In the early hours of the morning, three days after King Adramelech fought the insolent hell-child named Keshiema. Less than a week after discovering the treachery his own children had been planning. When the prophecy came to light, he had never imagined the princes would be the ones seeking to overthrow him. The children of the fallen kings, maybe, but not his own.

  Groaning, Adramelech rolled over in his bed, 'I should have put Beelzebub in the dungeon instead of killing him,' he thought solemnly. 'Now his power's gone and I'll have to wait for a new Prince of Famine,' and that reminded him of his predicament. His inability to sire a new prince meant Stolas would have to continue the bloodline. 'I'll have to try breeding him again.'

  Turning over again he rubbed his eyes and growled, remembering the last time he had attempted to force his son to create an heir. 'Perhaps they've discovered new drugs; I can't have him losing control and killing the women again.'

  "Your Majesty!" His guard pounded on the door. "The legion from Tirax has arrived!"

  "Finally," The king huffed. rising from his bed, he threw on a fur breechcloth and matching mantle. When he opened his chamber door, the soldier greeted him with a first-to-heart salute.

  "The Marquise from all five Dukedoms are waiting in the courtyard, Your Majesty."

  "Good." He shoved a scroll into the guards chest. "After my speech, these demons will stay behind. The list includes their special missions. The rest will search the city. Ensure they have their orders before I arrive. And have my meal sent to me!" Slamming the door on the guard's face, Adramelech sank into the bath his servant had wisely prepared.

  On the very balcony Keshiema had thrown so many of his from, Adramelech looked down on the officers. Several faces in the crowd stood out to him. The Marquises all had ties to the Academy in one way or another, it was one of the reasons he could not trust any of their heirs to take on the horsemen's powers. But one way or another, all of them had proven their loyalty throughout the millennia. And if he could not trust their loyalties, he could at least control them through fear.

  "No doubt you have questions concerning the reason you've been sent to Denim." The king projected his voice, at the entire courtyard fell silent. "My children have betrayed our empire! Seeking to take power for themselves, they have sided with the fallen princes and planned to have me killed!"

  "Prince Beelzebub, along with a female hell-child attempted an assassination, taking dozens of my castle guard down in their attempt! Beelzebub was killed in process." A master of deceit, Adramelech let the news hang in the quite courtyard, letting the officers see him as a regretful, grieving father.

  Clearing his throat, he continues, letting his voice come out strained, as if he were choking back emotion, "then meer days after my son's death, a legion of human rebels descended upon Denim, led by the other princes and the very hell-child who sacrificed Beelzebub to make her escape.

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  "So today, we will destroy the remnants left behind by the traitorous princes! We will search every human-run farm, raid every rebel outpost we can find for any sign of the treasonous wench who poisoned my sons against me! Nothing must be left untouched. Burn it all!"

  The officers saluted in unison, their harmonious war cries shook the courtyard walls. And while Adramelech knew some of the officers sympathized with the princes, there was nothing he could do in that moment. He would need to handle it much the same way he was dealing with Bathin; waiting for a slip up. 'At least with the officers I only have to wait until they're alone.' he thought. After all, a duke disappearing was a tragedy, where as an officer going missing was just another part of war.

  Once Adramelech left the balcony, the courtyard relaxed. Most of the officers shuffled out, chatting amongst themselves as they left to initiate the king's plans. Only six demons stayed behind.

  "Cimeies!" A booming voice called. Half turning, the warrior found Naberius coming up behind him. The Ogre-Daemon smacked Cimeies's back playfully, sending him stumbling forward. "Cimeies, old friend, it is refreshing to see you lived through the attack on the castle!"

  "Just barely, but yes." Cimeies nodded. "I'm surprised to see you, too, Naberius. Has everyone working for the Academy been released?"

  Shaking his head, Naberius frowned, "Botis is running interrogations. He is looking for signs of treason and any information regarding the hell-child."

  "And you had none of that?" Cimeies was skeptical.

  "On the contrary," The ogre laughed, "she was a student of mine for years. I'm sure the information I provided will greatly assist in torturing her once she is captured."

  Cimeies did well in hiding his revulsion; though his stomach churned and his fist itched to strike the Ogre-Daemon, he resisted the urge to start a fight. "What do you know about her?" He probed. 'Fate and Chaos, I hope she's left already.'

  A pale arm draped over Cimeies's shoulders, "Come on, Cimeies," a horned, black eyed demon spoke in his ear with a hoarse whisper. "We've got raids to plan." The horned demon pulled Cimeies away, looking back at Naberius. "Catch ya later, Berry." He smirked, exposing long fangs, his raspy voice adding to the sharpness of his words.

  "Damned Incubi," Naberius spat, mostly angry that his persuasion ability was useless on the race.

  "Relax," a gentle, sleepy voice beckoned the ogre. "Gamigin is no threat to you."

  "Everyone is a threat as long as they're alive." Naberius growled. "Even you, Ronové." Turning around, he found Ronové half asleep, propping himself on his staff, his red eyes barely open. "Get a hold of yourself, you're making us look bad."

  "Yeah, yeah," he waved off Naberius's concerns. "Now, where are you headed? I've got orders to check the Eastern mountains."

  From the opposite corner of the courtyard, two more demons gossiped and planned. Aamon, a Chimera-Daemon with wolf ears, patches of scales, and the eyes of a serpent, laughed boisterously, and Leraje, a masked huntsman clad in green so dark it almost appeared black, with hair to match, smirked, proud his dry humor had landed.

  "Silly Psychic," Aamon hissed, leaning into his ancient Serpent accent, "I hear Naberius is going West to find a rebel base. I've heard the lead dissenter is a loose canon."

  "Don't do that." Leraje sighed. "I'm being sent North." He opened his scroll to show the dry lake bed north of Denim. "The human leaders are thought to have met there frequently."

  "I see." He pondered a moment, "The rebels here seem rather active. It's a pity I'm being sent to the Academy. The king needs a keen nose to sniff out any lingering remnants of the woman." Checking his scroll again, he stared at the drawing of Keshiema. "Have you met her? You've done several expos there over the years."

  "I have." Leraje remembered her quite well. Never before had he seen a demon with color changing hair and eyes. Not that he had never seen anyone with those features. He knew then what she had to be and to this day was unsure why he kept his mouth shut about it.

  "Seems she left a serious impression." Aamon commented on Leraje's distant gaze.