CHAPTER 36: CHAPTER 35. ROGUE DEMONS

The night is unnaturally still, the kind of silence that makes the skin prickle with unease. The Wyndham estate had long since gone quiet, with only the faint glow of torches and the soft hum of spirits drifting through the grounds to break the darkness.

Vivianne is already curled against Roxanne’s chest, bare naked and lulled into a light sleep by her wife’s steady heartbeat and warmth. Roxanne, however, is wide awake.

Her instinct told her that something is truly wrong tonight. Her body feels restless, and her mind becomes alert. The earlier conversation about their future children had stirred something primal within her, which made her rut still simmer beneath the surface.

Even now, her demonic form lingered, horns curling proudly from her head, her pupils narrowed into glowing crimson slits. Her skin radiated heat, and the sheer presence of her alpha power was enough to make the air heavy and suffocating. And Roxanne in her demonic form has more heightened senses than in her humanoid form.

Roxanne rose silently, her towering frame cutting a dark and imposing silhouette against the pale moonlight streaming through the high windows. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, scanning the shadows. Then it hit her—the scent.

It’s sharp and bitter, laced with the metallic tang of poison and the cold edge of steel. It was the unmistakable smell of death. Her lips curled back into a feral snarl, revealing the sharp points of her fangs.

Assassins.

A whisper drifted down from above, soft and urgent. "Your Grace," Marvessa’s voice murmured, barely audible over the oppressive silence.

Roxanne’s gaze flicked upward. Marvessa crouched among the beams, her dark purple eyes glinting eerily in the moonlight. She had sensed them first; of course she had. Her affinity with the spirit realm gave her awareness beyond the demon’s or the beastman’s limits.

"Protect my wife," Roxanne ordered in a low, guttural voice, her relief barely concealed beneath her fury. The fact that Marvessa is already alert means Vivianne isn’t defenceless.

"Yes, your grace." Marvessa replied without hesitation, her voice calm and resolute.

Roxanne’s crimson eyes softened briefly as she glanced back at Vivianne, who lay tangled in the furs, utterly unaware of the danger surrounding her. Vivianne’s breathing is deep and steady, her body spent and vulnerable after Roxanne had pushed her past her limits earlier that night.

"No one will touch her. Not while I breathe." Roxanne’s heart clenched.

In one smooth motion, Roxanne knelt beside the bed and carefully adjusted the heavy furs over Vivianne’s small, delicate frame. She pressed a soft kiss to her wife’s temple and whispered, her voice a velvet promise edged with violence, "Stay asleep, sweetheart. Let me handle this."

Vivianne stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping her lips, but she did not wake. The spirits surrounding her hummed softly, weaving their protection around the Grand Duchess like a shimmering veil of light.

Roxanne’s gaze snapped to the spirits, her voice suddenly cold and sharp as a blade. "Protect her with all your strength," she commanded, her alpha dominance flooding the room, making the air tremble. "If she so much as bleeds, I will tear your precious spirit kingdom apart with my bare hands."

The spirits vibrated in unison, a sign of acknowledgement and fear. Marvessa, perched above, couldn’t help but smirk faintly at the sheer authority in Roxanne’s tone.

"And you, Marvessa," Roxanne added, her voice dropping lower, darker. "Not a single scratch on her."

Marvessa’s reply was steady and unshaken. "Yes, Your Grace. Not a scratch. I swear it on my life."

Roxanne’s lips curved into a predatory smirk. That was the answer she wanted to hear. "Good."

Then Marvessa’s voice turned clipped, her tone sharp and precise as she relayed what her spirits had already reported. "Thirty outside. Ten above. Five will die within moments—my poison has already taken hold."

A cold thrill raced down Roxanne’s spine, sharp and electric. These weren’t common thugs or desperate mercenaries. Their movements are too precise, too perfectly coordinated. They didn’t stumble or hesitate; they flowed like living shadows. Whoever had sent them had paid an unimaginable price to gather killers of this calibre.

There is only one organisation capable of producing assassins this deadly: The Black Covenant.

Roxanne’s crimson eyes narrowed as she watched their silhouettes dance across the moonlit courtyard. So, the rumours are true, she thought grimly. Only that wretched guild could have warriors like these.

The Black Covenant isn’t just a guild of hired blades. They’re a cult, a blasphemous order that worshipped darkness itself, and they thrived on the ancient blood pacts that most of the world had long forbidden. Nearly all of its members are the rogue demon kin, or the twisted descendants of werewolves or beastmen who had once forged pacts with rogue demons.

These aren’t demons in the proper sense, not the noble bloodlines of the demon realm, not the honourable mixed-blood clans like Roxanne’s own knights. All of the demons who gave power to the Black Covenant were exiles. Banished from the demon kingdom, stripped of their names and titles, they were wild and wrathful beings who no longer belonged anywhere.

The practice itself is ancient, a forbidden art long outlawed by every kingdom and clan. When the three great races—the humans, beastmen, and demons—finally signed the Trine Accord to end centuries of war, they declared blood pacts to be a mortal sin. Anyone caught performing one was exiled, no matter their race or status.

And for good reason. A pact gave tremendous power, but it came at a terrible cost. It corrupted both body and soul, leaving the wielder unbalanced, dangerous, and forever tied to the rogue demon who empowered them.

These assassins are stronger than ordinary warriors, perhaps even stronger than Dietrich’s prized Shadow Knights, but they would never surpass a true mixed-blood warrior like Roxanne or her elite knights.

Still, their strength is nothing to underestimate. Even a handful of them could wreak havoc on an entire city if left unchecked. Roxanne’s lips curled into a sharp, furious snarl, her fangs glinting in the dim light. Her rage flared, crimson eyes burning like molten fire.

"That stupid emperor..." she growled under her breath, her voice a deadly promise. "I swear, someday I will tear him apart for daring to send them after my wife."

Roxanne didn’t waste another breath on words. She closed her eyes, drawing on her demonic blood. A ripple of black and crimson energy surged through her veins, and with a snap of her fingers, her combat clothes materialised around her body, forming from threads of raw magic.

Then she opened her mouth and let out a scream, not a human scream, but a piercing, high-pitched frequency that only those with demon blood could hear. It’s a call, a command, and a warning all at once.

The sound tore through the estate like a shockwave. In the next wing of the mansion, Anton Wyndham bolted upright in bed, clutching his head with a groan as his wife gasped beside him, feeling confused. His two teenage children collapsed to their knees, their red eyes glowing faintly as they responded instinctively to the demonic command.

Elsewhere, Mara and three other Borgia knights—all of mixed blood with demon ancestry—jerked awake, their instincts snapping to full alert. The oppressive magic blanketing the estate had kept even beastmen and werewolves locked in unnatural slumber, but Roxanne’s call shattered its hold.

Mara’s golden eyes flared with fury as she grabbed her weapons. "We got an intruder," she snarled, her healing magic then erasing the effect of the magic for the other knights immediately.

By that moment, she and the other three knights are already sprinting toward Roxanne’s chambers. "MOVE!" She shouted for Maxim to hear her. Confused and lethargic, but determined. The others followed, their movements swift and deadly.

In the rafters above Roxanne’s room, Marvessa shifted, her hands glowing faintly as she prepared to strike. Her spirits swirled around her, whispering warnings and battle cries. "They’ll breach the roof within seconds," she reported calmly. "We’ll have company very soon."

Roxanne’s crimson eyes gleamed with violent anticipation. She flexed her claws, her horns catching the moonlight like curved blades. Her voice dropped into a guttural growl as a dark smile spread across her face.

"Let them come," she whispered. "I’ll paint these walls with their blood."

Anton is the first to reach the Grand Duke’s chambers. His keen werewolf senses had dragged him violently from sleep the moment he heard Roxanne’s demonic call—a low, bone-deep frequency that only those with demon blood could perceive.

The heavy doors loomed ahead, and so did danger. Six hooded figures stood in front of the chamber like wraiths pulled straight from a nightmare. Their movements are unnaturally smooth, their blades gleaming with a faint crimson glow, the unmistakable sign of cursed demonic magic.

Anton didn’t hesitate. With a snarl, he lunged forward, his claws extending mid-strike. In one brutal motion, he ripped through the throat of the nearest assassin, sending a spray of dark blood across the wall. The body collapsed with a sickening thud.

But there were still five left, and these are no ordinary opponents. They moved in unison, weaving their spells as they advanced. A sharp sting of corrupted magic filled the air, making Anton’s skin prickle. Even with his demon-tainted bloodline, the oppressive aura clawed at his lungs, slowing him down.

"Damn it..." Anton hissed, barely ducking under a blade that slashed toward his head. His claws met another assassin’s dagger, sparks flying as metal met flesh hardened by magic. "They’re faster than I expected. Too fast."

The assassins began to circle him, pressing in from all sides. For a moment, even Anton, a warrior with decades of battle experience and a demon’s blood running in his blood, felt the odds tipping against him.

Then, two familiar scents cut through the stench of blood and poison. "Father!"

Two figures darted into the fray, Anton’s teenage children, their silvered claws already out, eyes blazing red with rage and adrenaline. Though young, they’ve both been trained to fight since they could walk, heirs to the Wyndham clan’s proud lineage.

The eldest, a tall boy with wild, ash-blond hair and a cocky grin, landed beside his father, slashing an assassin clean across the chest. "Let’s take one each, yeah?" he said, his voice sharp with excitement. nt.

"Don’t get cocky, boy," Anton growled, even as a surge of relief bolstered his strength.

The youngest, a lithe girl with sharp features and a braid trailing down her back, dropped low and tore through another assassin’s legs, forcing a scream from the man before she silenced him with a swift, lethal strike to the heart. "You’re too slow, brother," she teased coldly.

Anton gave a feral grin, his fangs glinting. "Enough talk. Kill them."

Father and children moved as one, a deadly trio of claws, teeth, and raw demonic power in their blood. The eldest let out a howl that shook the corridor, launching himself at his target with reckless speed, while the youngest slipped into the assassin’s blind spot like a wraith.

Anton himself went straight for the largest of the remaining assassins, ripping into him with sheer brute strength, each strike backed by generations of Wyndham bloodline ferocity. Steel clashed, magic crackled, and the once-quiet hallway erupted into chaos.