In the hollowed-out stone of his chamber, high on the bed giants, Belial stirred. His leathery wings unfurled with a dry, smooth cloth like sound escaped from his back. He rose, muscles lax beneath golden bronze skin skin, and stepped to the ledge overlooking the jagged expanse below. With a single, powerful beat of his wings, he launched himself into the sky—black against black, a specter nearly invisible even to the stars.
He circled the mountain, the cold air biting at his face. His eyes, glowing faintly with an violet warmth, scanned every jagged ridge, every scree-laden slope, searching for signs of movement. But there were none. Still. For nights now, the monsters hadn't returned.
That was troubling.
The high mountain was usually crawling with them—mirror beasts with their horrid hides; shriekers that wailed like banshees in the dark; gremlin hordes that swarmed with cursed laughter and needle-sharp claws. Their absence had settled over the land like a sickness, a quiet that felt wrong, heavy with unspoken menace. Something was off, and Belial's instincts, honed by months of playing this game.
He tucked his wings and dove sharply, the wind roaring in his ears as he plummeted into the valley below. Jagged rock spires flashed past, their edges glinting faintly in the moonlight. He landed silently among the bones and scattered feathers of earlier kills, his boots sinking into the soft earth. the area was thick with the scent of decay, a reminder of the battles fought and won. In the darkness, a faint skittering broke the silence. Two mirror monsters darted from a cleft in the rocks, their bodies shimmering like liquid glass.
Belial moved before they could flee. His blade, a curved shard of blackened steel, flashed once, twice. The creatures collapsed, their reflective hides dimming as life bled out. No gremlin bit him this time. No ambush, no mocking cackle from the shadows. These two had been easy—one roughly his size, light enough to carry. He hoisted the body over his shoulder, its weight familiar, and took flight again, wings beating slow and methodical against the night.
Living alone inside the mountain wasn't so bad.... He had food, scavenged from his kills. Silence, unbroken by the demands of others.
And statues....crumbling effigies of forgotten lonely prince that listened more than people ever did. his stone eyes watched him from the shadows of his borrowed bed, offering no judgment, no betrayal.
It was enough.
He landed near a stone altar half-buried in the earth, its surface worn smooth by time and weather. Dropping the carcass beside it, he exhaled, his breath misting in the cold. His muscles ached, a dull throb that spoke of too many fights, too many nights without rest. The scars crisscrossing his arms and chest itched under the skin, memories of claws and bite marks etched into his flesh. Still, there was a strange comfort in the routine—hunt, kill, survive. It was all he knew now.
More importantly, he'd made a discovery.
The monsters he killed didn't just die. They left behind residual ether, a thick, potent energy that lingered in their bodies long after death.
The ether flowed in the air around the fallen creatures, a faint vibration that set his body on edge and stirred something deep in his bones.
He had a plan.
Three poisonings a day. That would be enough.
Deep within the mountain, in a chamber where no light dared linger, he was cultivating something—a giant chrysalis, its surface pulsing with a faint, sickly glow.
By feeding it a steady stream of poisoned ether, refined from the monsters' remains and laced with his own volatile poison, he could accelerate its transformation. The poison was his dear friend—the lonely princes child. own creation, distilled from years of experimentation, its potency unmatched. Now, he only needed to mix it properly.
He descended into the cave system near the mountain's base, where the walls shimmered with crystallite and glowing fungal growth. The air grew damp, heavy with the scent of earth and decay.
He passed old roots, twisted like skeletal hands, and carved arches etched with runes long forgotten. The tunnels wound deeper, their paths familiar to him now, each step guided by muscle memory.
He found the chrysalis coiled tightly in a cavern lit by its dull grey energy. Its shell had grown thicker, veins of ether coursing across its surface like black lightning. The air around it thrummed with latent power, a pressure that made his skin prickle. Approaching slowly, he reached out and poured the poisonous ether into its base. The chrysalis quivered, its glow flaring briefly before settling. He stepped back, his breath shallow.
Progress.
With the feeding done, he made his way to the upper levels of the mountain dodging the damned overprotective statue, toward a the bedroom area towards the keyhole. The air stale as he descended, the stink of battle, blood, and decay clinging to his skin like a second layer. In the camp, years ago, he'd never have been allowed to stink this long.
They would've beaten him for it, or worse—locked him in the pit with no food, no light, until he begged for mercy. But here, in the mountain's embrace, he had control. No one to answer to.
No one to fear.
He felt along the far wall of the tunnel, where a thin crack ran through the crystallite, barely visible in the dim light. Gripping the pommel of his sword, he struck the seam with a single, forceful blow.
A shockwave echoed down the tunnel, the sound reverberating in his chest. The wall split, then shattered, revealing a gaping mouth carved into the mountain—just tall enough for him to walk through.
A path wound down, cool air trickling through the passage like a sigh. He followed it, the dim light of his eyes casting faint shadows on the walls. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, where a stream, thin and gentle, fed into a river about ten meters wide.
The water glimmered under moonlight pouring through a crack in the mountain's wall, its surface dancing with silver. At the far end, a waterfall thundered, its roar echoing into the abyss below.
Belial paused at the river's edge, the sound of the water steadying his racing thoughts. Just how big was this mountain? he wondered. The maps were incomplete, their edges frayed, their secrets lost to time. He'd explored only a fraction of its depths, yet each discovery felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, one he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.
His hands moved without thinking. He stripped away his torn, tattered clothes, layered with grime and dried blood. The water was cold, biting at his skin, but welcome. He stepped in slowly, the current tugging at his legs, then sank down until it washed over him, pulling away the stink and memories in equal measure. The scars on his body gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a map of survival written in flesh.
He stayed there, the water lapping at his chin, the world reduced to the rhythm of the river. In the silence, something stirred in him—a memory, fragile and unwelcome. A face, soft at the edges, undefined but achingly familiar. Warmth. Laughter. The scent of cinnamon and candy. Someone who used to hum as they worked, who once tied a small ribbon into his wristband for luck.
I wonder if she's doing alright...
The thought slipped out like a wound re-opening. The camp is treating her well… as well as the other kids... Not like how they treated him.
The trials, the bullying. The endless tests to prove his worth, to mold him into something...different.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes, an ache that had nothing to do with blades or claws. He reached for the past, but it slipped through his fingers like mist. He leaned his head back, letting the water flow past his ears until the sound of the world dulled, leaving only the hollow beating of his heart.