“My king,” the young pup called out as he stuck his head out of the doorway to invite him in, “they have arrived.”

Joy looked up, nodding briskly before standing up. In his claws was a small flower, a remnant of old memories and older family. It was entirely translucent, its stem and petals seemingly fashioned out of glass as they reflected the incoming light with a glint. Yet, as he gently traced the edge of a single petal,he watched as it its surface rippled and folded like that of any other flower. Glass lilies, he knew, snapping the stem in half and watching the purple sparks of mahji crackle out of the sap inside.

Their fragrance was a delicate thing, filling him with nostalgia as a smiling face with flaming red hair danced through his memories. So long ago, it seemed like they had came to this accursed castle together, and then only one of them had left. And now he had returned, still without her. Sister, he thought tiredly, letting the glass lily fall to the dirt. I will finish what you started.

With that single thought filling him with determination, he let a low rumble claw out of his chest as he made his way into the room. The abrupt dimness left him blind momentarily, his mind lancing with pain as he struggled to reorient himself. It was still difficult to use his senses, even after so many months of familiarity. There were still times when he was caught off guard, when he felt his mind being denied to him, and he thought he might end up floating in that unfeeling darkness that he had visited after Sin shattered his mind. For a tentative moment, his heart plummeted and panic coursed through his veins—at least, until his vision began to adjust and he could see clearly once more.

Inside the small building, the Swords of the legions had gathered. Most were familiar faces, having bound themselves to him earlier with Kha’s help. Yet there were three that were new, their faces still young and fresh, if scarred and gaunt from their suffering inside the Capitol. Their expressions were lined with a quiet concern, a nervousness that bled into skepticism even as they kept their eyes flickering throughout the room. They were thoroughly outnumbered by the other Swords, but that did not stop the young men from fingering their hilts anxiously. Joy could not help but let out a smirk at this; as if a blade of steel would be enough to stop a Shai’mon.

“Finally,” the one of the right spoke, his skin scarred and tanned to a shade barely lighter than that of the old Malifori. His hair was a sandy gold as well, falling shaggy over his eyes like a legion cut that grown out too long. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive. Now will someone explain for five and three curses what is going on?” His eyes simmered with heat, a certain iron that was admirable—if foolish.

“Your name?” Joy growled back, refusing to answer the pup’s question. This was a game of posture and pretense; it was familiar territory for him. Stand down, and this pup would gain arrogance. He had to be bent first, made to kneel so that he would take to the mold. And so Joy stood up straight, his usually hunched frame now fully swallowing the doorframe as he glowered down, the legionary now completely encompassed by shadow.

“Mathas.” the young man replied almost instantly, some of his legion training making the response instinctual, but he bit back the “sir” that typically followed and squared his chin instead. “I was Second Sword, but our Third died and I was nominated to take his place. Those are my men you’re commanding. I need to know what hellhole you intend to have them die in.” The boy’s voice had a hint of a tremor in it, but it was barely noticeable. Impressive, Joy could not help but acknowledge, feeling all the more respect that the pup could stand his ground like this. Joy had tried to posture first, but the push had been driven back. He had come out the lesser in this first change of blows.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Joy could see the rest of the Swords—his Swords—stirring nervously, their expressions mingled as if internally wrestling something. Not good, this pup’s insolence was sparking fires of resistance in the spine of his own army. Even Mors merely watched with a raised eyebrow, growing arrogant in the tense atmosphere. Joy drew in a deep breath, thinking on how he could take back the momentum.

“Do you know of the Outlands, boy?” he snarled, opening his claws. The pup’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling slack as old rumors and nightmares suddenly clawed out of their graves. “I was born there. I hunted there. And I was hunted.”

“Things aren’t the same in the Outlands; they aren’t as nice as life in the Capital, in your warm little Heartlands. There the night comes alive, and the shadows come alive when night falls. You know of these things, yes?”

“Stupid lies!” one of the other boys spoke up, trying to hide of sweat and shiverings with volume. “They’re nothing more than stupid fables mothers tell to keep their children in bed. Everyone knows shadows don’t come alive.”

“Nay, but they do.” Mors spoke up suddenly, his voice low and rasping, his expression haunted and sallow as he remembered that fight. “I was there at the Yearning, when House Savos marched on House Florell. I was a Third in the Florell legions. I was also one of a handful of Florell to march off the field that day. There were no Savos left to stand.”

“It was Savos archers that took our lives. It living shadows that took theirs. I was there that day when the skies fell black in the middle of the day. I was there that day when black mist swallowed men whole. I saw boys your age and younger turning into ice under their armor. I saw their skin break and their frozen bodies shatter. I saw them blow away into dust just from a single touch of that shadow. Don’t tell me they’re lies, boy. They’re too terrible to be lies.” Mors finished gruffly, his eyes glinting as if they were made of glass. There was an emptiness behind those eyes, not from absent mindedness but rather from choice. It was a blankness that came from pushing memories away, memories that were better spent forgotten.

“Enough of this.” Joy finally snarled out, seeing the pups quivering so badly it seemed they might fall over in the breeze. “The shadows are coming for us. They have left the Outlands and they are coming for us. Malifor to the south has fallen. The Capital itself nearly fell. I do not fight for your sake; I fight for my own. Your choice, as of now, is twofold: stand beside me, or die before me.”

He glowered menacingly at the young pups, watching as the building pressure in the room made their blood fade from their faces. Yet that yellow-haired one continued to show backbone, refusing to be squashed underneath.

“Must we serve? Must we kneel? You say stand beside you, but I know of no demons in the old tales that fought nobly alongside men.” Veins stood out on his forehead as he spoke, his skin beet red as he fought not to tremble. It was not until the tent flap suddenly flew open that the atmosphere in the room managed to be breathable again, the soldier suddenly sinking back with a gasp as everyone turned to look at the newcomer.

“My apologies… my king…” Kha hissed lowly, his slitted eyes flickering ominously over the three Swords. “Is it enough… to begin now?”

“Begin what?” the loud one named Mathas screamed out shrilly, clearly thrown off by the lizard-like demon. “What are you doing demon?”

Joy growled, feeling reminded of flies that buzzed around the ears, stupid enough to be unaware of the danger that they were in. “You ask whether you will stand beside me or serve beneath me. I will give you that choice now, and you will answer it.” Behind him, Kha began to chant under his breath, the words sounding almost like mutterings on the wind. Slowly, the dim room began to grow brighter as purple coils of mahji danced from the fingertips of the Oa’kul.

“W-what are you doing?” the soldier cried out, starting to run forward for the door only to be stopped by two of Joy’s Swords to either side of him. The men’s eyes were low-lidded, the skin underneath their sockets glowing a dim purple. There was mahji that crackled in their veins, barely visible in the low light.

“What is the meaning of this, demon?” the impetuous blonde one hissed out even as he struggled with his own captors that were holding him still. Almost all of the Swords in the room now were glowing with mahji, the compulsion turning their bodies stiff. The only ones still unaffected were the three young Swords, the demons, and Mors in the corner. The old Third Sword merely watched impassively, a plethora of emotions playing out behind his eyes but none coming to the surface.

“You will choose.” Joy growled out, and Kha’s chanting picked up speed. The coils of magic spun themselves into a noose that fell onto the soldier’s head. Each one of the men could only watch helplessly as the mahji sank into their skulls, its glowing suddenly stifled like a lantern under a blanket. “You will choose.”

Brighter now, the mahji glowed as their skin began to flush pink. Their veins suddenly bulged with exertion, their jaws locking tight as they gave little twitches of resistance. Then, abruptly, the first one gave in. It was the loud one—Mathas—and he crumpled like his spine had been snapped. All the life flew out of him as he collapsed, held upright only by the two Swords on either side of him. Then, after a moment’s pause, he slowly looked up.

“I choose to serve.” the boy intoned dully, his eyes glinting with hints of purple.

Next came the second, his body falling limp as well, his voice echoing through the confines of that room as Kha worked his magic. The Oa’kul ruled the domain of the mind, and these shackles were but child’s play to the channeler. A mere matter of suppression and amplification, as Joy understood it. Repress suspicion. Enhance loyalty. Repress confusion. Enhance obedience. “I choose to serve.”

It was the blonde one who lasted the longest. His face was nearly the same hue as the mahji by the end, his eyes bloodshot and struggling to remain open. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth, trickling down his chin to slowly drip onto the floor. Joy was impressed—the only one who had lasted this long was Mors. The old soldier had managed to resist Kha’s mindshackles to the end, standing weary but still whole even as the demon could only apologize.

This boy was not Mors.

There was no crack in the air, but his body crumpled as if struck by a whip. His stillness remained for nearly a minute before his shoulders heaved, his lungs dragging in a new breath. Coughing, he blinked blearily before looking up to meet Joy’s gaze.

“I choose to serve.”