A Prince in Carmine and Scarlet
The grandest of demons were too vast to be contained within themselves, the world breaking around them as all of creation rushed to share in the joy of rebelling against Heaven’s will.
Naradin had nothing like that stature (though in a godless city, even the damned can dream). Still, it was mighty enough.
As it entered the banquet hall, the light through the windows grew dim and red. The candles and magelights filling the chandeliers and adorning the grand tables flickered and dimmed in the same instant, leaving the cavernous room filled with shadows and ruddy half-lights. Even had it looked like just another guest, that would have drawn all the attention in the world.
It did not. The demon was built on a roughly human plan. Seven feet tall, beautiful and androgynous. It’s ivory skin and long, ash-white hair seemed chosen to maximize the contrast with the sanguine tears forever dripping from its empty eye-sockets, and the glistening red coating its nimble hands to the wrist. There were wards, of course. But you couldn’t welcome guests from across the city into a hall for so many nights and expect security. And so, for the moment, all the enchantments set in wood and stone believed it to be a merchant with every right to be there. It was his blood dripping from its left hand, after all. And so the doors flung wide as it walked through them, red light flooding in behind it to complete the dramatic entrance. When it spoke, it spoke in the ear of every guest, its voice a medley of all those whose memory aroused the sharpest passion. The guards rushing towards it almost tripped over themselves in shock as it began. “Greetings, one and all! Welcome to the stage, and thank you for participating. I am Naradin, who dances amid slaughter. And tonight, you shall bear witness to my glory.” It did not react as the bravest of the guards charged, slamming polearms deep into its flesh, seeming to accomplish little but increasing the speed at which the puddle of blood spread across the floor. After a moment, the blood began running up the blade and shaft of the polearms as well, metal rusting as if years were passing for each second in contact. Neither guard was quite so devoted to their station to keep the grip on their weapons until the blood reached their hands. The demon paid neither any mind, continuing to speak as it stepped forward, blade clattering to the ground as it stepped forward and skin healing seamlessly the moment they did. “This city has no god, it has no prince. I offer myself in place of both. The streets shall be rivers, the prisons abattoirs. All shall revel, wild and free, until their flesh and bone remembers itself and becomes something greater still.” It smiled wide as it approached the guests closest to the door, and farthest from the high table. The middle aged patrician that caught its attention froze in terror, whimpering quietly as it caressed his cheek with a bloody hand. “And you’ve already lived so well! You’ve drowned your soul in wine and buried it in feeling. Would you even notice the loss? Wouldn’t you th-” “Enough.” Princess Isabelle did not shout, or slam her hands. Decades of training and practice ensured she did not have to, for her voice to fill the room with an icy authority. The Dragon-in-Exile stood as she continued, her voice deceptively calm for the promise of retribution dripping from every word. “You insult my hospitality, and threaten my guests. Do you intend to entertain yourself abusing the helpless, or will you prove you claim and face a true princess?” She walked forward as she spoke, a flick of her hand sending the purified salt that had been sitting before her streaming into the sleeve of her gown as she stepped away from the stable. Naradin turned to face her, grin spread unnervingly wide across its face. “It would be my pleasure.” It took its time walking across the hall, grin never leaving its face. It never looked away from Isabelle, but it felt as if it was mostly focusing on their audience, drinking in the anxiety and terror of every petrified servant and guest. The dripping of blood from its fingertips louder than it should have been in the silence, echoing through the vaulted hall. This, as it happened, was a mistake. As it walked directly beneath the chandelier hanging above the centre of the room, Isabelle struck. A triptych of hurried incantations sent the gathered salt shooting out, settling into a perfect circle around the demon. The silver necklace she wore broke into pieces at the same time, flying through the air to form the skeleton of a pattern around the circle as they were joined by a dozen iron nails falling from the groaning chandelier. The grin vanished from its face as it stopped mid-stride, perfectly sculpted muscles tensing as it tried and failed to break the circle. The effect was instant. Light became more natural. The blood pooling on the floor began to dry. Guards, servants, and guests broke from the spell of terror and began to move. The princess barely had to nod to send several running for help, before turning back to Naradin. “I don’t know what hell you were dredged out of, but tell any friends you have down there not to follow your example.” A sigil of glowing light appeared in the air before her as she held out her hand, flaring as she completed the ritual gestures for the banishing. The demon staggered back, its body seeming to desiccate, shrivelling and decaying from the sigil’s light. At first it cringed away, as if in pain. But it didn’t vanish – after a few seconds, the spell seemed to stop working. And then it laughed, an unearthly chorus echoing in the ears of all who saw it. “I’ve got more of a claim to the city than you do, dragon. You could say it runs in my blood. And if you think a little circle like this is going to stop me-” The screaming was horrible, coming from the edge of the room. The patrician who had had the misfortune to bear the demons touch, on the ground and clawing at his face as Naradin’s blood seemed to bubble and boil – though it quickly became clear that it was the skin and bone beneath that was actually warping. It happened impossibly quickly, from that. The Naradin inside the binding circle collapsed, leaving a gruesome puddle of ash, sinew and gore behind, as the man ruptured with a horrible crack. A new, pristine copy of the demon seemed, despite all constraints of physics and logic, to drag itself from the quickly dying man; in the same motion, it launched itself into the air with a cry. “And now, with royal blood I shall anoint myself.” It was faster than should have been possible, closing the distance between them in half a breath. Before Isabelle was more than a syllable into an incantation, its fingers were pressing against her skin. And it gave way, flesh and bone parting like a morning fog before its touch. As the princess gasped out one final syllable, it laughed too loud for any to hear, it’s face a mask of victory. And then, as Isabelle weakly pressed her palm against it, there was a great flash of light, and it was reduced to so much ash. There’s nothing so sacrosanct as the royal body, after all, and it would be a foolish family indeed without a technique to avenge the spilling of their own blood. Servants and courtiers were rushing towards her a moment later and, after what seemed like an eternity but was merely an unforgivable few minutes, healing mages and priests arrived, attending to wounds that would otherwise assuredly be fatal. And, in the quickly shrinking puddle of blood at the hall’s great doors, a reflection of Naradin lingered without anything to cast it. It bowed as it spoke a final time. “A lovely trick. Next time, I will come prepared. Until then, my wyrm.”