Shyla, cross-legged on the windowsill, filed her nails. For the first time in a month, Pope Althonbright didn't use the elf's mouth for something other than answering rhetorical questions, choir, or fellatio. He was too busy panicking over someone's arrival. The other servants hopped to his yapped orders, organized and reorganized, and put together dishes.

Pope Althonbright's perpetual smile disappeared, replaced by a frown and shaking jowls, and, inwardly, Shyla felt a surge of satisfaction. He spent far too much time exercising his "right" to "study" the heroic qualms. To the pope's credit, he didn't lose his fatherly tone. She felt it was a matter of time. He unraveled like all humans did when they faced their mortality. The one that arrived seemed very threatening, and the approaching mana shadow threatened to eclipse the sun.

"Does anyone know his favorite dish? Anyone? Be not slothful, child. Go and help the maids and chefs."

Shyla dropped from the sill and dusted herself off, "Yes, of course, master. Perhaps, instead, I can relieve you of your stress?"

"I told you not to call me that. I am a pope, not a slaver. Now is not the time for distractions."

She held up her hands as if to demonstrate her confusion but strategically exposed her scarred wrists. Scars circled them, and her ankles as well. "Excuse me, your excellency. In my long life, I often confuse previous titles." She bowed and left.

Elves couldn't detect mana shadows, not directly, not like demons could.

When was the last time I felt a miasma like this? Was it the Age of Heroes?

Shyla pondered the question while she stepped lightly. She would, of course, snake her way to the kitchen, find a sun-facing sill, and reseat herself. The other demons wouldn't care to tattle because she carried the heavier burden.

There were four dungeon types in Eovamund: the mockeries, the undead, the abominations, and the demons. Each monster type was classified according to physiology, how much it diverged from the enlightened races, and not all were equal in power. Demons, the weakest of the four, suffered as desperate parasites.

Without a host, demons dissolved back into nothingness. Worse, because of their parasitism on the enlightened, they absorbed their mentality. They learned the value of living and feared death, and, most egregious of all, they learned to compromise. Their service to Pope Althonbright, more accurately to the Alune Theocracy, exemplified this. Only this country kept them alive. Others shunned and attacked them. In turn, they offered their magic and abilities; demon-possessed individuals enjoyed great powers.

The demons learned, very early, indefinite possession proved disastrous. Hosts required breaks to protect their sanity, and the Alune Theocracy once practiced such rotations. Memories burned like a candle while a demon inhabited a mind and eventually snuffed. To this end, demons that maintained a ruthless disposition desired elves because of their capacity to forget and relearn after a century or two. Their beauty was a bonus. While the pope neglected the practice of rotation, most demons continued giving their hosts recesses in secret.

The demon-possessed elf fought to the last moment, chained by the bloody wrist and ankle until the shadow created by the dungeon heart vortexed into her mouth and eyes. Even now, she begged, an emotional tangle, to be freed from the prison of her own body, her identity slipped more every day. Every act she performed, the elf watched and felt but could not control. Soon, there would be only the demon and an elf-body puppet. It would be a lonesome arrangement. Since elves feared not growing old, this loss of identity crushed them faster than humans.

Collecting isolated elves from the northern peninsula became easier every decade. However, recent events made Shyla the last.

"Be at peace," the demon whispered, "When I escape his sight, I will permit you time to think. I promise."

Elves today, however, were not chosen for their ability to make mental room for demons. The pope developed a taste for them. Shyla was his favorite, and he kept her nearby at all hours, so the elf never felt respite.

Another masked individual, the chef, nodded to her when she seated herself.

"You cannot run. Do not try. Breathe in as much freedom as you can."

The demon hovered, incorporeal, by her side, tethered to prevent separation. At a moment's notice, it could retake her. Shyla whimpered into her hands.

"He calls for you," the demon said, "I'm sorry."

"No, please, I can't take it anymore! Not again!" Shyla screamed.

It lasted only half a second before her appearance of terror melted into a calm and subservient demeanor. The demon assumed her name, and the elf became the unwilling passenger. It took mere moments to stroll to Pope Althonbright's bed chamber for their nightly discussions, and the elf inside struggled every step, with no influence whatsoever.

Tomorrow, the guest would arrive. Before then, the pope demanded relaxation.

"Greeting, Lord Walter. I am the pope's subsidiary, Shyla, and I welcome--" she stopped midsentence.

The hero and his companion arrived by teleportation at the city limits, where Shyla and some selected staff waited. He looked haggard, as one would expect of a traveler. The giddy woman with him, however, suffered abuses. What did he do to instill such terrified and awful loyalty? Blood, some hers and some from an animal, splattered her, her clothes ripped, and bruises and scrapes covered her. Some of her fingernails were gone entirely. Yet, she looked upon him as if he sanctified the air he breathed and could survive with no other.

Lord Walter's hollow eyes drifted over the welcoming committee. He saw them, and then he looked deeper. The few masked individuals in the group stirred. When was the last time the demons felt perceived? A basilisk gazed with softer vision. Shyla, herself, wanted to back up. The closer Lord Walter approached, the more his presence seemed to crush her.

No, this is far worse than what I felt during the Age of Heroes, a thick maelstrom.

Lord Walter turned to the woman, "What the fuck am I looking at here? Is this a trap?"

"Not at all. This is what you asked for," Walter's companion flourished, curtsied, and said, "Welcome to the dungeon of the Alune Theocracy."

Lord Walter stared at Shyla, "Who's in charge here?"

"Pope Althonbright. He's prepared--"

"Bring me to him. Now."