Wind blew in from the open window, ruffling Isabelle’s hair. She was seated at a desk in her room, looking over various paperwork forms. She scratched her head in frustration, forcefully inking her answers into the paper, nearly tearing it. She cursed under her breath. 

The death of a Demon General was no small matter, and unfortunately, it was largely her responsibility to make sure they didn’t do foolish things; or if they did, to report it to the Demon Lord. She had made a mistake. She’d informed the other Demon Generals of Atrax’s activities, but neglected to tell his Highness. She simply found him too intimidating to inform him of such dire news. Sweat poured down her face, and the force of which she was writing with snapped the tip of her quill. She cursed and opened the drawer beside her to set it amongst a multitude of quills that had met a similar fate. 

She sighed, and gave a short whistle. Bastis, her raven, flew in and landed with a shower of feathers. Isabelle caught one, scratched under his chin, and used her shadow magic to cut and cure the feather. Soft inky blackness shot out in a small blade, before seeping into the feather to dry it. She dipped it in ink, continuing her reports. 

Scratching sounds filled the room for some time, before Isabelle hurriedly picked her documents up and started for the door. The annoyed craw of the bird behind her reminded Isabelle to toss him a treat, and she stepped out of the door. Time for another meeting, and this time, she may lose her life. 

She stepped quickly towards the board room, swallowing multiple times, as if that could save her from either her anxiety or the claws of the Demon Lord. She was hardly a foot out of the first hallway when she collided into an immovable wall — one of the Demon Generals. Isabelle’s glasses careened from her face, flying towards the ground. The quick movements of the one she crashed into caught them midair with ease.

Isabelle looked up, world around her blurry. Who had she collided with? From the stature, it could only be one of the two - Verinia, or Praxus. She wasn’t sure which one was worse. Verinia was bloodthirsty, a beast fit only for war, the Demon General’s hound. She was a prodigy amongst Demons, matched only by the Demon Lord himself for her skill in the blade. She spoke rarely, and what little she did suggested a brutal personality. Verinia was the Demon Lord’s personal executioner, on days he felt like lifting a finger was too much work. 

Praxus was a mystery. He was indomitable, powerful, and spoke on even ground with the Demon Lord. Isabelle had the distinct feeling that he was a subordinate not by force, but by convenience. He hardly spoke, often busying himself with books or playing instruments while the meeting was conducted. Isabelle had no quarrel with him, outside of the minor annoyance of speaking over whatever play-toy Praxus had decided to torture her with that week. 

The figure leaned over, gently placing her glasses back on her face. Isabelle blinked a few times, adjusting her vision, and looked up. A tall woman stood there, face like chiseled marble, her dark locks hanging from her like a tapestry of complex colors. She extended her hand. Isabelle took it, and was pulled to her feet with surprising ease. She looked at Verinia, somewhat puzzled, but grateful. She kneeled down and began to pick up the papers she’d dropped. 

Verinia knelt down, helping her. She meticulously adjusted the paperwork, correcting any which were upside down, before handing them back to Isabelle. They both stood. Verinia began to walk off, before stopping at the next corner and looking behind her expectantly. Isabelle snapped from her reverie and jogged after. 

They arrived at the meeting room shortly afterwards. Isabelle reached for the door handle, but halted. She took in a shuddering breath, swallowed and reached for the door. A hand beat her to it. Isabelle looked up, puzzled. Verinia held the door handle, looking at Isabelle with an indiscernible expression. She opened her lips to speak, but nothing came out. Isabelle tilted her head, confused. 

“You…” Verinia said, “Is it hard? For you?”

Isabelle looked between the door and Verinia, surprised. She nodded after a moment. Verinia gave a crooked grimace, like a troll ready to sup on its victims. Was that a smile?

“You will be ok.” 

Isabelle, shocked, only shortly nodded her head again. Had that been Verinia’s attempt at comfort? It was strange, yet despite the fearsome look, Isabelle felt a smile crawl across her face. She let Verinia open the door and walked in. 

The silence of the room was broken by the mocking voice of a man already seated within. “Ah, look who deigns to join us — this weeks entertainment.”

Isabelle stiffly walked to her spot at the table, ignoring the heckling. She pulled her chair out and sat down, staring at the table. She was surprised when Verinia moved the nearest chair closer, and sat by her. What is going on today? Verinia has never been this sociable.

“Oh, what is this? Found a new playmate, Verinia?” Albrum asked. 

Verinia froze, before her hand met the table with a resounding crack of wood. The table nearly shattered, only held in place by Albrum’s quick magic. The table restored to its original form. Verinia looked at Albrum with venom.

“Mind your tongue, whelp. I do not take insults from a pup born without fangs.”

Albrum laughed. “You will take whatever I give you, lest my father put you to your own sword.”

“Even he would find my compliance lacking.”

Isabelle sat clueless while Verinia defended her. She glanced between the two of them, speaking up several times to stop the fighting, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She had never heard Verinia speak this much before, even in heated arguments she’d been baited into by Albrum. He was that type. Any chink in armor he could sense, he’d stab without mercy. He’d grown up rotten, and stayed that way. Isabelle wished he’d be sent to the frontlines in Verinia’s stead, but knew such a thing was unlikely. 

As much as she hated him, Albrum was a brilliant tactician and an excellent politician. It would be unlikely the demon army would have bound together for so long without his interference. He lacked his father’s absolute strength, but more than made up for it in political acuity. 

Praxus entered the room amidst the turmoil, unconcerned, and sat in his usual chair. He looked down at a book he’d brought, trying to read, before the constant shouts of the other two bothered him enough to take action. He kicked Atrax’s chair into the nearby wall, nearly disintegrating it from the sheer force. 

He looked at them with irritation. “Are you done bickering?”

Albrum smiled. “Of course, we were just discussing necessary topics. It’s of no interest to you, Praxus.”

Praxus looked at him before shrugging, turning towards his book. “I don’t care, but keep your voices lowered. I have a headache from last night’s hatching.”

Verinia bit her lip in annoyance, but didn’t continue the argument. She picked up a nearby cup and brutally crushed it into dust, before peace returned to her face. 

Isabelle straightened her documents again, desperately trying to ignore her shaking, tapping foot beneath the table. Why, oh why did I take this job?

Albrum looked towards her. He leaned his arms forward on the table, a mocking smirk adorning his face. Isabelle paled, but stood to say her piece. 

“We have received reports,” She said, “That Atrax marched on Leyland, seeking to conquer the city. He left little in the way of motivation, but was defeated in battle. Atrax is dead.”

Albrum gave a slow clap, smirking at Isabelle. “Oh dear, a Demon General dead, without our lord knowing he’d even left? How sloppy, even for you, Isabelle.”

Isabelle’s lip twitched. He truly knew how to get under her skin. It was no small secret Isabelle spent more of her free time managing the generals than she did her own life. To claim she was a wastrel…

Verinia slammed the table again, but said nothing. She glared at Albrum. He shrugged in response and kicked his feet up on the table. Praxus set his book down, looking curious for the first time in Isabelle’s memory. 

“Who was it?”

“The Hero and the Saintess, allegedly. Our scouts have confirmed those rumors.”

Albrum snorted. “Hero and Saintess? As if such convenient characters could show up now. Rumors spread by the rabble. I’d wager Atrax simply waltzed into an open flame without a shell, fool that he is.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to retort, but a sudden pressure sat her back in her chair, the wood buckling beneath the weight. Verinia and Albrum paled, looking towards the door in surprise. Praxus raised an eyebrow, his casual posture unchanged. 

The door slowly opened, long, clawed fingers scratching into the wood, tearing indents into it as if made of snow instead of oak. A tall figure stood in the doorway, his pressure bearing down on all of them. He stepped silently into the room, his cloak billowing behind him. He stopped next to Isabelle, sending pure panic down her spine. She felt her hair stand up, and her breathing turned shallow. A hand reached out, weighing on her shoulder. She felt her muscles tense. The Demon Lord looked down on her with a disinterested gaze.

“Isabelle,” He said, “My dearest Isabelle. It disappoints me so, to hear you neglecting your duties.”

She dropped from the chair into a kneel, hands on the floor. She did not dare speak. He knelt for the first time in living memory, in front of her. He reached a hand out, lightly pinching her cheeks between his fingers. 

“Why should I not kill you? Tell me. Give me your reasons, and ease my conscious. Speak.”

“Y-your Highness, I informed the Demon Generals, but believed it to be beneath your notice.” She swallowed heavily, her eyes tearing up as his hand forced her to look him in the eyes. “It was my mistake, my lord.”

He let go, standing to his feet. He looked over the table. “So none of my most trusted advisors deigned to tell me?” He walked towards Albrum, his fingers tracing along the desk table. Scars were left in their wake. He stopped in front of him, before reaching out and grabbing the top of his head. “My foolish son, are you through playing your games?”

Albrum opened his mouth to speak, but the wood of the table was his meal. The Demon Lord smashed him headfirst into the wood, letting his body ragdoll to the ground. He looked at Verinia, his gaze passing over Praxus. He approached her. 

Verinia, teeth set, pushed to her feet with great effort. She was sweating for the attempt, but she moved in front of Isabelle. Isabelle looked up, flustered and confused, but thankful his attention was not on her. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. 

Verinia looked at him. “It was not her fault. Kill me, lash me, whatever you please.”

He stared at her for a long while. “I would be a fool to kill my most capable combatant.” His eyes flickered to Isabelle kneeling on the ground. “Or to sever the head of the most competent assistant I’ve had in 400 years.”

The Demon Lord looked over the room. “Find another general, or win the war by summer’s end. Do not leave me wanting.”

He turned around and strode out of the room, leaving its inhabitants reeling. Albrum spat woodchips from his mouth, the wounds healing at an accelerated rate, before he stomped out of the room without another word. Praxus shrugged at the two of them, before following suit, eager to return to whatever activity he’d been pursuing. 

Verinia leaned down, helping Isabelle to her feet. Isabelle took in heaving breaths, gratefully looking at Verinia. “Why?”

Verinia looked confused. “Why what?”

“Why did you help me? We hardly know each other.”

“Hm. You’re weak,” She said, eyeing over Isabelle. “Small. You would die.”

“Why does that matter to you?”

Verinia blinked slowly. She reached over and rubbed Isabelle’s head. “Dunno.”

She turned towards the door and left, leaving Isabelle conflicted.

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