Year 548 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The air over Phlegethon, the second layer of Hell, writhed with heat. Volcanoes spat columns of molten rock into the burning sky, their plumes bleeding into the smoke-filled vault above. Rivers of magma cut glowing scars through blackened plains, and flakes of magical fire hissed as they fell upon the ash dunes and jagged glass fields. Far below, the Bladed Maw boiled like a sea of damnation, its surface seething with the restless energy of bound souls.

  High above this realm of torment, a great winged figure cut through the sulfurous wind. Zeraphion’s true form loomed thrice the height of a mortal, his limbs corded with muscle and ending in talons sharp enough to pierce steel. His leathery wings unfurled wide, each beat sending ripples of heat through the air. A weave of power coiled around him, glimmering briefly before vanishing. His form blurred, and then dissolved entirely into the shimmer of invisibility. Hidden from prying eyes, he banked toward a distant mountain whose summit glowed faintly like a dying ember.

  As the land rolled away beneath him, his thoughts turned inward. Rivalries and assassinations were the marrow of devilish politics, but the stakes of this scheme reached far beyond the usual contest for status. To shake the hierarchy of the Nine itself was dangerous, and yet the reward was almost beyond imagining. The world their prince, Gader’el, had discovered was pristine, untouched by higher powers, its mortal souls unclaimed and its very foundation steeped in raw, unspent power. Long ago, in the Higher Planes, he had borne another name—Gadriel, radiant and unfallen—before ambition reshaped him. To drink deep of such a realm was to swell not only in strength, but in dominion. Arkanthys was a fulcrum world. Once it fell, the barriers shielding other realms beyond it would weaken, perhaps collapse entirely. With such a feast of power and conquest, even Belial’s crystal throne might one day be taken by their prince, leaving that seat open. That was the prize Zeraphion had long coveted, and every stumble Serephira made brought him closer to it.

  The notion made his blood quicken. His rival, Serephira, was as cunning as she was ambitious. The prince was harder to read, though his ambition was plain enough, the annexation of the newly found world. But now it seemed Serephira had stumbled. There was an opportunity in that also.

  The mountain rose sharply before him, its slopes split with gaping vents that breathed sulfur into the wind. A black maw appeared near its base, framed in rock scorched to glass. Zeraphion folded his wings and slipped inside, the shadows swallowing him. As he moved deeper, his towering form began to contract, the monstrous bulk giving way to the shape of a tall, elegant man. His skin held a faint bronze cast, his features unnervingly perfect, framed by hair the color of burnt gold. A pair of small, pointed black horns jutted from his brow, subtle yet unmistakable.

  The tunnel sloped downward, its walls sweating heat. He passed through a ward that shimmered faintly against his senses, a lattice of power woven to repel scrying eyes, and emerged into a wide chamber. A pool of molten rock bubbled at its center, casting the cavern in an unsteady crimson light.

  Serephira was already there, draped in the illusion of her chosen elven guise, motionless as a statue. Her eyes followed him as he entered, though her expression did not change. Zeraphion took a place opposite her, folding his hands behind his back, and waited in silence. A faint curl of heat shimmer rose between them, the only movement in the stillness.

  Time passed. The surface of the magma began to swell, and a shape coalesced within it. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged, human in outline but otherworldly in every aspect. His skin gleamed like black glass veined with dull ember-light, and his eyes burned with a steady inner flame. The molten rock clung to him for a heartbeat before sliding away, leaving him suspended above the pool as though the inferno itself obeyed his will. The air in the chamber thickened, pressing against their lungs, an unspoken reminder of his dominance.

  Both ministers dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. Zeraphion inclined his head with precise control, while Serephira’s bow was graceful but no deeper than form demanded.

  “My prince,” they murmured together.

  For a moment, there was only the molten hiss of the pool and the weight of his gaze upon them, sharp enough to strip away illusion and falsehood alike. His eyes moved slowly from one to the other, lingering on each as though weighing their worth. Then he spoke, his voice smooth, deep, and edged with heat.

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  “Your scheme fell apart… the church is no more.”

  “My Lord,” Serephira began, her chin lifting just enough to meet his gaze, “the scheme was sound. The anchor was established years ago.”

  Rage twisted the prince’s flawless features, and sudden jets of flame roared from his eyes. The heat slammed against them like a physical blow, forcing the air from their lungs and drawing the faintest tremor from the surface of the molten pool.

  “The church was destroyed, your precious ‘religion’ destroyed.”

  “That was a known risk,” she said evenly. Her voice was steady, but her fingers flexed once before stilling. “Someone managed to unlock the hold on the ancient ascendants, and they descended on our lands with hordes of untamed human berserkers. All the while, our full powers were bound and leashed.”

  Zeraphion kept his expression still, though inside a curl of satisfaction warmed him. It had been his whispers, carried through one of the ancients who had slipped the binding, that had unmade the church and loosed the berserkers. Let Serephira wear the blame—it cost him nothing, and only fed his advantage.

  The flames in the prince’s gaze ebbed, and his expression cooled into composure once more. The heat in the chamber eased, though a faint smell of scorched stone lingered.

  “The failure was yours, Serephira,” Zeraphion said, letting the words hang in the heat, a subtle prod to reignite their master’s fury. He straightened fractionally as he said it, letting the shift in posture claim more of the space between them.

  The prince’s expression did not change. “There is truth in that. And we no longer have the inflow of fresh souls to feast upon, to strengthen us, and bargain with.”

  Zeraphion’s jaw tightened. Those souls had bought influence and allegiances, purchased blades and claws in the service of their cause. Losing them had carved deep wounds in their power, and he mourned the loss keenly. Yet it had been a price that had to be paid, the church’s destruction was a hard blow to Serephira’s power base. Still… without those souls, doors that once opened easily would now close, and allies would demand stronger persuasion. But in time, if his schemes ripened, he would replace that loss a hundredfold.

  “They were never the main goal,” she replied smoothly, “merely a fortunate gain. The tethers are what matter, and I already have a second in progress.”

  “I trust you keep clear of the eastern reaches,” Zeraphion said coldly. “That region is mine to work.”

  “And how have you worked it? No progress yet. You were ever the coward, unwilling to make bold moves.” Her words were calm, but she tilted her head slightly, as if weighing his worth.

  Black talons slid from Zeraphion’s fingertips as he took a single step toward her, features twitching once in suppressed aggression. He was the elder of the ministers, one of the fallen from the dawn of time, and his aura still dwarfed hers and they both knew it. The air seemed to vibrate faintly around him, the pressure of his power making the molten pool shudder.

  “Halt!” The prince’s eyes flared with ember light, casting long, jagged shadows across the chamber walls, the heat in the chamber spiking.

  “I have several cults in place,” Zeraphion said evenly, his claws retracting but his gaze never leaving hers, “but they must ripen. When they do, they’ll be strong enough for the tethering ritual.”

  “Seven we need, and four we have. One placed by myself when I first found the world. But we are running out of time. The barriers are leaking, and other powers may soon scent Arkanthys. I will brook no competition for what is mine!” His voice rose in a sudden flare of heat, his eyes blazing so fiercely the stone beneath him began to crack. “When next we meet, I want a solid plan for the final three placements.”

  The warning was true, in more ways than one. There was the threat of higher powers beyond the Nine Hells, and the quieter danger within. He had heard speculations among his peers of counts and even a duke gone missing. Such disappearances were not unheard of, but they bred curiosity as that reeked of intrigue, and curiosity could unravel even the deepest schemes. Their “missing” were not lost at all, but already woven into Arkanthys by his design.

  He bowed low, his posture flawless, then turned and made his way from the chamber. The heat lessened with every step, the molten light fading behind him until only shadows remained.

  But his thoughts burned brighter than the flames he left behind. If all fell as it should, if the tethers ripened and the cults swelled with power, then Arkanthys would be only the beginning. He had glimpsed signs that the high-elves, who had escaped the ancient demon infestation, had fled into those realms beyond. If he could find the right triggers, perhaps even mortal hands could be guided to open those passages for him. And if he reached those worlds first, before his prince or Serephira, he could gorge on their strength alone.

  Let his prince clash with Belial, let them bleed each other dry in mortal combat. When both lay spent, Zeraphion would strike, fed by unspoiled realms, strong enough to topple them both. And by feasting on their immense life force, strengthened by uncountable souls over the millennia, he might even grow strong enough to challenge other arch-devils.