The Divine

An Arrangement in Jest

The late King Drakvol had proposed the deal in jest. He thought it’d be amusing to let the fae think they had made a compromise for the benefit of their safety, but he was toying with them. And there wasn’t a daemon in all of Lucem that would turn down the opportunity to be the cause of someone else’s misery—especially the Fae’s. Drakon hadn’t known of his father’s exact plan, but he knew his father well enough that it would be something cruel and deadly. A daemon really had no use for a fae as a bride, and the unification of the two was as unnatural as milk in mead.    

Drakon sat atop an elaborate pomp for the first time. He leaned back, lazily resting his cheek on his fist. He was indifferent at the prospect of his father having warmed the seat of this very throne merely hours ago. Hell, Drakon hadn’t even bothered to attend the burial ceremony. He’d been too busy plowing into one of the foxy, redheaded servants who had been eyeing him all morning.

“What’s her name again?” Drakon droned in false interest as Callus, his advisor, had been incessantly babbling about the fae princess from Tarafin.

“Princess Euphymia Tarafin, Your Grace.” Callus had answered for the umpteenth time. He held in a deep breath, and forced his lips into a smile before his new king. 

“Ah.” Drakon didn’t bother to hide his disinterest in the matter, and he let his gaze shift toward the back hall, behind the pillars where the servant girl from earlier stood. She twirled a lock of fiery, red hair between her fingers. She sunk her teeth into her lips, a lustrous shade of rich rosewood.

“If you wish to avoid the same fate as your father’s, I suggest you begin your legacy with wiser decisions than his.”  

Drakon released a low chuckle, returning his attention to his very sharp-tongued advisor. “Is this how we will enter my reign together?” He leaned forward now, his words a threatening whisper. 

“My only goal is to guide you through a successful regime, which you are more than capable of. You’re quicker than your father was. You will find a way—if you wish it, that is.” Callus nodded with confidence. 

“And what am I supposed to do with her? She has no power. The fae Princess Euphymia Tarafin as useless as a sheep,” Drakon let her name roll off his tongue with disgust. Or perhaps it was pity? Either way, he wasn’t going to be dependent on a fae princess. 

“Her magic is cradled and dormant deep within her, but we can wake it.” 

“How?” Drakon drawled with irritation. Patience wasn’t his virtue, and this all just sounded ridiculous. 

Callus' lips pulled into a wide, satisfied grin, “Evocation.” 

“I’m listening.”

“It has been practiced by our ancestors, centuries before our time,” Callus narrated the history of Lucem. “On the first daemon king, first divine of the western kingdom of Maggadan had summoned the dark energy into his vessel to gain the strength of a thousand kings.”

Drakon was silent as he leaned back once more on his throne. His lazy smile had been replaced with a more serious, thin line as he mulled over the events from the last few days. He had felt the pull like waves stirring from the tide. Something tugging at the core of his magic centered within him. And then the moment his father had transitioned from daemon to lifeless corpse, he could feel the dark power surge in his veins, electrifying his senses at every crevice of his body. It felt good, yet painful simultaneously. He felt stronger mentally, but his meat suit of flesh couldn’t handle the power. Not even a daemon king can withstand mass amounts of dark energy, and his days would be numbered very much like his father’s were. 

“You have nothing to lose. If all goes well, you’ll gain her power. The power of the fae and daemon will run through your veins in perfect balance. She’ll wilt away, and you’ll be rid of her.” 

Drakon felt a smile tug at his lips, “That sounds like a win-win.” Callus never ceased to impress him, and if he was correct about all this, Drakon would certainly reward him handsomely for it. 

“Tell the other servants to have a wedding prepared within two weeks.” Callus ordered firmly, assuming that Drakon’s smile was a gesture of approval. Alvan, Drakon’s top servant accepted the request with eagerness, a scroll and quill already in hand. Drakon promptly extended his arm, a gesture that ceased Alvan’s quill from motion. Wait a second, Drakon seemed to say with a sense of urgency.

“Is a wedding really necessary, Cal? Can’t I just capture the wench and be done with it?” 

“We have to be convincing here, Your Grace.” Callus took two slow steps toward the king, “we don’t want her scaring and running off into the town, she’ll be devoured by the dooms.” Drakon’s mind wandered back to the bailey at the Tarafin castle. The fragile little mouse of a girl he saw in the window of the tower. Surely she knew she was betrothed to him all these years, albeit in jest. But although she was of fae blood, could she really be so brainless as to accept unity with a daemon without a fight? Without any suspicion that he’d snap her like a twig and suck her power dry? Hell, what was he thinking. She probably was that daft. And in the off chance that she wasn’t, he’d just have to charm her into thinking otherwise. Not that he really needed her cooperation. 

“And besides, you’ll be hitting two birds with one stone this way,” Callus c****d his brow. “You’re a king now, and the sooner you have an heir, the better.” He twisted the wiry hairs above his lips with satisfaction.

Drakon narrowed his eyes to slits and smirked at Callus. 

“A legitimate heir, Your Grace.” Callus’s tone was somewhat patronizing, but Drakon let always let Callus’s biting remarks slide; he had a lot to gain from his wisdom and intellect, and he wasn’t about to get on his bad side. 

“Let’s get my bride and put on a show then,” Drakon’s sarcasm bled through every pore of his body, he certainly wasn’t going to take this marriage seriously. Not that he would take a marriage to a daemon girl seriously either. He’d simply take what he needed from it and dispose of them. And that’s exactly what he planned to do.

“Alvan, get my cloak, we’re going on a trip.” Drakon commanded the dark elf, barely a third of his size.

“Shall I prepare your steed?” Alvan inquired in his usual wobbly tone. Alvan feared the king, but not because he had given him a reason to; it was only natural that elves feared the daemons. And Drakon’s father had given Alvan a good beating or two, so he wasn’t quite sure what to expect of his son just yet, but he knew better than to test his luck. 

“Don’t be daft, Alvan, we’re going to Tarafin. I’ll be riding Clay.”

Drakon maintained his composure until his entourage lingered far behind him. Only then did he let a genuine smile slide across his lips. He felt a sense of excitement simmering beneath the surface, and he couldn’t bear it any longer. His father was dead and he had feigned indifference, but really it ignited a new beginning for him. He was king now. The divine king that reigned supreme over the entirety of Lucem.

He could feel the current. The vibrations of every being and inanimate around him. He could feel how easy it was to coax and bend them to his will. The ornate metal doors shook violently in his approach until they caved and swung open with such ferocity the metallic bang travelled far beyond the castle, piercing the eardrums of the villagers that roamed even a mile far. Wind howled past the daemon prince as he made his grand appearance. He descended the black marble staircase slowly, purposely, but at an almost leisurely pace. There was a swagger to his step that only a king would parade. A regal air to his demeanor that threatened every creature that was unfortunate enough to cross his path.

His father had been a tyrant, and the dark creatures of Az’godan had trembled from his stare. The late King Drakvol had murdered ruthlessly. He took pleasure in the cries and desperation from the weaklings begged for their pathetic lives to be spared. Drakvol was fueled by death and despair, it invigorated him and rejuvenated his power. To a degree.

Drakon paused as he glided across the courtyard, a garden of bones and carcasses. The dooms flocked into the bailey, shadowy creatures with hollow eye sockets and permanently disfigured faces that were locked in an “O” expression. They clung to Drakon’s legs and begged for power to fuel their hunger. Crying, begging, moaning.

“Please… Majesty. Spare us,” their brittle voices struggled to even formulate sentences of the Dark Tongue. Drakon scoffed.

The smell of rot and despair hung so thick in the air, even Drakon choked at the cloying scent of death. His legs glowed bright yellow, as if his limbs had transformed into solid magma, and the dooms screeched in pain from the touch. Despite the pain it brought to what was left of their limbs, the dooms couldn’t resist touching Drakon like moths to a flame. Maybe, maybe, his power would rub off on them and satisfy their thirst.

“All hail our new king, m-may he... may he r-reign for many… many... he reign many centuries to come!” Desperate and delusional, the denizens praised their king.

“Centuries…” They cackled and cried in the same breath.

Drakon approached the beast, ignoring the cries of his creatures of the night. He gave Clay a solid pat on before he mounted the behemoth for the first time. Clay roared in protest to the unfamiliar man that dared to straddle him, but Drakon knew how to control the beast. He placed his palm to the creature’s scaly surface, and within seconds, Clay’s shrieks dwindled to a rhythmic purr. His father had never been able to tame Clay, but he’d never let Drakon take him for a spin. Drakon smiled at his feat. He prided in himself that he was nothing like his father, and anyone who defied this creed would be set ablaze for all eternity. No, Drake would not be as his father was: a fool. And there’s nothing Drake hated more than a fool.