Humans worship the Pantheon and our gods provide us with gifts and protection. Demons have none of this. They think they stand among our gods and disrespect Amma in their reverence of the Void. How any sapient being could revere such an evil as the Devourer—even such wretched things as demons—is beyond me. Yet demons recite the mantra; “As all are born from the void, all will return.” As if Amma were not the mother of all. Their blatant Heresy, if not vile nature, is reason enough to exterminate the vermin of the face of Vos and return them to that Void they love so dearly.

—excerpt from, 'Against the Ceasefire'

The silence, once broken by life, now returned. It swallowed all and left nothing in its wake.

Silence: Herald of the Void. Devourer of sense. The silence drank in the fetid air and suffocated even the weakest rasp. Stillness remained.

Stillness: The latticework of frost glimmering weekly under the light of the full moon. The perfect creation of the long night waiting to be broken by the light of the first dawn. Dawn that was yet to come. For now, the stillness reigned; at this moment that was an eternity. Silent, still, lifeless as the grave. The Void met with reality. Fleeting, terrible, great.

A moment passed and it shattered.

Maya blinked at the darkness, nothing changed, and the moment was gone. The scream had long since faded and once more footsteps echoed down stone halls—each step a little louder, each scream a little graver—a drumroll to her death picking up pace as the climax neared.

A light, crazed, choke of laughter sputtered forth from Maya’s lips tasting of bitter iron and decay. This miserable cell in the dark reeking of death and despair, this was to be her final resting place? A tomb of darkness, still and forsaken—so lost to light and life that she’d felt the Void come press down and welcome her into its embrace? Absurd. Absurd that she should laugh in this place and situation yet this was happening all the same.

Choking, sputtering, gales of laughter tore free from her throat and shook Maya in her bonds. Tears of mirth that should not be welled in her eyes and spilled forth in a trail that stung of ice as wet skin met with cool air. Her bonds chafed and her blindfold slipped to reveal yet more darkness and prone forms scattered around her. Perfect.

The steady beat of steps paused. A man’s shout echoed through the black and lost its worldly meaning. The pounding renewed; fast and hard. Running.

Her laughter ceased as abruptly as it began. Despite her lungs now burning Maya felt calmer than she had since the world burnt down around her. Her turbulent thoughts of pain and sorrow stilled into a razor focus. Approaching were agents of her doom; the enemy—her prey.

Maya waited near blind and roughly bound. Gone was her fear. What did life matter when it held less comfort than the unforgiving Void? Her light was gone, her home was gone, her family was gone, Erin was gone. In the forest long ago a young girl played joyfully under glittering beams of light. She too was gone. She left with her mother. The rest could go too.

The Void in its ever-welcoming embrace would accept them all.

A soft tear of light broke the darkness. Flickering in intensity, torchlight outlined the door to the cell as though reefed in flames. Shuffling could be heard, then the clink of mettle. Sounds that may have shattered the still air felt muffled in Maya’s calm. There was the clank of a lever falling away, the creak of old hinges reluctant to allow trespass. The blinding light of a torches flame and the crash of a door hitting its adjacent wall assaulted her senses. Maya did not finch, even as the world became incomprehensible.

“The ruckus came from here, did it?” said a low voice, harsh in the way one became after years of shouting.

“My ears ain’t wrong. This is where I heard the madness come from.” This voice was quiet from a meek demeanour rather than harsh use. The sounds of fidgeting likely emanated from this man as well.

“Well the Banshee ain’t howling no more is it?” said the first voice.

“Heard us coming, it did,” replied the second.

“So the demon got some sense.”

“Still aught’a pay us for the fright it gave. Ain’t ‘at right, Pert?” said the second.

His voice came from the smaller of two blobs Maya could make out as her vision returned. The blob was shifting, and she could hear a slight quiver as he spoke. Fear perhaps? She smiled.

“Coward. We don’t want these demons to get any ideas, is all. No racket will be had under my watch.” The big blob, Pert, held himself in what might have been a confident posture if false bravado hadn’t seeped through every word he said. He was unnerved—they both were. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it.”

“Um- Right, Pert. I’m on it.” The small blob stepped through the doorway and let out a howl. “Fuckin’ ‘ell!”

The man—for she could make him out as a man now—grabbed hold of his boot and pulled out the longest length of horn Maya had ever seen, before kicking at the offending demon's head and stabbing it several times with a short sword for good measure.

“Let the Void take you, ya’ bloody demon bastard. Fuck it, ‘at hurts!”

“Take one step and yer’ already screwing up, eh’, Angus?”

“Fuck ya’ dog, Pert!”

Pert snickered.

Neither of the men noticed the darkness encroached upon the weak corona of torchlight. Angus renewed his task of demon culling, albeit with a pained limp, and approached the edge of the torch’s shrinking world. “Hold the light up, would ya?” He asked, and Pert held the torch aloft. It didn’t help.

Angus shivered as an icy breeze snaked down from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, razing gooseflesh in its wake. Maya watched on silently. He limped as he approached the prone forms of demons, plunging his sword into the helpless victims before hacking at horns larger and more beautiful than any she’d ever seen—great branches of obsidian—evidently sharp and, for some reason, desirable. From some he would pluck strange feathers and, from others, scales that shone with the colour and lustre gems. Maya was confused at what she was seeing and yet—

Mother told her tales of the wild ones. Demons who came from beyond the mountains in hordes to fight on in the endless war. Beasts of wonder and beauty and terror, who fought with savage grace. Not like cowering descendants of slaves lost so long in deadlands they’d come to resemble humans themselves. Mother was once one of them until the wall appeared and barred her way home. Trapped in the deadlands, she too began to die and lost the very manifestation of her soul. The deadlands were named such for a reason.

No demon could manifest feathers, scales, or grow out their horns in the deadlands. Which meant deadlands this must not be. For the first time in Maya’s life, she was “home”; for the first time, her body was truly her own. Yet she lay helpless, waiting for her death and watching her kin butchered before her like livestock. Her hands clenched and drew blood from her palms. Easily.

Since when had her nails been so sharp?

A muffled yelp began and ended abruptly. Next came the hacking of a blade against horn and the unheard severing of rope.

He didn’t see her coming. Didn’t notice a shadow rise above others and lunge towards him. Didn't even flinch when a hand of wicked claws speared forth and gouged out his eyes, at which point his body registered the pain and screamed. A second hand tore at his throat and the scream cut short.

Maya panted raggedly over his body bleeding out and focused on her next victim. He had to die; she could not let him get away and alert any others. Ignoring her screaming cracked ribs and raw bare feet, Maya lunged again. The man was ready for her.

Pert’s blue eyes tracked her movements with a measured gaze and his body took on a practiced stance. Feet planted, weapon bared. Maya didn’t stand a chance. Her wild lunge was a little good against a prepared opponent. When Maya swiped at the man he sidestepped and parried the blow with a stab towards the heart. She tried to dodge the stab and was rewarded with a blade in the left shoulder.

What was more pain? She was still alive, this man still needed to die, and she was close now. Tearing out the throat of the last one worked well enough and she was just tall enough for her eyes to be level with his nose.

Demon fangs were sharp and easily one of the most defining features of demons living in deadlands, ignoring horns. Which was why Maya had always, always, made sure to keep them filed down. An interminable time in captivity and exposure to whatever caused the other changes in her had undone these efforts. Her fangs pierced effortlessly into the man’s jugular, a simple twist of her head was enough to rend his flesh.

Again Maya alone was left standing over a body bleeding out at her feet. She swayed, the loss of blood not a minor issue. Her shoulder ached, her ribs ached. Her feet, legs, arms, hands–all of her ached. But the Void had tempered her in the fires of the damned and quenched her in the cold of the great emptiness beyond. Or maybe she had just lost her mind. It didn’t matter; Maya had work to do and the pain wouldn’t stop her. She spat out a mouthful of flesh and grimaced.

Void. She was really beginning to hate the taste of iron.