The air was thick with the scent of char and smoke, the aftermath of fire cloying and sickening. Willem felt his vision blurring from nausea, his body weak as he staggered forward for a moment, rising from his knees. The smog stuck in his lungs, clinging tight even as he coughed and fought to breathe. His body was trembling, his muscles screaming as they resisted his commands. Even his cracked skin was aching with dulled pain, the numbing frost thawing and sending pins and needles through his flesh.

All around him, a similar scene played out through the rest of the demons. The air was filled with the sounds of groans and howls, the demons struggling to shake off the disorientation that left them bewildered and stunned with confused fear. Many of their faces were twisted with pain, their flesh ruined and split with open wounds, weeping white pus and threatening to slough off at the gentlest touch. Even if they had survived the cold, such biting frost had sunk its fangs in deep. Their flesh, even durable as it was, could not escape the grasp of the skal and of the banshee’s howl.

Willem found his gaze being drawn towards the north, where those distant figures were slowly making their way closer to the horde. They were startling few in number, hardly a drop in the ocean compared to the size of the legions. Yet they were all that remained, the battlefield nothing but a massive cemetery for their brothers. Despite the carnage that clung to the air, those men were stoic, their expressions unreadable and half-obscured by their helmets. Those scarred faces bore the strength of many campaigns, bore the weight of men baptized by blood. Their bows hung heavy at their sides, massive lengths of twisted wood tipped with metal. Three soldiers in total stood in front, their very bodies shielding two men in the back. Norus led them all, his armor surprisingly clean in comparison to the bloodstained counterparts of his fellow legionaries.

The king snarled as they approached, the gesture less one of warning and more of acknowledgement. Nevertheless, two of the guards flinched at the noise, hands falling to the quiver that hung along their leg in a motion more instinct than thought. Their bows were not halfway raised before Norus lifted his arm, motioning for them to halt with an expression of fleeting concern. The emotion was a rare sight on the veteran’s scarred face, so long carved from shale and stone. Yet those eyes glittered with something resembling nervousness now, a mild hesitation that lingered in his stride. It seemed even he could not shake off the blood that hung in the air, could not shake off the primal violence that suffused the demons.

As the group neared, one of the men in the back spoke out with a gravelly voice, hoarse from shouting in battle yet still firm with the steel of command. “I was told you beasts understand me.” he called out with a voice that would have been impressive, were it not for the slightest quaver that betrayed him. It seemed that even he had to acknowledge his instinct to flee when facing these monstrous creatures, having seen them in battle against formless shadows. “I was told there were negotiations to be had.” The commander spoke with a sense of incredulity that clung to his voice, as if he could not believe the words that he himself was saying.

“Aye,” the king growled gruffly, striding forward on lupine feet and throwing its clawed arms out wide in a broad gesture. “We hear you. Your twisted tongue—we speak it.” By the king’s side, Kha was swift as a shadow, lurking with a serpentine grace that belied the venom hidden behind that alien expression. The pair of them slowly parted the sea of demons, making their way across charred and frozen earth to meet the legionaries.

The commander that had spoken previously wore and expression of not-quite-hidden surprise and shock, swallowing noticeably as if reconsidering what he was facing. By his side, the shorter officer was also pale of skin, his jaw clenched as his brows furrowed. “My name is Third Sword Mors.” he called out, somewhat softer this time. The tremor in his voice was unmistakable now, fear coloring his tone. “I am leader of the legions of House Florell, sole survivor of the triumvirate. Beside me is Third Shield Nils. We...greet you, demon.” There was a noticeable tic to his speech, the veins in his neck bulging as he writhed in discomfort.

It was at this time that Nils spoke up, his voice reedy but still carrying well on the wind. “Demon King and his vizier, I stand before you with the commanders of the Florell Legion, sole human survivors of the Battle of the Yearning. We represent the people of the Heartlands and the will of Lord Florell himself, rightful claimant to the Capital and the throne. In acknowledgement of your role, we have come to offer terms of negotiation.”

Willem flinched at these words, his gaze going out across the land. There was nothing but torched corpses and scattered dust—all that remained of the once mighty legion of red on white that had first crumbled under the skal. Yet the legion of gold on black—the legions of House Florell—could not possibly proclaim to be in better shape. Their dead were even greater in number, the only of their number a groaning few that had somehow managed to escape death thus far, rendered little more than twitching limbs buried in the mud. Sole human survivors of the Battle of the Yearning, he had said. Willem could scoff at the notion; the only human survivors here were the six that stood before them. Just what army did this man lead?

Kha seemed to have similar sentiments, leaning in slowly to whisper something to in the king’s ear. The wolf-like demon snarled suddenly, shoving Kha to the side before striding forward imposingly. The three guards in the front drew their bows without hesitation, Norus sinking into a crouch with a hand on the hilt of his blade, his expression nervous and taut with anticipation.

“You would offer to negotiate?” the king growled lowly, pointing out a clawed hand at the thawing river. “You have seen the skal, have you not? The living shadows? There are more, to the south in Malifor. They will come for us all. They will swallow our lands.” The king’s words were stark and blunt, the legionaries’ expressions grower whiter and more pale with each passing second.

“You will bring your men. You will bring your women. You will bring your children. You will bring your magic, and your weapons, and every last spark of flame you have in your cities. And you will march south with my people.” The king wore the title ably, not a ounce of hesitation or wavering present in his presence. The legionaries were utterly silent, not daring even to blink from the intensity of the demon’s speech.

“Those are my terms. Those are the only terms.” There was nothing but eerie silence following those words, the other demons still as they watched their king with rapt attention.

Finally, it was Mors that broke the impasse. “We are to believe that there are more of...that thing? In Malifor?” Beside him, his companion nodded enthusiastically. “How are we to trust the word of a demon, of an animal?” he derided, his words mocking with a confidence that only came from the foolhardy.

The king sneered, lips peeling back in a grotesque imitation of a smile. “I do not need your faith. I do not need your trust. I just need your people to die for me.” Those words made Nils close his mouth with an audible clop, sweat sheening on his face. “Do not mistake my words—your people will die; if you do not agree here, my horde will butcher you. My offer is for you to die in a more useful manner.”

Nils spluttered in response, his face growing flushed with a purple rage. “Im—impudent! How dare you even suggest—” Yet before he could finish, Norus swiftly drew his blade with a flash of steel, the sword darting in a blur of light before he struck his commanding officer in the temple with the hilt. The short man gave a stuttering gasp before crumbling to the ground, the other legionaries too stunned to respond in time.

“No time for politics, sir.” Norus grunted out, his voice hoarse and thin. The other guards had already drawn short daggers, merely waiting for a command from Mors. Yet Norus was calm, almost belligerently so as he returned the Third Sword’s gaze. “I would be careful as well. You only brought three men with you.” he reminded, running the tip of his blade down his arm only for purple ribbons of magic to deftly knit the flesh back together.

Mors took a deep breath before waving a hand for the others to stand down, his expression defeated but still firm. “Damn you all, and damn me thrice over.” he muttered softly before raising his chin, eyes glittering. “Demon King!” he called out, and the king tilted its head to the side in curiosity. “I cannot answer for my lord, but if the threat you speak of is real, House Florell is willing to consider an alliance. However, the other houses of the Heartlands demand attention as well, else they will surely stir up rebellion in our absence.”

The king merely snorted in response. “Your people are all sheep.” it growled, throwing its arms out wide. “They blindly follow whoever stands in front, too busy grazing to even look up. Butcher the rams and place a wolf in front, and they will follow just as well.”

“Do not worry over your lords. Do not worry over your people. I do not need either of them, Sword. I need your strength and your men.” the king hissed lowly. “Answer me this, Sword. Will you serve? Will you fight? Will you die?”

Mors swallowed hard, his face furrowed with thought. His hands gripped the hilt of his sword tensely, gauntlets hiding otherwise white knuckles. “The shadows…” he spoke finally, barely more than a whisper. “The ones that came out of the ground...you say that there are more of them? Of this, you are certain?”

The king nodded swiftly, throwing his head left towards the south. “In distant lands, aye, but they fester and grow. This was just a warning; the flood comes soon. You need my demons, and we fight for the same cause—we both wish to live.”

Mors shook his head slowly, his expression growing despondent. “How can we hope to fight those things? How can I ask my men to charge into freezing shadows? How can I ask them to die in the dark, fighting what swords cannot cut? No, this cause is lost, demon.”

Yet the king let out a barking laugh, upturning a hand towards the sky. “So easily scared, truly you are sheep. You can burn the dark, fool.” With but a thought, tongues of flame swiftly ignited in its palm, a brilliant white with hints of orange. “Your people have flame, surely? Then even if they must burn themselves alive, they can fight. Your men will die, Sword. You cannot save them. Will they die with meaning?”

The Third Sword swallowed hard, his expression one of concentration. There were only foolhardy answers now, only mistakes, only regrets to be had. Finally, his features twisted with the tiredness of defeat, he relented. “Aye then, demon. House Florell will fight the shadows. Lead us to our foe, and we will fight them.”

The king let out a derisive snort in response. “So many words for nothing but more words. Sheep, indeed.” Swiftly, it turned around to face the horde that lay scattered on the riverbank, throwing its head back towards the heavens.

“DEMONS! WE MARCH!” came the earsplitting howl that echoed across the banks. “WILL YOU DIE FOR ME?”

The thunderous roar in response was deafening.