Page 134 of Unbinding the Demon

Deep within the darkness of the abyssal forest, where trees grew with lamenting corpses woven into their ghastly trunks, and mighty abyss wolves howled their harrowing dirges to the blackened skies, the dark prince viciously yanked one of his swords from the chest of a dying Tenverian guard. Blackened blood coated his dripping weapon. Hair that was far too long and tangled from centuries of neglect and self-hatred blew in the ashen winds behind him as he stared back at the guard.

Coal-black armor clanked as the cadaverous guard collapsed to the rocky, blood-soaked ground. His dull, ruby gaze wearily scanned around, noting the other fifty or so guards who laid slaughtered across the root-entangled forest floor. He didn’t care in the slightest. Tenverians couldn’t feel empathy or sorrow, after all. What he did care about, however, was why thementally derangedprince now looked so different.

Loathing filled his dying eyes as they raked over the prince’s smooth, non-decayed skin. “What happened to you, weakling prince?” His voice was a deep, gravelly growl laced with hatred and malice.

Valarendrik answered with a swift swing of his sword, lopping his head clean off. Only after the head rolled did he verbally respond. “That is nothing for you to be concerned with.” His voice was deep, but quiet.

In truth, the prince did look quite different. Azathoth and Gwendolyn had paid him a visit, and after seeing what had become of Belzar, he had requested the same be done to him. Although he was still undead, the demon had gladly healed his abyssal rot. The once-decayed and fleshless areas on his body had filled in with healthy pale gray skin, and his crimson eyes were far brighter, no longer glazed over with death.

It was only out of fear of what horrors might become of the crown that they abstained from trying to make him a fully living being. That made Valarendrik loathe the crown all the more. He yearned to know what it was like to be alive, to feel his heart beating within his chest, and to see the living worlds. But that was currently an unattainable dream. He was still undead, hopelessly trapped in a hostile world of death and decay.

Valarendrik’s keen senses picked up on slight movement within the shadows of the trees. The last remaining guard was trying to make an escape. Silent as the grave and swift as the wind, Valarendrik sprinted over the many freshly killed corpses like a shadowy specter. He kicked off a large mossy stone and leapt into the air with graceful agility. He landed directly in front of the guard and grabbed him by the collar of his black cloak.

A look of terror flashed across the guard’s face as he was forcefully pinned against an ashen corpse tree. He knew well that the “weakling prince”was, in fact, the strongest Tenverian of them all. For across his left eye was the mark of a king,and he had two of them.

The prince’s sword expeditiously flashed, bringing the sharp tip against the other Tenverian’s throat with expert precision. Sickly branches from the tree clawed at the two men who snarled and flashed their teeth like wild beasts at each other. The guard knew he was no match for the rogue prince, and the prince knew it as well.

“Devour him... Taste his flesh and blood on your tongue,”the crown of bones whispered sibilantly into the prince’s mind.

Valarendrik ignored the crown’s sinister request, as he always did. He felt pity as his ruby eyes gazed down at the guard. He was young, barely even a man. Valarendrik mentally cursed himself. Reluctantly, he decided to let the boy live. Not because the guard deserved it, but because he bore the curse of empathy.

“Return to Tenveriel.” He pinned the guard against the tree ever harder and spoke with fierce authority. “Remind my mother, Queen Cerindier, of what happens to the guards she sends.” He nodded to the piles of dead Tenverian guards whom he had slain single-handedly.

The young guard hissed in anger, but was relieved that he would get to live on. He felt nothing for his fallen brethren, for he was incapable of such a thing. Valarendrik jerked away and watched with an icy glare as the guard scrambled out of there like his life depended on it—because it did.

“Sagacor,” Valarendrik called lowly, keeping his eyes fixated on the direction the guard had disappeared in.

With a harrowing whinny, the large, cadaverous steed emerged from within the black, wisping mist. His powerful hooves clunked over the mossy stones and crushed through the many roots, with the eerie rattling of his saddle chiming throughout the trees. The prince jumped up onto his back, and they cantered off through the dark, nightmarish forest toward their small, hidden abode.

What the prince didn’t know was that the guards weren’t sent to capture him this time around. They were sent to collect information. The queen was seeking a powerful relic of great value. One which Valarendrik had stolen long ago—the Ophidian Orb. As the fortunate guard sprinted away, a cruel smile twisted across his corpse-like face. He had managed to dodge the blade by stealing papers from Sagacor’s saddle, hidden in the shadows. Papers that contained the prince’s notes taken straight from the abyssal book.

As time went on, the rotten queen was growing more and more impatient. She needed Valarendrik dead, and she needed him dead soon. But first, she needed him to produce an heir, and she needed that damn orb back! Though she’d never show it, she feared her supposedly mentally ill son. Because unbeknownst to the prince, an ominous prophecy had been spoken about him. And the queen knew this prophecy would soon come to pass if she did nothing about it.

Valarendrik knew he had been born with an illuminated soul. The demon had told him so. However, he knew nothing about what that meant. He only knew that it was something unnatural in The Abyss.He was unnatural.What he didn't know was that it had been foreseen that he would bring death to death in Tenveriel, and a queen of colors unknown to their world would rule by his side. He was destined to be the most powerful king to ever sit on the Tenverian throne.

And little did he know that life in The Abyss would soon change forever...

For far beyond the accursed forest, over mountains high and valleys low, the abysmal cremation grounds were stirring. As furious dust devils born of abyssal winds swirled across the ashen ground, a trembling hand arose from beneath its barren surface.

With great effort and shaky movements, a large figure struggled to pull himself out from the ashes. Once dark brown waves were now black as coal, and his sun-kissed skin had turned to a pale, ashen gray. As he weakly stumbled onto his knees, his once electric blue eyes opened, revealing irises like rubies floating within obsidian depths. His hands violently trembled as he gazed down upon the black claws that had grown from his fingertips. Confusion and fear filled his disoriented soul, and he began to weep blackened tears.

“William...”he whispered mournfully, with black streams trickling down his deathly cold cheeks. His last memory was of what he had done to his most beloved. His body heaved with grief as he furiously slammed his fist onto the ground. He screamed out toward the tempestuous obsidian sky in anguish, revealing his sharp, pointed teeth.

Other souls emerged from within the depths of the valley around him. All were equally confused and filled with fear and agony over what had happened to them. For those who had died by the enchanted abyssal blades arose from the cremation grounds, reborn of ash and darkness, with their epitaphs of humanity engraved into their souls.

While they wandered around in utter turmoil, below their shuffling feet and deep within the bowels of The Abyss, the man who was responsible for their misfortune dwelled. He would receive no requiem nor necrologies. Adelstein’s corrupt soul would only scream out in terror and anguish as he writhed within the blackness of the abyssal pits.

And there he would rot forevermore.