Alexandria pays me no further mind, her attention consumed by the magic she is creating.

Gorfane is in my hand, the blade seems to shine, reflecting the dim green light. In the blade I can see my own face – but it's not really my face, is it? That pale and perfect beauty is not mine at all – twisted painfully. Confusion. Anger. Centuries of preparation – I will likely never get a better moment, even if I live ten thousand years – but still I hesitate. Why does this opportunity exist at all?

Does the Goddess have no need to fear mortal blades? The thought causes a sneer to twist the face reflected in the blade.

It doesn't matter. This moment will never come again. Alexandria absorbed the entirety of Aurora's supposed Ultimate Weapon – surely even she could not manage such a feat completely unscathed?

The null mana ignites along my blade.

Even if she was as unharmed as she appeared, it shouldn't matter. I am an impossibility. In my grasp is something the Demon Kings of old – my pathetic predecessors – could only dream of, the power to rend the flesh of the Goddess. My very soul has been torn and mutilated, left tattered and ripped – wrenched apart – in exchange for this power. No magic, no matter how powerful, can exist in contact with null. A doubled edged sword maybe, because to reach a Goddess, purely on strength of arm, is a difficult proposition.

Unless she turns away, exposes a defenseless back.

The Chorus is in ruins after years of rapidly escalating war has sapped their strength – they will be no help to me here. But isn't that fine? Isn't that the way it should have been, from the very start? Should I need to rely on others, for this, the culmination of my life's efforts? Perhaps they were necessary once, for The Sundering and all that followed. But now? Can I not take my destiny in my own hands, after all these years?

I line the blade up with where her heart should be, no skill or technique, they're not necessary for backstabbing an unsuspecting target.

And she should have a heart shouldn't she? The mythology of The Order taught that Alexandria ripped the still beating heart from her treacherous and cowardly father's chest – before casting it down to burn for a thousand years in The Fiery Wastes. If you strip away the theological coloring of that account, is it not simply proof that Alexandria's kind have a heart in their chests, the same as any other demon?

I can't help but pause. Stare. Her back is white in the gloom, skin entirely smooth and flawless except just around the point where her wings join her back. A strange diamond pattern of ridges rise out of her skin about two inches above her wings, and then those ridges smoothly transition into her glossy black feathers. Her nearly human form joined to her wings so perfectly, you wonder if humans were not meant to be born with wings?

With effort I clear my mind, remembering the Whispering Heart – I close my eyes. For just an instant. Then, without opening them, I flex my arm and release all of my explosive power, stabbing forward.

The blade stops short.

Opening my eyes, there in front of me is that still perfect back. Unblemished, unmarred, Gorfane's tip is pressed nearly against it. So close. An inch, a centimeter, a millimeter further and the idiot queen would be impaled. If she were to draw a breath right now, the expanding air in her chest would cause her to pierce herself on my blade.

Why?

There is no armor! No barrier to pierce! The odd glowing Formations on her arm are all dark, inert. So why? What is stopping me? This is important! I've worked my entire life for this! I cannot falter now! I know this, the knowledge runs through my mind, over and over, a litany. Now or never. So why? WHY CAN'T I DRIVE THE BLADE HOME? Tears are welling in my eyes. Anger and frustration overwhelming me, the Whispering Heart forgotten.

What is going on?

And then the whole room rumbles. One of Alexandria's spells releasing a fearsome magical pressure, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end, and a series of loud cracking noises. The sounds of heavy impact, stone on stone, ring throughout the wooden chamber – emanating from the large Unbound Core – causing the whole room to shake. Is she trying to smash the thing to pieces or something …? The thought trails through my mind idly, even as the rumbling causes me to lose my footing and take a stumbling step forward.

* Thunk *

The sound rings out and I look around – confused – for it's source. I need only search for a moment though, directly at my feet Gorfane has been plunged into the wooden floor. It stands there – hilt still vibrating slightly from the impact. Wha …? Why? B-because I almost stumbled into Alexandria with the sword brandished? So what happened? I – my hands – discarded my blade? How could this…

I look up, passed my fallen blade, back at Alexandria. She has turned back and is regarding me with her easy little smile. Behind her a dozen Rune Formations still dance in the air, glowing and pulsing their warm green light. Her large blue eyes are on my sword, they linger there a moment, before turning to me. One perfect eyebrow arches – an expression of polite incredulity surfacing for a moment on her face.

“Were you one of mine? I hadn't noticed.” She murmurs. “What a curious interaction though. I wonder why my defenses were exhausted first…?

“W-what? What did you do to me!?” I scream the words, my calm, my peace, forgotten.

She doesn't respond – not with words. The incredulity disappears though, her smile taking a distinctly contemptuous aura. Contemptuous and amused. She doesn't move but I can feel something happening, her power filling the space between us, questing, searching. Behind her the Runes dance and spin, glowing wildly – some beginning to flash instead of pulse – and I note that a mysterious red light is now being reflected in them. After a moment though that searching presence disappears.

“You've managed to mutilate yourself quite thoroughly, it's no wonder you're nearly invisible to my senses in that state. The conduit that joins us still exists but it has been ravaged terribly – no longer able to function as intended. Spitting on the blessings of your Goddess is typically frowned upon, is it not Demon King?”

My knees slip out from beneath me and I drop heavily to the ground. I catch myself on my sword and hang my head heavily. A distant part of me is angry, wants to jump to my feet – rail against her, take up my blade and let come what may. But the larger part of me is cold. A vast and yawning emptiness rising up, the tide of seven wasted centuries threatening to carry me away. Is this how it ends? How can this be how it ends? Why-

I feel a hand on my chin, and my face is lifted, until I'm looking back into the beautiful blue eyes of the Goddess.

“Do not despair child. This is a happy moment.” Her voice worms into my head, crawling through my skull and I can feel my despair slipping away. Everything slipping away. My thoughts suddenly slow and ponderous, buried by an odd feeling of …comfort? Urgently, I try to wrench my head free – but her hand holds me steady, peering up into her fathomless blue eyes.

“To think – that one of my 'Chosen' has slipped into the ranks of the Celestials, that can only be a happy thing. You will be …most useful.” She continues.

Under my fingers I feel Gorfane. The leather that wraps the hilt rough against my skin. Trying to ignore the two glowing orbs bearing down on me – piercing into my soul it seems – I focus on that feeling. It grounds me. Reminds me of the world that exists beyond this room, beyond Alexandria. With effort, I wrap my fingers around my sword – my mind grasping for forms and techniques effective from a kneel, to cut down the monster before me.

“Useful …?” As I force myself to speak, I feel my head clearing, thoughts becoming clearer.

“I.” I almost choke on the word, some part of me revolting at what I am trying to say.

“I will never be useful to you again. Alexandria. You are no God.” With fingers numbing under a mysterious pressure – I rip my blade free of the ground. “And I will cut you down!”

Have I ever dealt so fine a strike? My blade whistles through the air at a speed that not even automatically reactive magic could match – the dull throb of null mana filling the air around us, my whole body wracked by that old familiar ache. The ache of a magical creature suddenly deprived of mana. But I have trained, trained long, trained for years, and my strike does not waver by the tiniest degree. Through the target – a perfect execution of the eighth form of the Whispering Heart – the blade swings out horizontally, aiming for decapitation. My whole body suddenly working at peak performance despite the pain – achieving mechanical perfection, guiding my strike unerringly.

And then it all grinds to a sudden and inexplicable halt. Gorfane resting lightly on – no, slightly above – her collarbone.

We stand there a moment, in the strange light. Our faces close enough to kiss, my body nearly on top of hers – frozen unnaturally mid-lunge. This close I can feel myself once again being captured in those wide blue eyes – regarding me, as a man regards an insect, from so impossibly high above.

I hold my posture, desperately trying – willing – my sword to advance, even another inch. I've lost my momentum – but if I can just tear out the throat of the idiot queen… But as the seconds tick by, in the strange mingled red and green light, the truth becomes increasingly inescapable. I cannot touch her. Her barrier – should be gone. She has immense physical power, if no particular technique, she could surely escape me – but she does not. She could conjure any number of defenses I'm sure – but she's refrained from doing so. Judging it unnecessary.

“…Why?” The word slips from my mouth helplessly.

I know. I have no need to listen to the words of the idiot queen. In this situation, it can only make things worse. But I have to… I can feel the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes… and I have to know why. Because I want it. More than anything else in the world. To kill her, here and now. But I can't. But I can't.

“What did you do to me?!” The words escape me a sob.

With precise movements Alexandria reaches up the hand I momentarily escaped in my attack, and very deliberately pinches the back of the blade of my sword between her thumb and index finger. A slight wince creases her face as she pulls the sword from her throat – pushing me back in the process, so I'm no longer nearly on top of her. Satisfied with that she releases the blade – her fingertips slightly red and raw I note idly – and cocks her head slightly, as if in confusion.

“I've done nothing to you girl. It is a prison of your own making.” She smirks at this. “Do not blame me for your own foolishness. You said the Words, did you not? All of my Demon Kings have been made to say the Words – it seemed prudent to have at least that much control. It's no fault of mine if your mind is so puny as to be unable to comprehend when you surrender your freedom.” She laughs.

“The first Demon Kings who swore the oath knew of it's meaning. They understood the intent, and accepted their servitude grudgingly – understanding the alternative. But to think! Now, so many years later, the collar has sat so long on the necks of my faithful dogs – they no longer feel it's chafe, they no longer even realize they are chained.”

I can feel my mind reeling. If what she says is true… no. How could it be true? Such a thing would be mentioned, in the histories, in the accounts of the betrayers and oathbreakers, somewhere, someone would have recorded it. My research was extensive, to kill a God I left no source untapped – in the libraries of Lumineux, the ancient records of The Order hidden away in the Grand Cathedral itself, even going so far as to consult with demons older than I the ancient sages and priests – and none of them mention something like this. The Demon King, bound in servitude to the Goddess? Not just asked to revere her, as many demons do – but forced to bend the knee, a slave before their master? It would never be accepted, for pride if nothing else.

But. Another part of my mind whispers. But, if it were true – would any Demon King leave a record? Forever tarnish their pride? Call into question their ability? Irrevocably weaken their clan's position among the Great Houses? Perhaps not. And there were a great many rituals involved with my coronation, were there not? Parades and festivals, of course, but also more subtle things – petitions from the Order begging certain considerations, extending an invitation to be brought before the Goddess to celebrate my ascension. Even a certain ceremony before the Throne…

The words I spoke back then…

“Havik'nra Kelden, fer Terrin quinn.” I hear them again now – like a memory come to life, ringing out across hundreds of years. Alexandria has spoken the words, they are strange – guttural but also smoothly flowing – and hearing them prompts a strange feeling of resonance, deep in my chest. Alexandria's smile is full of laughter as she looks down at me.

“To die and to serve. Is what it means – roughly. There are few words worth exchanging with servants I've found over the years. But this is a conversation I never tire of, an explanation I do not mind providing.” She says with a giggle. “In truth some meaning is lost in this tongue, unable to capture the essence of proper High Demonic I'm afraid some of the nuance is lost, but I think the point gets across well enough, don't you? Absurd for a dog to bear it's fangs at its master. You're nearly as bad as Pink – that illiteracy will be the death of you both.” An unfamiliar expression crosses her face at the mention of Pink – of Vivianna – almost wistful, and the laughter dies from her voice.

I can feel Gorfane slipping numbly from my fingers, at the last second I catch it – planting it onto the ground below me and leaning on my shining magical sword like a cane. A heavy feeling is settling atop me, as if my limbs have been encased in lead, as if I'm drowning and burning and freezing – all at once. Because. Because if that's true? If that's true. What has it all been for?

The entirety of my life? The saga of the youngest Demon King to ever seize the Fiery Crown, who burned and battled her way across the whole of Artas and back again. Who enabled her greatest enemies to enact their grandest magic – that dark day when the rift was opened and something vital Sundered – spreading chaos and fear among her people, until they could be claimed by the blades of the Chorus and their Grand Coalition? A dark and bloody road, seven hundred years long, and the goal was an impossibility before I took the first step?

“No…” My voice trembles.

Beneath me a chasm yawns – threatening to swallow me whole. To devour my sanity entirely. I grip my sword. The familiar grip brings me back, the worn hide has no secrets or revelations – it is entirely dependable. The only thing in my wasted life that is it seems. And I'm suddenly filled with resolution. With purpose. Drawing myself up I raise the blade, gazing back at the liar reflected in it – the one who killed everything and everyone and lived a lie for centuries, for no reason at all – before reversing my grip and attempting to eviscerate myself. Resolved to end it all!

“Stop.” A bored voice interrupts me. And hatefully – my body obeys.

Then she is at my side, the sparkling Rune Formations left alone and forgotten, her hand over mine on my sword. With a smooth movement she twists it – exposing the flat of the blade before us.

“Look.” She commands. And grudgingly I do. The woman reflected in the blade is not the same woman who set out to kill the Goddess from Hal'Trinneth today. That woman was a pale and graceful beauty – flawless and expressionless with cool blue eyes. The woman before me has red eyes, her pupils slit, an angry black scar mars the center of her forehead, her skin is turning reddish – as if she were perpetually blushing – the glamour faded, worn through. And above her head sits that old and familiar Fiery Crown – declaring her a Demon King, casting off it's angry red light. How did it get here, I wonder, it was surely confined to one of Aurora's musty vaults, so why is it here – on my head?

To mock me and my failure?

“Do you see?” The gentle voice comes from inches away, and I'm startled into staring back into her beautiful blue eyes. “It's mine. One of my Demon Kings, found her way back to me, ready to serve. Scurried back to my side to save the world.”

“N-no. I …I will kill you, I've sworn it …an oath.” My response is drunken, nearly incoherent, my mind slowed to a crawl by her proximity.

“That's fine. That doesn't matter. You will serve.” Her voice is distant. I can barely hear her – distracted as I am by the Demon King reflected in her eyes. That Demon King looks fierce, reliable, surrounded by a beautiful blue sea.

“…Kill you… a thousand times…” My voice is so far away…

“You've failed. Pledged the impossible.” Truth sings in the air around me.

“…no, I can still…” I grasp for the words, but they slip away from me even as they form in my mouth, unable to lie so blatantly. The blue expanding around me.

“But I am merciful, and there is much to do.” That melodious voice whispers, like the clink of a manacle – or the cinching of a noose.

“I w-will not…” The distant voice dies halfway. Where am I? Lost in this fathomless blue?

“Name yourself, Demon King.” That voice is close. Thunder in my ears. All around me my world is nothing but an endless blue sea.

“Name yourself.” The thunder roars out from above.

“I am…” Who am I? Alone. Adrift in this sea. Nothing left to live for, who exactly am I?