The feast had ended, and the clamor of nobles faded into murmured goodbyes and closing doors. The great hall of Kael Thalor, thick with incense and ambition, slowly emptied until only the most trusted remained.
Velmora sat at the head of the long obsidian table, crimson wine untouched before her. Eryk, seated beside her in his new ceremonial garb, watched the flicker of candlelight on polished marble floors uneasy yet curious, his fingers toying absently with the silver ring he'd been gifted.
THE PRIEST ARRIVES
A knock broke the calm.
A guard entered briskly. "My lady, a priest from the Holy Detachment requests an audience."
Velmora raised a brow. "Which one?"
"The one we intercepted earlier at the gates. He did not leave… he waited."
Velmora gave a nod. "Send in the messenger."
Moments later, the gray-robed figure entered, calm and practiced, censer in hand. His eyes scanned the room lingering on Eryk for a heartbeat, but not long enough to reveal recognition.
"Thank you for granting me this audience, High Lady," the priest began with an inclination of his head.
Velmora leaned back. "Formality is a human sickness. Speak."
He smiled politely. "Only to learn. I travel not with accusation, but concern. My superiors will ask what I learned from this city. It would be… unfortunate if I had nothing to report."
Velmora's expression was unreadable.
"I was told," the priest continued carefully, "that you arrived with an entourage. An impressive one. Many believe you are a noble from beyond the sea. Others whisper darker things cult affiliations, forbidden rites. But I, myself, am simply curious…"
He trailed off, studying her reaction.
Velmora tilted her head. "Curiosity is a blade that cuts the fool who wields it without reason."
Eryk blinked. He didn't fully understand the subtext, but it hung heavy.
The priest pressed, tone still measured. "Your stay in this city… is it long-term? Are you seeking new alliances, perhaps? Or is Kael Thalor merely a waystation before your journey continues?"
He spoke as if politely probing for gossip, but Velmora heard the weight behind it. He was trying to measure the threat.
She gave a cool smile. "This city serves its purpose. We have gained what we needed. The wind calls eastward."
A flicker in the priest's eye.
She added, "Your Holy Detachment should be cautious. Picking fights with those who walk in shadows may lead them to places they were not invited."
The priest inclined his head again, tight-lipped. "Of course. My concern is only for balance."
He left soon after unsatisfied, but unsettled. He hadn't gotten what he came for, but something wasn't right.
THE SCOUTS' REPORT
Later that night, in his temporary temple quarters, a courier arrived from the scout detachment.
The priest read the report by lantern light.
"Five bodies missing. Ritual markings confirmed at the village site. Burn patterns consistent with abyssal summoning. Possible residual spiritual presence. Hostile forces left no living witness."
His fingers gripped the parchment tighter.
Attached was a charcoal sketch of the summoning circle. His heart skipped—he recognized the runic style from ancient heretical texts. His eyes scanned down to the final note.
"The village was registered as Nareth's Hollow. Abandoned due to execution for heresy."
Nareth's Hollow.
His gaze sharpened, flicking to a dusty ledger of suspected heretical bloodlines. A name caught his eye:
Eryk.
"…The boy," he muttered aloud. "From the banquet…"
Suddenly, things began to align. He still didn't know Velmora was the one summoned but it was now clear. Eryk was the summoner. And the demon was here, walking among nobles… gathering influence.
He gritted his teeth. They were in the open. And no one else seemed to realize it.
HOLY ESCALATION
The priest wasted no time. He penned the first letter with shaking hands sealing it with sacred wax, marked for urgent delivery to the Archbishops in the Holy Capital.
That letter would become a storm: from the Archbishops to the Cardinals, then to the Grand Cardinal Leader. Soon, prayers would rise into the heavens, whispering through divine veils to the angelic realm.
The angels, bound by the Balance Treaty, would not strike immediately. But they would move.
Their answer would come in the form of exorcist legions and divine representatives their war cloaked in investigation, their intent deadly.
ACROSS THE SEA: THE DEMONIC KINGDOM STIRS
In the eastern continent, deep within the blood-soaked sanctums of the Demonic Cult Kingdom, robed zealots offered flesh and flame in a desperate summoning. Their prayer was simple: guidance from the abyss in Diablo's name.
But Diablo remained unreachable locked in a suspended trance of power, recovering from the immense toll of the abyssal realignment spell used to reorganize his legions and control the rebellion. With the internal war in the abyss still smoldering and the god-king silent, the summoning drew not a divine herald, but an ambitious opportunist.
From the rift emerged Lord Kethmar, a hulking figure clad in twisted bone-iron armor. His flesh bore the jagged scars of centuries of warfare in the lower abyss, and his presence reeked of sulfur, oil, and hunger.
He was barely noble by demonic standards, a savage commander of minor demon clans who clawed his way to recognition through brutality, not bloodline.
And now?
He saw an opportunity.
Striding through the summoning flames, he raised one clawed hand high and declared:
"By the name of the sleeping god Diablo, I take command. I will reign until his return!"
The cultists, unaware of his true status, fell to their knees and hailed him as King-Regent. Their faith was blind and Kethmar intended to keep it that way.
But deep in his black heart, Kethmar cared little for Diablo's will.
He craved the mortal realm for himself.
The demonic kingdom, rich with slaves, blood-tithe, and mortal offerings, was ripe for the taking. He would consolidate power, build a court of lesser demons loyal only to him, and sever the chains that kept the cult tethered to the abyss.
Let the other nobles squabble. Let Diablo sleep. Let the angels scheme.
The demonic kingdom would be his, and his alone.
Meanwhile, unaware of Kethmar's treachery, Velmora prepared her departure from Kael Thalor.
The sails were being raised.
The sea awaited.
And across the waves, a usurper sat on a bloodstained throne unknowing that the true hand of Diablo was already on its way, with Eryk walking steadily in her shadow.