Tristan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Jealousy is a nasty thing, Caelan. I told you before, Silvia chose me. You need to get over yourself and focus on what's important. Maybe if you cared about something other than yourself for once, you'd be in line with the rest of them."
That was the breaking point. Caelan's vision turned red as he lunged at Tristan, his hand curling into a cruel fist. "You don't get to say her name," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "I'll tear you apart."
But Tristan was quicker. He sidestepped Caelan's swing with ease, shaking his head as if Caelan were nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum. "Pathetic," he muttered. "Get your act together, Caelan, or you'll be the death of us all."
Caelan stood there, trembling with rage, his chest heaving as he fought to control the power surging through him. But Tristan was right—he couldn't let it consume him. Not yet. Not until he had Silvia by his side, safe and alive.
With a bitter curse, Caelan shook off the remnants of his rage and turned away from Tristan, his mind racing. He had to find her. He had to make sure she was all right. Ignoring Tristan's dismissive snort, Caelan quickly dressed, grabbing his bag and strapping it to his back before tearing through the temple, searching for the one person who mattered more than anything.
It didn't take long to find her. Silvia was in the training grounds, surrounded by knights and priests preparing for the journey ahead. Relief washed over him as he spotted her, alive and unharmed. He didn't care about the noise or the people around them. All that mattered was that she was there, within reach.
Without thinking, he rushed over to her, his heart pounding in his chest. But before he could reach her, Silvia stepped back, accidentally stomping on his foot. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, spinning around to face him.
Caelan could only stare at her, his heart swelling with relief. "Silvia," he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips. He didn't care that she had stepped on his foot, didn't care about the small amount of pain that shot through him. All that mattered was that she was there, alive.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to smile despite the turmoil raging inside him. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice rough. "Just… a rough night."
Caelan could feel Silvia's skeptical gaze burning into him, but he knew she wouldn't press the issue in front of their comrades. With a subtle gesture, he took her wrist and led her to a secluded corner, away from the curious eyes of their companions. "Silvia," he spoke in a hushed tone, urgency lacing his words. "I need you to trust me on this one. Stay back and let the Crusaders handle the mission." The weight of his request hung heavy in the air between them as they stood in the shadows, their faces illuminated only by a sliver of sunlight peeking through the trees.
He saw Tristan, his once-golden-haired comrade, standing beside Silvia as they faced the Demon King. The battle had been fierce, the outcome uncertain, until the moment Tristan turned. It was subtle at first, a hesitation in his stance, a fleeting glance at Caelan before his hand pushed Silvia forward, right into the demon's path.
Time seemed to slow as the demon's blade, dark and dripping with malevolence, sliced through the air. Silvia's eyes widened in shock, her lips parting in a silent scream as the blade cleaved her in two. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc, and her body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Caelan's heart shattered. "Silvia!" he screamed, his voice breaking as he lunged forward, but it was too late. The ground beneath him seemed to give way, and he fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he reached out to cradle her broken body. Her blood soaked into his clothes, warm and sticky, but he didn't care. He couldn't care.
Blind rage, hot and all-consuming, flooded his veins. His eyes, once full of light, now darkened with fury as he turned to Tristan, who dared to stand there with that same gallant smile, as if he hadn't just betrayed everything. With a roar that echoed through the desolate battlefield, Caelan sprang to his feet, his sword raised high. Tristan barely had time to react before Caelan's blade was upon him.
There was no mercy in Caelan's strikes. He slashed and stabbed with unbridled fury, each blow driven by the image of Silvia's lifeless form. Tristan's blood splattered across the stone floor, mixing with Silvia's, until finally, with one last savage thrust, Caelan drove his sword through Tristan's heart.
Tristan's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening as if to speak, but Caelan silenced him with a vicious twist of the blade. "You should have died, not her," Caelan hissed through gritted teeth. He yanked his sword free, letting Tristan's body collapse beside Silvia's.
The world around him seemed to fade as Caelan fell to his knees once more, gathering Silvia into his arms. Her body was cold now, her skin pale, but he held her close, pressing his forehead to hers as tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry…"
But sorrow wasn't enough. Sorrow wouldn't bring her back. As he rocked her lifeless form, a dark voice echoed in his mind. It was the Demon King, his voice as cold and smooth as polished stone. "Is this what you wanted, human? To see her die while you live on? Or will you take what I offer? Will you pay the price to undo this?"*
Caelan's breath hitched. He knew what he was about to do was madness, but in that moment, he didn't care. He'd already lost everything. What more was there to fear? "I'll do anything," Caelan rasped, his eyes narrowing with determination as he looked up into the Demon King's eyes.
The Demon King's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Anything?"
Caelan didn't hesitate. "Anything. I'll burn the world down if I have to. Just bring her back to me."
The Demon King chuckled darkly. "Very well, human. But remember, the price you pay will be steep. You may lose yourself in the process, but she will live. For now."
And with that, the pact was sealed. A dark, sinister power surged through Caelan's veins, filling him with a strength that felt alien, uncontrollable. The room around him seemed to warp and twist, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it all vanished.
Caelan's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding as the memory faded, leaving only the remnants of that dark power coursing through him. He shot up from his bed, screaming Silvia's name, his body shaking uncontrollably. The sheets clung to his sweat-drenched skin as he stumbled out of bed, barely registering that he was half-naked as he bolted into the hallway.
He didn't care. All that mattered was finding her, making sure she was alive, that she hadn't been taken from him again. His footsteps echoed through the stone halls as he ran, frantically searching for any sign of her.
He didn't stop until he nearly collided with Tristan, who stood in his path, his expression one of surprise and mild irritation. Caelan's eyes blazed with fury as he glared at him. "You," he growled, his hands balling into fists. "I'll kill you for what you did."
Tristan raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with condescension. "Caelan, what the hell is wrong with you? Have you completely lost it?"
Caelan snarled, his body trembling with the effort to contain the dark power within him. "You killed her, Tristan. You pushed her into that blade. I saw you."
Tristan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Jealousy is a nasty thing, Caelan. I told you before, Silvia chose me. You need to get over yourself and focus on what's important. Maybe if you cared about something other than yourself for once, you'd be in line with the rest of them."
That was the breaking point. Caelan's vision turned red as he lunged at Tristan, his hand curling into a cruel fist. "You don't get to say her name," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "I'll tear you apart."
But Tristan was quicker. He sidestepped Caelan's swing with ease, shaking his head as if Caelan were nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum. "Pathetic," he muttered. "Get your act together, Caelan, or you'll be the death of us all."
Caelan stood there, trembling with rage, his chest heaving as he fought to control the power surging through him. But Tristan was right—he couldn't let it consume him. Not yet. Not until he had Silvia by his side, safe and alive.
With a bitter curse, Caelan shook off the remnants of his rage and turned away from Tristan, his mind racing. He had to find her. He had to make sure she was all right. Ignoring Tristan's dismissive snort, Caelan quickly dressed, grabbing his bag and strapping it to his back before tearing through the temple, searching for the one person who mattered more than anything.
It didn't take long to find her. Silvia was in the training grounds, surrounded by knights and priests preparing for the journey ahead. Relief washed over him as he spotted her, alive and unharmed. He didn't care about the noise or the people around them. All that mattered was that she was there, within reach.
Without thinking, he rushed over to her, his heart pounding in his chest. But before he could reach her, Silvia stepped back, accidentally stomping on his foot. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, spinning around to face him.
Caelan could only stare at her, his heart swelling with relief. "Silvia," he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips. He didn't care that she had stepped on his foot, didn't care about the small amount of pain that shot through him. All that mattered was that she was there, alive.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to smile despite the turmoil raging inside him. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice rough. "Just… a rough night."
Caelan could feel Silvia's skeptical gaze burning into him, but he knew she wouldn't press the issue in front of their comrades. With a subtle gesture, he took her wrist and led her to a secluded corner, away from the curious eyes of their companions. "Silvia," he spoke in a hushed tone, urgency lacing his words. "I need you to trust me on this one. Stay back and let the Crusaders handle the mission." The weight of his request hung heavy in the air between them as they stood in the shadows, their faces illuminated only by a sliver of sunlight peeking through the trees.
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