THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The cosmic throne room trembled as Veylith descended from her celestial perch above the churning gate. Her feet touched the starlight-hardened floor with a soft click of elegance, and immediately the oppressive atmosphere that had pressed down upon them like a physical weight began to lift. The shadows retreated, the air grew lighter, and the very architecture seemed to exhale with relief.

As she stretched, rolling her shoulders and extending her arms as if emerging from a centuries-long imprisonment, the oppressive majesty of her domain collapsed into something far more... intimate. The cosmic horror dissolved, revealing what lay beneath: an old, still classy fantasy pub that had been masked by layers of theatrical illusion.

Veylith herself was a vision that defied conventional beauty. Her wine-colored hair cascaded in luxurious waves past her shoulders, framing a face that held both aristocratic refinement and dangerous allure. Twin buns adorned either side of her head like crimson crowns, while the remaining tresses flowed like liquid silk. Her attire spoke of sophisticated darkness, a high-collared black and white ensemble that managed to be both modest and provocative, with intricate lacework that caught the dim light.

She moved with the fluid grace of a predator at rest, each gesture deliberate and elegant. When her burning sun-like eyes, now revealed to be a deep, mesmerizing crimson, settled on Seraphina, recognition bloomed across her features like sunrise over a battlefield, then Elara.

"Oh my, my," Veylith breathed, her voice carrying musical undertones that seemed to resonate from within her chest. "If I had known the Archon of Lysora was seeking an audience with an information broker such as myself, I would have happily invited you here without all the drama."

Her gaze shifted to Seraphina, and something profound flickered in those crimson depths. "But you..." she whispered, approaching with measured steps that seemed to float rather than walk. "That death magic, that unique resonance..." Her voice caught with sudden emotion. "You're the scorned child. Born of a witch and a human. Cast out by the pure-bloods."

Before Seraphina could respond, Veylith closed the distance between them and wrapped her in an embrace that spoke of centuries of longing and regret. The gesture was so unexpected, so tender amid the remnants of their violent confrontation, that even David's calculating gaze softened slightly.

"My dear, sweet child," Veylith murmured against Seraphina's ear. "You've grown so strong, so beautiful. Your mother would be so proud."

Seraphina stiffened in the embrace, confusion and hope warring in her expression. "You... you knew my mother?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotions she'd buried for decades.

"Knew her?" Veylith pulled back, cupping Seraphina's face with hands that trembled slightly. "She was more than a friend, sweet one. She was my mentor, my guide through the darkness when the covens turned their backs on those they deemed impure." Tears gathered in those crimson eyes, threatening to spill. "I am so deeply sorry that I couldn't be there for you when—"

She stopped abruptly, composing herself with visible effort. "We will have time to discuss this properly later. There is much you need to know, much I need to explain."

With a graceful clap of her hands, the remaining illusions fell away completely. The cosmic architecture dissolved like morning mist, revealing an elegant tavern that wouldn't have looked out of place in the capital's finest district. Rich burgundy furniture, polished wooden floors, shelves lined with rare spirits, and the warm glow of properly contained magical lighting.

Two new puppets materialized from thin air, these ones clearly servants rather than weapons. One moved to collect the unconscious Kars and the remains of the destroyed puppet, while the other began preparing an elaborate tea service with practiced efficiency.

"Please," Veylith gestured to the comfortable seating arrangements, "let us sit properly. I believe we have much to—"

"There's no need to serve everyone," David interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying that familiar undertone of polite authority. The Nightveil Embrace responded to his will, extending outward like living darkness to envelop Elara, Luna, Vivian, Seraphina, and Vespera. Within moments, they had dissolved into his shadow realm, leaving only himself and Veylith in the transformed space.

"I'll be speaking with you alone," he continued, settling into one of the burgundy chairs with casual elegance.

Veylith's expression shifted, aristocratic composure giving way to subtle alarm. "I must insist that Seraphina remain present. As I said, we have much to discuss, and—"

David raised a single finger, cutting her off mid-sentence. Around his fingertip, an orb of crimson energy began to rotate slowly, unmistakably the concentrated essence of her former Vampire Rot Knight. The blood magic pulsed with malevolent life, responding to his will as if it had always belonged to him.

"I don't mind a proper thank you," David said with a mischievous wink, "since I did save your life, after all."

The sight of her puppet's essence under David's control, combined with the casual way he'd manipulated the very fabric of her domain, sent a chill through Veylith that had nothing to do with temperature. Her crimson eyes narrowed as understanding dawned, this young man knew far more than he should, possessed power that defied conventional classification, and had somehow turned her ultimate weapon into his plaything.

Her lips curved into an awkward smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Checkmate," she murmured, settling into the chair across from him with renewed wariness. "I see the real battle has just begun."

****

Ten Thousand Years Ago

The Lands of Nightmares

The impact crater still smoldered when Veylith pulled herself from the shattered earth, her body aching from the violent transition between realms. Above her, the alien sky of the Nightmare Realm writhed with colors that shouldn't exist, while twisted spires of impossible architecture stretched toward horizons that curved in directions the mind couldn't follow.

She had fallen from grace literally, cast from the heavens by those she'd once called sisters, forced to flee rather than watch the corruption spread through her beloved coven like a plague.

"Forgive me," she whispered to the uncaring sky, thinking of her mentor's child she'd left behind, the young half-blood child she'd been forced to abandon. "Forgive me, Seraphina. It was the only way to avoid suspicion falling upon you."

The winged bastards, those entities that had offered her sisters such tempting power, had already begun their work. She'd seen the signs: the subtle changes in behaviour, the new hungers, the way their magic began to carry undertones of something alien and wrong. If she'd stayed, if she'd fought them openly, the slaughter would have been absolute.

Here, in this realm of twisted dreams and living shadows, she might find another way. The Sovereign of the Enchanted Veil had to be warned, but her connection to the goddess had been severed the moment those entities sank their claws into the High Coven's leadership.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats made her tense, hands already weaving protective hexes as figures emerged from the perpetual twilight. They rode horses, or things that had once been horses, their mounts' eyes glowing with the same unnatural hunger that radiated from their riders.

The nobles who approached were a parody of aristocratic elegance. Lavish attire that might have graced imperial courts hung from frames too pale, too perfect, too still. Their crimson eyes reflected no warmth, and when they smiled, fangs glinted like polished ivory. Several carried wine glasses filled with liquid that was definitely not wine.

From behind this cavalcade emerged their leader, tall, devastatingly handsome in the way that predators often were, carrying a woman in his arms like a lover's embrace. As Veylith watched in horrified fascination, he bent to her exposed neck, drinking deeply while she hung limp and willing in his grasp.

When he'd finished, he discarded her carelessly, letting the drained corpse fall to the nightmare earth like refuse. His smile, when he turned it toward Veylith, was all charm and hungry anticipation.

"Lord Viremont," he introduced himself with a bow that managed to be both elegant and mocking. "And you, beautiful witch, are trespassing in my domain." He sniffed the air dramatically, his enhanced senses cataloging her magical signature. "Though perhaps we might come to an arrangement. My manor atop the dark hills has many comforts to offer one seeking... asylum."