Lord of the Night

Chapter 1: The Demon Prince

WARNING: This story contains content that may not be suitable for some readers.

So this was the Demon Prince? The Lord of the Night, the conjurer of the Morgabeast, the face starring in my every nightmare and vengeful fantasy?

I expected someone...

Taller.

His raven-black hair barely brushed the shoulders of the Guardians who shoved him into the interrogation room. Rubber blocker cuffs trapped his arms behind his back and chained his ankles together, constricting his stride to an awkward shuffle. His ripped sweater exposed a gaunt frame. The smooth, pale skin that struck terror in the moonlight looked sickly under the harsh lights of the interrogation room.

More like a wounded bird than a Demon.

My rush of hot anticipation dwindled a little. This was the man I was supposed to torture? This was the monster who murdered my family?

I clenched my fists, steeling myself. Demons were masterful manipulators. His dipped head surely concealed a smirk.

Still...

"Is this really him?"

Borgal, a towering Guardian with facial hair like a matted black rug, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Remgar. Our intel was wrong–the High Prince wasn't there. We captured his younger brother."

My eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't know he had a brother."

Borgal shrugged. "This one keeps a low profile. Hasn't done anything remarkable, so far as we know. But hopefully he can at least tell us how to enter the palace, and maybe how to break the spell the Demons use to control the prisoners...and the Morgabeast." Borgal's boulder-like shoulders rolled up to his ears and sank with his exhale. "And if nothing else, we can at least eliminate one threat."

Borgal was right–we should use this trapped Demon however we could. The Demons had stripped so much from us. I tried to resummon the rage; the excitement. The bloodlust.

Perhaps killing the High Prince's brother was the best revenge for him killing mine. But...this Demon did not kill my family.

Had he even killed anyone?

Against my will, my eyes sought the prisoner's downturned face.

"Of course, he must have committed plenty of atrocities," I reasoned. "All Demons have." My statement lifted into a half-question.

Borgal huffed a snort. "Look at me, Remgar. Look at my face."

I tore my eyes from the Demon to follow my friend's request. Everywhere but where his facial hair grew, gray splotches coiled into his skin like craters, each one created by a Demon sucking life from him until his skin ruptured. Each one from a near-death they forced him to recover from–

When he would rather have died.

I swallowed. "What they did to you was...it never should have happened. I never should have let that happen."

After losing my brother and mother, I should have known better than to support Borgal's half-baked plan to spy on the Demons. So why had the so-called "noblest Guardian" ignored his every hesitation?

Because I had prioritized my craving for vengeance over my best friend's life.

Borgal's voice softened. "You did your best, Remgar. And you've lost as much as I have. But I'm the only one here who has spent time in the Demon palace, and in my five years as their slave, I met hundreds of Demons. I assure you, every single one was evil and twisted. The ones who seem the best are usually the worst. What you see is never what you get."