Some people are born to rule. Their destiny is written in the stars, and nothing can stop them from achieving what they were meant for. That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy; there will still be struggle. The right to rule is earned.

  Malachai looked out over his army. He didn’t quite smile — it had been a long time since he’d done that — but he felt satisfaction. Slowly and steadily his army was growing. Starting with the demons he summoned, and now supplemented by overflowing dungeons, everything was beginning to really take shape.

  A messenger approached. He was human, one of the few who had already agreed to serve in Malachai’s army. Demons made poor messengers. They were poorly suited to any interpersonal roles, and as a result, Malachai was already scheming about how to get more humans to join his army. Their numbers were growing, and that alone was enough motivation for some. It was human nature to fight on the side that would win, and soon they would see the power of his army.

  The messenger knelt.

  “Speak.”

  “Your highness, the Demon Lord Velkran has returned from Grovefall.”

  Malachai’s jaw tightened. By the wavering in the messenger’s voice, it must not be good news.

  The messenger gulped. “He brought with him three of the villagers, which can be used to summon more soldiers.”

  Malachai continued to stare at the messenger. His lack of response made the man sweat. Outwardly he was able to maintain a look of fierce restraint, but internally, Malachai was on the edge of his seat. Grovefall was… special to him, for reasons that nobody on this side of the mountains knew. Velkran had been given special instructions, and it was so hard for Malachai not to ask — if he would finally see his daughter again.

  “The Demon Lord said…” The messenger swallowed. “A Hero chased him off.”

  “What?!” Malachai shrieked, unable to stop himself. “A Hero, already?!” That was so far from what he’d been expecting to hear. Normally it took years before someone finally gave in and summoned a Hero. He’d expected to have much longer to prepare his army.

  “Bring Velkran to me!” Malachai shouted.

  “Sire!” A couple lesser demons saluted, and moments later, the Demon Lord approached.

  Velkran was calm and relaxed. All Demon Lords were masters of poise, and this one was no exception. There was something greasy about their mannerisms though, like every statement out of their mouths was only half a truth.

  Unfortunately, getting angry with a Demon Lord was counterproductive. Malachai had learned that the hard way; the damned creatures were so addicted to nonchalance that no amount of threat would rattle them and would instead make them dig in their heels out of sheer obstinance.

  So he pushed down his boiling rage and forced a neutral expression. “Tell me about this Hero,” he said.

  Velkran examined his fingernails, which were long and pointed. “He is weak, perhaps level 10. I nearly killed him.”

  Malachai ground his teeth. “Nearly? Not so weak, then.”

  The Demon Lord tsked, and a flash of rage darkened his eyes. “He was not alone. Had I stayed to finish him off, his party would have killed me.”

  “Then you should have died!” Malachai roared. He released his hold on his anger, and ghostly flames lit up all around him.

  The Demon Lord flinched back. “I do apologize, your highness. I thought I could better serve you from this side of the grave.”

  Malachai fumed. The Hero must be the reason his summoning had failed a few days prior. Only one summoning could happen each day in Grimora, even though multiple summoning circles existed. He’d thought he had hidden or blocked every other summoning circle, but he must have missed one.

  Not just any circle either, but the one near Grovefall. Of course. He would never admit it to anyone else, but that village was something of a blind spot for him. He had too much history, and he was never one to dwell.

  “Summon the Demon Lords,” he commanded. “Meet me in the circles.”

  “Sire—”

  “NOW!” Malachai shouted. The ghostly flamed reared up around him. As the Demon King, the fires of hell were his to command.

  “At once, your highness.” Velkran slunk away without further protest.

  Malachai kept the fires burning even after the Lord had left. When he took the throne, the last thing he expected was this level of incompetence. One expected demons to be crafty, devious masterminds spinning webs to ensnare the souls of the innocent. Instead, for all their physical power, they were petty, cowardly, and self-serving.

  He rubbed his forehead. It didn’t matter. They were only a means to an end, after all. Humans, for all their valorous potential, still squabbled amongst themselves. The only way to unite them was with a common enemy — or a common leader. The demons, wielded properly, could earn him a different throne. A human throne.

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  Rather than a King, he would become an Emperor, and he would bring true peace to Grimora. He could put an end to the cycle of hero and villain.

  His lip curled at the thought of the new Hero. The fool would be like a babe in the woods, with not a clue about the nature of the world he’d stepped into. Worse, he would become a thorn in Malachai’s side. His class would enable his power to grow faster than his wisdom, and like every Hero before him he would not bother to look beyond the clear delineation of good and evil.

  Almost every Hero, anyway.

  The messenger returned. “The Lords are gathered, sire.”

  Malachai didn’t bother to acknowledge the message. Instead, he activated one of his class skills — Ethereal Smoke — and disappeared. The skill was a heavy mana drain and could only be used sparingly. It was incredibly useful in combat, but these days Malachai used it for theatrics.

  For thirty seconds, the skill turned him into smoke. Unlike natural smoke, however, he could travel through walls and direct himself. He was also incredibly fast, so it was the work of a moment for him to reach the summoning circles, where the Demon Lords had gathered.

  Notably, they were all outside of the circles, evenly spaced. Demon Lords might work together, but they were cutthroat competitors. Any would be glad to see the other fall.

  Malachai hung there, unseen for a moment. He waited until all six demons were looking away, then canceled the skill, returning to human form.

  He waited, content to be silent for a moment, until the first Demon Lord noticed him.

  “Your highness!” The startled creature knelt. The rest whipped around and did the same.

  Malachai’s lip curled with vicious amusement. Once they were all kneeling, he said, “Velkran failed me today. A new Hero has been summoned, and he let the man slip through his clutches.”

  Demon Lords shot dark looks at Velkran, who did his best to appear unbothered. This time, under the glares of his peers, his best was not quite good enough.

  “According to Velkran, this Hero is not yet level 10, and yet he and a couple villagers were enough to chase off not just Velkran, but the lesser demons who served him as well.”

  The other Demon Lords glanced at each other, surprised and a little bit delighted. If Velkran was punished, perhaps this could be good for them. Velkran’s subordinates might be divided amongst them, and they would grow stronger from his demise.

  Malachai kept his eyes sharp as he affected a bored tone. “What this means to me is that I have overestimated Demon Lords. I believe I should try my hand with a Demon Lady instead.”

  One of the Lords, Tharozai, half rose to his feet before remembering himself, then bowed his head even deeper than before.

  Malrikar spoke up. “Your highness, please. Do not let the abysmal failure of one Lord represent us all.”

  Malachai really could have smiled, then. The Demon Lords were furious with Velkran and pleading with their King; they were right where he wanted them. He held the smile back, though, and schooled his expression into one of regret instead.

  “The Hero grows stronger every day,” he said to Malrikar. “I am sure that any one of you, in Velkran’s place, would have been able to finish the job. But next time he appears, he will be exponentially more powerful, and his party will grow with him.” He bowed his head just a tiny bit, to show his respect to the Demon Lord. “I will resummon you as soon as I am able.”

  He waved his hand, and the Demon Lords reluctantly inched their way into the center of the three interlocked circles.

  All except Velkran. He hesitated at the edge, then made a break for it. He sprinted away, past humans and lesser demons, none of which made any move to stop him. Why would they? A Demon Lord could strike them down in an instant.

  Malachai cast Demonic Suppression, and Velkran fell to the ground. He motioned to a few lesser demons, and they dragged the immobilized Demon Lord back to the summoning circles.

  Tharozai kicked Velkran in the stomach, hard enough to knock down a chunk of his health.

  Malrikar spat directly onto the fallen Lord’s face.

  With all six Demon Lords encircled, Malachai began the summoning. Any lesser summoning could be handled by his minions, but one of this magnitude was worthy of his personal attention.

  Even as he spoke the words, he congratulated himself on the neatness of this plan. In sacrificing six Demon Lords back to hell, he would be able to summon a powerful Demon Lady. The Lords themselves would survive the experience of course; unlike humans, they thrived in hell. However much they might dislike it, it was the source of all their powers.

  Once there, the five other Lords would rip Velkran to shreds for his failures. They would blame him for their temporary setback, and Malachai would not have to lift a finger for his punishment.

  In time, he would resummon the Lords, and each one would be grateful for their return. Even better, they would understand the price of failure and be more willing to give their all to the army in the future.

  Within the circle, the ghostly fires of hell rose up to reclaim the Demon Lords. It didn’t hurt them — physically, anyway. In this world, hell was not the blazing inferno Malachai had been raised to believe in. There was no inherent physical torment.

  Rather, the flames carried within them a sort of psychological torture. Looking into those ghostly fires, a person could see their every weakness and flaw. They could remember every time they betrayed their morals or acted selfishly. They were confronted with themselves, and for all but the most righteous, that confrontation could be desperately painful.

  Then, of course, there was Malachai. When he chose to take the Demon Throne for himself, the flames became a comfort. He knew exactly who he was, and the flames could show him nothing new. He was willing to accept the darker side of himself, because he knew what it was that he worked towards.

  The Demon Lords burned away in the fires. The ghostly flames were black and gray and piercingly white, and they rose up higher than he had ever seen them, fueled by six powerful sacrifices. Had they been regular flames he would have had to step back — all his lesser demons and human minions did, in fact — but hellfire was a friend to the Demon King, and he did not flinch.

  All at once, the flamed shortened and disappeared with a whoosh, leaving in their place the Demon Lady.

  She was tall for a woman, but not uncannily so. Her skin was purple like the Lords, but it was more of a lilac than a violet. Her horns were purple too, deep purple that would look black in darker light, and they were polished to shine. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulder in thick curls — but only on one side. Her head was shaved on the left side around her ear, just enough to call attention to her earring, which was a string of onyx gemstones set in glittering white gold.

  She wore a black dress to match the earring. It was strapless and tight, and the corset top pushed her breasts up so the tops of them were clearly visible and highly distracting.

  She put one hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow as she looked around.

  “Lilixara, I welcome you.” The Demon King held out a hand.

  Lilixara stepped out of the rings and took his hand, her long, delicate fingers curling gently around his. She curtsied, bowed her head and looked up at him through her lashes.

  “Your highness. How may I serve?”