The Revelant Crown

The air was heavy with decay as Wraith stepped into the ruined amphitheater of the Slothful Tribunal. Crumbling stone pillars, half‑buried in moss and rank vegetation, formed a half‑circle around a shallow pit that served as the tribunal's stage. Every breath drew in the stench of rot and stagnant water. His heart throbbed in time with the muted pulse of the Pride Soul within him—a slow, confident beat that reminded him of how far he'd come, and how far he still had to go.

Beyond the shattered seats, a procession of Sloth demons moved like shadows drifting across moonlit water. Their limbs were gangly, flesh hanging in folds; each step seemed to cost them an immense effort. In their eyes flickered lazy embers of malice: they would kill if roused, but they preferred the security of never moving at all. Wraith's own shoulders tightened. It was said the Sloth Soul could corrupt even the most vigilant mind, dragging warriors into an endless torpor of complacency.

He raised his chin. Lightning‑white hair fell over his shoulders in a cascade, framing eyes that now burned with unspent pride. "Sloth—show yourself," he called, voice resonating across the amphitheater. The ground trembled, and a low, resonant hum filled the space. From the darkened arches emerged the Tribunal's masters: immense creatures with bloated bellies and rust‑stained armor, leaning on pillars of blackened bone as if to support their jaws.

One of them—its body mottled with patches of slick, oily fur—sighed, the sound like thunder muffled through water. "We tire of travelers," it mumbled, voice as viscous as tar. "Speak your purpose, king of men." The others watched, eyelids drooping as if in perpetual half‑dream.

Wraith advanced onto the stage, boots crunching broken masonry. Pride whispered in his mind: stand tall, demand tribute. He obeyed. "I seek the Soul of Sloth," he declared, voice slicing through the stillness. "I come to claim its power as rightfully mine."

A chorus of snickers rippled among the demons. One raised a gaunt, twitching finger. "You? You barely raised an eye‑brow in the jungle," it jeered, recalling Wraith's earlier conquest of the Pride Soul. "Why should we grant you rest—for we are Sloth, and we give nothing to those who move too quickly."

Despite the insult, Wraith barely hesitated. Unleashing the residual Pride‑Soul energy, he flared with a silver aura, making him seem taller, more imposing. His voice dropped to a steel‑edged whisper. "I move as I choose. And I will take what I need." The aura pulsed outward, and the tribunal trembled.

The leader snarled, but its limbs quivered. "Then prove you deserve it," it growled. Bones cracked as its frame shifted, revealing sinewy muscle beneath. "Endure the Trial of Shadows. Survive until twilight without rest. Fail, and you die beneath glacial cruelties."

Wraith's jaw set. He accepted. No words wasted. He backed toward the pit's edge as the demons melted back into the darkness beyond.

The amphitheater doors slammed shut with a vibration that rattled his bones. Torches along the curved walls sputtered and died, plunging the arena into twilight gloom. Wraith felt his limbs grow heavy already, as if the Sloth Soul's domain reached out to ensnare him. He steadied himself against the cold stone.

A distant roar echoed. From shadow, beasts emerged—gaunt, four‑limbed creatures with dull fur and half‑opened eyes that dripped a viscous ichor. Their joints crackled; every movement seemed to protest against pain or effort. Wraith drew his blade, its edge humming faintly with the last echo of his Pride Soul's magic. The first beast lunged with surprising speed. Wraith sidestepped, drove his blade through its spine. The creature convulsed, releasing a flood of black bile.

He advanced, dispatching each as swiftly as he could. With every strike, he heard a faint whisper in his mind: "Rest… rest…" Muscles began to ache; a clammy weariness seeped into his bones. He shook his head, forcing focus. Pride urged persistence: you will not be beaten by sloth.

As the last beast collapsed, a hush fell. Torches flared again, illuminating a narrow passageway behind the arena. At its mouth stood an emaciated figure draped in tattered robes—the Emissary of Sloth. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but from beneath spilled wisps of hair like cobwebs. In one skeletal hand, it held a rust‑ed chalice.

"Drink," it rasped. "Water from the Wells of Rest. Only one sip, and your burdens will dissolve." Wraith glared. He had heard of this trick: the chalice contained not healing water, but a concoction that would drag the soul into eternal sedation.

He took a single step forward. "Why offer rest to a doomed man?" he asked, voice cold.

The Emissary tilted its head. "To test your will. To see if you choose ease over purpose." It extended the chalice. Moonlight glinted upon its rim.

Wraith's fingers itched with temptation. The weariness clawed at him more insistently. He heard the distant ticking of some unseen clock, each second a hammer driving him toward oblivion. Sweat beaded along his brow.

Summoning every ounce of prideful defiance, he kicked the chalice aside. Bronze shattered against stone. The Emissary's lips twisted. "Then die—" it began.

But the Pride Soul surged, bursting through his veins in a blinding flash. Energy crackled around him as he lunged. The Emissary barely raised its arm before Wraith's blade fell in a furious arc, cleaving bone and spirit alike. A roar of triumph echoed in his ears.

He stumbled through the passage, legs trembling beneath him. Beyond, a chamber of still water lay cradled by smooth, obsidian walls. At its center, upon a pedestal of living root, hovered the Soul of Sloth: a pale, pulsing orb that flickered like a dying star.

Wraith approached, each step heavier than the last. Chains of lethargy coiled around his ankles, pulling him down. Sweat matting his hair, he closed his eyes. Pride whispered, "One last step."

He forced his legs forward. Muscles screamed with protest; his lungs burned. But he reached the pedestal. His hand trembled as it closed around the orb. The moment their energies touched, a wave of tranquility washed over him—so profound it threatened to drown his mind.

He nearly dropped the Soul. Images of warm beds, endless sleep, and dreams without end flooded his senses. His vision blurred; the world spun into soothing darkness.

Then a sharp, ringing note—an echo from the Pride Soul—snapped him back. He grit his teeth, clutched the orb tighter, and willed himself to stay present. The lethargic chains shattered like brittle glass. With a choked cry, he lifted the Soul to his chest.

The orb dissolved into him, searing his chest with cold fire. Memories flooded his mind: centuries of Sloth demons lounging in fungus‑lit caverns, plotting slow rebellions; techniques to entrap foes in miasmic torpor; and the deep, perilous magic of forced relaxation that could unmake even the strongest will.

He staggered back, breath ragged, but victorious. Around him, the chamber trembled, roots retracting as the Soul's bond shifted to new master. The amphitheater doors thundered open. The Sloth Tribunal—those who had survived—bowed their heads in grudging respect.

Wraith straightened, still reeling, and met their gaze. No triumph flashed in his tired eyes—only a smoldering promise. He had tasted the slothful embrace and rejected it. Now, with two Demon King Souls bound within him, he would press ever onward. The fragments of his destiny crackled in the air, and he was not yet ready to rest.

He turned away from the pit and strode toward the darkness beyond. The journey ahead would demand every ounce of will, every fiber of strength. But Wraith would see it through—no matter how weary the road.

© 2025 Kael Virell. All rights reserved. This is an original work of fiction. No part of this text may be copied, distributed, or reproduced without permission from the author. All characters, names, and places are the intellectual property of Kael Virell.