POV: Hermon
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
He had read the sentence in the quiet of the eastern wing, seated beneath a tall window where grey light filtered through stained glass and painted the marble floor in fractured hues. The words had immediately caught his attention. Even back then, when he had been a child, he had been aware of the strain and distance among his family, so it was no wonder that such an opening line would grab his attention.
Hermon was the youngest son of an illustrious noble house, though their house had seen better days, and he was aware of the mockery whispered by the rest of his kind behind their backs. The name Beleth still meant something.
His ancestor had been one of the six legendary devils who were granted the title of a king alongside Bael, Paimon, Purson, Belilal and Zagan, a lineage spoken of in reverent tones across devil society. Power and prestige followed it.
From a distance, his family were a portrait of perfection.
He had two elder brothers and two elder sisters, a number of offspring almost unheard of among devils, especially considering how close they were in age. With devil fertility so low, it was common for siblings to be separated by centuries.
It could be seen clearly in cases such as Lord Sirzechs, who was old enough to have fought in the civil war generations ago, while his sister Rias was around Hermon's age. Within that context, his own family's clustering of births seemed almost unnatural.
As with many things, they had been an exception here as well. With his eldest sister Athaliah excluded, the rest of his siblings had been born within the same decades. Hermon suspected that this closeness in age was part of the reason conflict simmered so easily among them.
What should have strengthened their bond and drawn them together instead sharpened every comparison and magnified every slight difference in talent and recognition.
At the heart of this division was one single individual.
Meruem.
Meruem, the eldest son, the prodigy, the once-in-a-millennium genius who is the wonder and terror of their generation. Brilliance radiated from him with such casual abundance that it bordered on cruelty. Many praised him. Rivals feared him. Servants adored him. Even strangers found themselves drawn toward his gravity.
He seemed to love everyone.
Everyone except his siblings.
From them alone he withheld his goodwill and his love, Hermon could not understand it, what they have done to be such a sore to his eyes. What was it that made them unworthy of his affection? Why could he not laugh and joke with them as he did with strangers?
Could he not see that they, too, loved him and wished nothing beside to stand by his side as his equals? As his brothers?
With them, he was meticulous, especially in identifying their faults. Affection that flowed freely toward outsiders dried into scrutiny within the family walls. Praise became a comparison. Guidance became an examination. A raised brow from Meruem carried more weight than any public reprimand.
He observed, and in that observation was quiet judgement. When those crimson eyes settled on someone, Hermon felt as though every weakness and doubt had been stripped bare. He knew his other siblings felt the same, even if Herodias concealed it with practiced composure and Belathriel responded with stubborn defiance.
Yet despite everything, they loved Meruem.
How could they not?
To witness Meruem was to witness brilliance in motion. His mind moved with terrifying clarity. His presence filled rooms with a warmth that felt indistinguishable from sunlight. Loving him felt instinctive, almost biological.
He disdained them and Hermon could not understand.
Each sibling found a method to endure the strain.
Belathriel chose obsession in bettering himself, to be so strong so that he wouldn't have to cower beneath Meruem's gaze. If he couldn't win his love by virtue of his blood and then by his competence. He trained until his muscles tore and reknit. He pushed magic through channels that trembled under the pressure. Bones fractured; healers were summoned; training resumed before the splints were fully removed.
His palms were calloused, his shoulders permanently scarred. Every strike he delivered into the stone pillars of the courtyard carried a single, desperate prayer: Look at me. Acknowledge me. Love me.
Belathriel possessed prodigious talent. His control over demonic energy surpassed most seasoned nobles. His discipline bordered on ascetic devotion. Hermon saw it clearly. He saw the unnatural endurance, the refusal to collapse beneath exhaustion. Belathriel saw only Meruem's shadow stretching over his efforts, swallowing them whole. It was a tragedy that he could not recognize his own ability standing so close to someone who eclipsed them.
Herodias chose apathy instead, taking everything with a stride. Her posture remained flawless. Her voice carried an even cadence. In assemblies, she appeared indifferent to Meruem's gaze, as though his approval held no value to her. Hermon knew better, he remembers the muted cadence of her sobbing in the privacy of her chambers.
Hermon felt only lamentation.
He possessed neither Belathriel's ferocity nor Herodias' composure. He understood his own limitations; he was painfully average compared to his prodigious siblings. His magic was steady and unremarkable. His intellect was competent, though it lacked the sharp brilliance of Meruem or the refined mastery of Herodias.
He had no natural inclination for combat like Belathriel, no political instinct like his sisters, no singular domain of magic where he excelled. His presence did not command attention. His presence did not command attention. He could study for decades and still remain several paces behind Meruem's effortless stride.
The realization that he was ordinary within a family of exceptional individuals settled slowly and left him hollow. He had seen it in the way his father's expression dimmed when Hermon presented what he had learned from tutors or the academy.
The disappointment had never been spoken directly, yet it lingered in the silence that followed. Like his siblings, Hermon searched for a way to come to terms with his own perceived weakness.
He turned to books.
In fiction, hierarchy softened. In myth, destiny could be inherited through suffering rather than birth order. He read of Achilles and his golden wrath, of Heracles and the weight of impossible labors, of kings who rose from obscurity through cunning or endurance. He consumed legends ancient and modern, searching for templates through which he might reinterpret himself.
Recently, his fascination had drifted toward Russian literature.
An oddity among devils.
The Russians wrote of guilt as though it were oxygen. They dissected faith with reverent brutality. Their characters knelt in snow and wept before silent heavens. Hermon understood that discovery of his interest would invite ridicule. A devil reading Dostoevsky invited mockery of the highest order. The irony would be savored publicly and dissected privately.
He read them anyway.
He followed Raskolnikov through the suffocating corridors of Crime and Punishment, felt the fever of superiority rot into paranoia. He lingered beside the Underground Man, who clung to spite as proof of agency. He endured Prince Myshkin's fragile gentleness as society consumed him with casual cruelty. He listened to Ivan Karamazov articulate rebellion against a universe that permitted innocent suffering.
He found reflections of his family in those pages.
Brilliance entangled with arrogance. Love distorted into control. Devotion curdled into resentment.
Yet it was Tolstoy's masterpiece Anna Karenina who reached him most profoundly.
The opening line had seized him instantly.
"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
Hermon read it again and again, hoping perhaps that through sheer repetition he might unlock its hidden meaning.
From the outside, his family appeared cohesive. They attended galas together, their movements synchronized, their smiles perfect.
Within the estate, unhappiness manifested uniquely in each sibling.
And Meruem stood at the center of it all.
Hermon considered the possibility that Meruem required distance. That accepting their Affection might dilute his greatness. That accepting them as his equals might threaten identity. To remain unparalleled, he needed them striving. To remain elevated, he needed them reaching upward.
He wanted to understand his brother. He believed that through understanding Meruem he might eventually understand himself as well.
In Tolstoy's pages, characters pursued understanding of themselves with relentless introspection. They questioned motives, faith, morality. They flayed their own illusions. Hermon adopted the same practice.
He catalogued his envy, his admiration, his shame. He traced the origin of each emotion to its source. He examined the way his chest tightened when Meruem praised a foreign dignitary. He measured the dull ache that followed family gatherings.
If peace were ever to exist among them, it would require comprehension of the fractures that defined them. Tolstoy sought to understand families unraveling beneath pride and desire. Hermon sought to understand his own before the unraveling became irreversible.
He had all the time in the world, devils were long lived species. Centuries would pass. Empires would shift. Admirers and rivals alike would decay into obscurity.
Meruem's brilliance would persist.
Hermon would persist as well.
What was a thousand years to analyze the anatomy of love withheld? What was ten thousand years to search for a way to stand before his brother without shrinking beneath his gaze?
He did not know whether happiness was attainable for his own.
He knew only that their unhappiness was uniquely theirs.
And he intended to understand it, even if it required an eternity.
…
He arrived a few leagues away from the war camp and stepped out of the magic circle bearing the seven pointed star of House Beleth, the sigil flaring once beneath his boots before fading back into dormant embers.
A short distance ahead of him rose a vast barrier of condensed demonic force that enclosed the entire encampment in a wide circle. The ward shimmered faintly against the darkened sky, its surface layered with runes that pulsed in steady intervals. Pikemen and archers stood guard before it in ordered ranks, their armor polished, their weapons angled forward with disciplined precision.
Beyond the line of defense the camp extended across the plain until it blurred into the horizon. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires. Mailed soldiers sat beneath sparse trees and honed their blades with patient strokes.
Others inspected armor straps or murmured over maps spread across wooden crates. Familiar banners bearing the crests of House Beleth's vassals stirred in the wind, each sigil announcing loyalty that had survived the current succession dispute.
A formation of devils approached through the air as Hermon advanced, their black wings extended wide and beating in coordinated rhythm. They descended before the ward in disciplined order.
The devil at their head wore silver armor inlaid with amethysts that caught the light in subdued flashes, and a dark striped cloak fell from his shoulders to his greaves. A feathered serpent sigil adorned the face of his shield.
Hermon reined up before him. "Lord Dagon."
Lord Dagon lifted his visor and inclined his head in a formal bow, his retinue following the gesture in unison. "Prince Hermon," he said with respect. "His Majesty awaits you."
He hesitated slightly over the title. Meruem had not yet been formally crowned, and with another claimant pressing her own right to the throne, uncertainty in address was understandable.
"Where will I find my brother?" Hermon asked.
"Would you prefer to rest before meeting him?" Lord Dagon inquired with careful politeness.
"No. I will see him at once."
"As you wish, your highness." Lord Dagon turned and issued a series of crisp commands to his retinue. Three devils stepped forward and began chanting in low synchronized tones. Their hands traced sigils through the air, and a circular aperture opened in the barrier, its edges rippling outward to allow passage.
Hermon passed through the ward and into the heart of the camp.
Meruem's forces occupied leagues of territory. Countless tents had been erected in careful rows, arranged according to rank and function. Several high lords had brought portable magical pavilions that rose several stories high once expanded, their enchanted frameworks unfolding into vast structures supported by invisible force rather than timber.
Their surfaces shimmered faintly, reinforced by layered wards and inscribed with protective sigils that marked both wealth and preparedness. Hermon recognized the crests of House Merihem, Luvart, Nergal, and Tammuz displayed proudly upon them.
Soldiers called out respectful greetings and bowed as he passed. Lesser devils paused in their duties and stared openly at the youngest prince, curiosity evident in their expressions. He guided his mount through the ordered avenues of the encampment until he reached the largest pavilion at its center.
It towered above the others, draped in the red and gold of House Beleth, the golden seven pointed star emblazoned prominently upon its broad surface. Its position at the heart of the camp ensured that no one could mistake where authority resided. Guards stood at its entrance in polished armor, halberds crossed in ceremonial formation.
Hermon dismounted, nodded to them, and entered.
Inside, he found his brother.
Athaliah stood beside Meruem, clad in her strange armor, sharing wine with him as though this were a private gathering rather than the eve of war. Hermon observed how much closer she had grown to Meruem in recent weeks.
She had been the first among their siblings to declare him the rightful king despite being the elder. Her loyalty appeared sincere, without calculation or hesitation.
Hermon wondered again about the incident involving the cult of Ferum Exsul. He knew that Meruem had led the effort to eradicate the troublesome sect. During that conflict Athaliah had lost her queen, Amras.
The official account claimed that Amras had endured severe torture at the cult's hands, a claim supported by the investigative team dispatched by the royal council, who reported finding his severed head and evidence that he had suffered extreme torment of both mind and body.
The case had been ruled a suicide brought on by unbearable suffering. It had been declared that Amras had taken his own life, despite the fact that his body had been dismembered and scattered across the forest, each limb mutilated beyond recognition.
The ruling had been labeled mysterious and final. The media had mocked it relentlessly. A devil committing suicide was considered disgraceful and indicative of weak will.
Anyone with basic intelligence understood that it had not been suicide. Amras had been deliberately killed in a manner intended to humiliate and terrify. His remains had been displayed with barbaric cruelty. No one voiced that conclusion openly. Meruem himself had been a witness. Few would dare to contradict a prince.
Hermon worried for Athaliah. He had never been particularly close to her, yet he found it troubling that she appeared largely unshaken by the death of her queen, who had once been her most trusted subordinate. There were elements of that event that did not align cleanly.
Hermon suspected that Meruem was connected to the deeper truth of it. He hoped that whatever had transpired had not harmed Athaliah in ways that were not visible.
Athaliah noticed him first. "Hermon," she said with a welcoming smile.
"Sister," he replied, then turned toward Meruem and bowed. "And your Majesty."
Meruem remained seated, reclining slightly in his chair, though amusement flickered in his crimson gaze. "I'm not a king yet," he said evenly. "Only a candidate."
"A mere formality, my son," Queen Morena said, and Hermon finally allowed his eyes to settle upon the woman he had been avoiding.
The fourth queen terrified him. She was known as the Mistress of a Thousand Plots and regarded as the most formidable queen House Beleth had ever produced. Now, standing within the war pavilion, she wore armor that seemed designed as much to command attention as to offer protection.
The plates were fitted closely to her tall frame, sculpted to accentuate her form. Sections of polished metal curved around her torso and hips, leaving portions of her abdomen and thighs exposed in deliberate display. Fine chains connected the pieces, and etched runes traced patterns across her bare skin.
The design would have been impractical by human standards, yet among devils such attire was neither unusual nor considered improper. Power and allure were frequently intertwined. Her dark hair fell freely over her shoulders, and her purple eyes held a steady and calculating focus. Even dressed for war, she resembled a figure from ancient epics, commanding and self assured.
"Nonetheless," Meruem continued, "it leaves a bitter taste to call myself king while a pretender openly seeks my crown."
Dimora Bael had sent marriage proposals to him and to several other prominent devils. Hermon refused to grant her the name Beleth. From the lowest peasant to the highest noble, most devils would have reacted to such an offer with enthusiasm.
She was counted among the strongest female devils and among the most beautiful, and for generations young devils had dreamed of sharing a bed or a throne with one of the great ladies of the underworld such as Ryogun Belphegor, Serafall Leviathan, and Grayfia Lucifuge.
When Meruem had read her letter, he had replied with three words: go fuck yourself. That message had eliminated any possibility of diplomatic resolution.
Thus he had called his banners, summoning those still loyal to House Beleth and preparing to confront Dimora Bael in open war.
"Had you acted with greater restraint, you would have been crowned by now with an ultimate class devil as your wife," Queen Morena said sharply
"This story again?" Mereum replied in a bored tone. "I told you already, mother, I didn't act without thinking. The honor of our House was at stake. I had no choice but to act. No man sheds our family's blood with impunity."
"We don't know with certainty that she was responsible for your father's death," Queen Morena began.
"Don't let fear cloud your judgment mother," Meruem interrupted, his tone cooling. "There is no doubt she was involved. Her attempt to claim my birthright through distant nonsensical blood ties is further proof of her ambition. If she's not guilty of my father's murder, then she is guilty of high treason at least."
The queen's hand tightened briefly at her side. Hermon recognized the expression beneath her composure. She was afraid for her son. She feared that his pride would lead him into a confrontation he could not survive.
Hermon shared that fear silently, though he would never articulate it while his brothers were determined to march toward an ultimate class devil.
When one's brothers decide to challenge a being vastly stronger than themselves, the appropriate response within a noble household is apparently not to question their judgment but to join them in the endeavor and hope collective enthusiasm compensates for poor survival instincts.
"I understand your concern, my queen," Athaliah said with calm assurance. "However, Meruem is correct that Dimora must be made an example of. If we permit this challenge to stand unanswered, the name Beleth will no longer inspire fear and the lords of hell will no longer respect us."
Hermon studied her carefully. She appeared sincere. She seemed to believe they had a realistic chance of victory against the Demoness of Ruin. In his private estimation, that belief bordered on optimistic delusion.
Defeating an ultimate class devil was not an undertaking suited for high class combatants. The disparity in power was severe. As far as Hermon was concerned, Dimora could likely dismantle their entire command structure while missing several limbs, deprived of sight, and taking a piss, and she would still retain sufficient strength to dictate the pace of battle.
The gulf between high class and ultimate class devils was less a matter of skill and more a matter of existence.
"I would prefer my son alive and whole over the approval of the lords of Hell," Queen Morena said with visible frustration.
"If they neither respect nor fear us," Athaliah replied quietly, "then they will remove us when opportunity presents itself."
That statement required no elaboration. Queen Morena did not argue further. She withdrew into contemplative silence, the weight of impending war settling heavily within the pavilion. Hermon observed them all and wondered how much of what stood before him would remain unchanged once Dimora Bael answered their challenge.
"Now with that out of the way," Meruem said dismissively as his gaze settled on Hermon with measured attention, "why are you still standing? Take a seat, brother, and help yourself to a drink."
The tone made it clear that only at that moment had it occurred to Meruem that Hermon remained on his feet. Sitting without the permission of the king or acting king was considered a discourtesy, and Hermon had chosen to remain standing rather than risk offense.
He had assumed it was deliberate, a subtle display of authority meant to remind him of his place within the hierarchy of the pavilion. It appeared instead that Meruem had simply forgotten to extend the courtesy.
Hermon crossed the room toward the central table. The polished surface was spread with maps weighed down by daggers and goblets. He took a glass from the tray, and Meruem poured wine for him without comment.
"So then tell me, brother, what news do you bring me?" Meruem prompted.
"Not good news, I am afraid," Hermon replied carefully.
"Oh?" Meruem said with mild curiosity. "How is Belathriel faring? It's his first campaign after all."
After calling his banners, Meruem had divided his forces into two major hosts. He had retained command of one half and entrusted the other to Belathriel, sending him east to relieve House Ziminiar, which had come under siege by rebel forces.
The decision had been personal as well as strategic. The second queen, Aelyra Beleth née Ziminiar, was Belathriel's mother, and House Ziminiar had long been fiercely loyal to House Beleth. The fact that Grach Urieus had chosen to besiege them indicated both their importance and the threat they posed to the rebel coalition.
"Lord Ziminiar attempted to contain the rebel raids by scattering smaller companies along his borders," Hermon began, his voice steady. "Those detachments were defeated before they could consolidate. The rebels then engaged the main host of Ziminiar in open battle and routed them. Lord Ziminiar was taken captive along with several of his most prominent bannermen and warriors. His eldest son managed to lead a handful of survivors back to their fortress, where Lord Grach Urieus has placed them under siege. The remainder retreated to their individual strongholds."
Belathriel had been furious upon receiving the report, cursing the delays that had slowed his march. The reality of war logistics had offered little comfort. Moving tens of thousands across great distances required time, and teleportation circles were of limited use when faced with the task of transporting entire legions. Armies moved at the speed of supply wagons and marching feet.
"That is bad news," Meruem said calmly, displaying no visible alarm. "And where is Belathriel now?"
"He has established a position in the eastern reaches of Beleth's Schwanz with his legions and is drafting plans to relieve House Ziminiar," Hermon answered.
"It doesn't look as though things are going the way he originally planned them," Meruem observed. "He was to secure Ziminiar and then rendezvous with the main host at Black River before we advanced together."
That had indeed been the plan, though it had relied on Lord Ziminiar retaining control of his situation long enough to coordinate with reinforcements. The assumption that an allied lord would act with strategic foresight had proven optimistic.
Depending on others to behave rationally often resulted in disappointment, which was a lesson Hermon felt the campaign was reinforcing with admirable consistency.
"What shall we do, brother?" Athaliah asked, her voice measured. "With our present strength it's unlikely we can defeat the combined legions of House Acteus and House Ormenus, and that is without accounting for Dimora herself, who could render much of our force irrelevant by her mere presence."
Meruem had assigned nearly a third of his total strength to Belathriel's command. The division had left him at a disadvantage, particularly in the face of an ultimate class opponent.
Meruem's expression shifted into contemplation, though it was Queen Morena who spoke first. "We must halt our advance and await Prince Belathriel's return. To engage Dimora as we stand now is tantamount to self destruction."
"I'm certain the demoness of ruin will patiently grant us time to reorganize," Athaliah replied with dry sarcasm. "Why would she exploit the fact that we are divided and deprived of a significant portion of our officers and legions. It's evident she anticipated this and maneuvered us accordingly."
"You appear eager to test your strength against her, princess," Queen Morena said evenly. "If it would satisfy you, perhaps we can arrange a personal duel."
"What would you have us do, then? Surrender?" Athaliah shot back.
"I would have you think," Morena answered, irritation entering her voice. "I will not see my son slain because a sheltered princess thinks it's more honorable to die standing than live kneeling. My son, it's not too late. We can approach Lady Dimora and negotiate conditional surrender. Marching against an ultimate class being was reckless in the first place. You must reconsider."
"We will become nothing but puppets of House Bael? Is that how you wish to honor my father's memory? By sleeping with his murderers?" Athaliah said, her voice tight with frustration as her fingers curled against the arm of her chair.
"That pride of yours will only get you killed," Morena replied evenly, though there was steel beneath her calm. "The fact that you cannot conceive of a way to avenge my late husband without directly placing yourself and his other children in danger only shows your immaturity. Bowing to Dimora now doesn't mean we will remain on our knees forever. We will bide our time and strike when an opportunity presents itself. Revenge is a dish best served cold."
Hermon disliked admitting it, especially given how Queen Morena had made his own mother's life far more difficult within the household, yet her suggestion was the most logical course of action.
Feigning defeat and preserving strength for a calculated strike carried far more sense than charging forward to die in a display of wounded pride. There was little value in defending honor if the bloodline ceased to exist.
He had once assumed that only Meruem and Belathriel possessed that particular strain of recklessness that favored confrontation over calculation, evidently he had been mistaken. Athaliah carried the same spark, the same willingness to gamble everything for the sake of dignity.
Hermon found himself wondering whether it was a proof of his father's absolute failure in installing any sense of survival instinct in his children or proof that stupidity was genetic. It was a thought he kept to himself.
His gaze shifted to Meruem, waiting as the fourth queen and the first princess continued their exchange. Morena's words flowed with coherent logic and carefully veiled insults that landed precisely where intended, while Athaliah countered through force of will and stubborn conviction, occasionally displaying a remarkable leap in reasoning to keep her argument alive.
The exchange might have continued indefinitely had Meruem not gently tapped the table to draw their attention.
"What should we do then, brother?" Hermon asked quietly.
"We will proceed with the original plan," Meruem replied with calm certainty. "I have absolute faith in Belathriel. He will not fail me."
The statement stunned Hermon. He could not recall ever hearing Meruem articulate such trust in any of them. Judging from the expressions on the faces of Queen Morena and Athaliah, he was not alone in his surprise.
Meruem offered no elaborate justification, no strategic breakdown, no calculated reasoning. He made his decision solely upon blind faith.
Hermon felt something stir within his chest, a warmth that rose unexpectedly and tightened his throat. His vision blurred slightly before he realized that his eyes had grown damp. It was remarkable that a simple acknowledgment of confidence could carry such weight.
Even though the faith was directed at Belathriel, it altered the atmosphere within the pavilion. For once, one of them had been openly trusted rather than measured.
Hermon allowed himself a small smile.
"No," he agreed softly. "He will not."
…
Later that day, Hermon sat in his assigned sleeping quarters with a book open across his lap, a dense volume detailing the Treaty of Starfall Reach, the accord that had formally reintegrated the defeated faction of the last civil war into the emerging political order.
The treaty was widely regarded as a model of effective diplomacy and was commonly credited to Zekram Bael and Sirzechs Gremory for stabilizing a fractured underworld through calculated compromise and institutional reform.
The book itself, however, was tedious in execution. Its tone was less an objective examination of political maneuvering and more a sustained argument in favor of Bael supremacy. The contributions of other influential houses, particularly House Agares and several of the Satans who had negotiated critical concessions, were mentioned only briefly before the narrative returned to elevating Zekram's foresight and authority.
Sirzechs was portrayed in almost reverential terms, his actions framed as decisive turning points regardless of their actual strategic weight.
Hermon observed that the author applied a subtle methodology in shaping perception. Emphasis was placed on moments where Bael leadership intervened, while events that required collective agreement were described as natural progressions toward outcomes that Bael had already envisioned.
Even Sirzechs, formally a Gremory, was described repeatedly in relation to the Power of Destruction, the ancestral hallmark of House Bael, thereby folding his achievements into the broader narrative of Bael lineage.
By praising Sirzechs, the author reinforced Bael prestige indirectly, implying that the most formidable figure of the new era bore Bael traits in essence if not in name. It was a deliberate reframing of identity that strengthened Bael ideological dominance without overt declaration.
Hermon was considering a marginal note regarding casualty redistribution clauses when the door to his chamber swung open with force. A messenger entered hurriedly and dropped to one knee.
"Your Highness," he said, head bowed, "Her Majesty Queen Morena requests your presence in her chamber."
Hermon raised an eyebrow at the summons, uncertain what the proud queen could possibly require of him. Nevertheless, he set the book aside, adjusted his attire into a more presentable state, and made his way through the corridors of the pavilion. It was unwise to delay a queen who valued punctuality as an expression of respect.
Upon entering her chamber, he immediately noticed the arrangement upon the floor. A large circle had been inscribed into the polished stone, its lines etched with precision and filled with faintly glowing ink that shimmered with layered enchantments.
The sigils were unfamiliar to him, complex and interwoven in a configuration that suggested ritual rather than combat application. Tall candles stood at measured intervals along the circumference, their flames steady despite the lack of visible wind.
On a nearby low table rested an assortment of potion bottles in varying sizes, some containing viscous dark liquids, others clear or faintly luminescent, each sealed with wax and marked with small runic tags.
He shifted his gaze to the queen. She no longer wore the form fitting armor from earlier. Instead, she was dressed in simple garments suited for private ritual work, fabric that allowed ease of movement while still tailored to her frame. The absence of ornamentation did little to diminish her presence.
"Thank you for heeding my call, my prince," she said softly as she lowered herself to the floor beside the circle. Hermon mirrored the gesture and sat opposite her.
Her movements were graceful. Her dark hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, reflecting the candlelight in subtle highlights. Her purple eyes held steady focus. She was undeniably beautiful, a fact Hermon had acknowledged many times before despite his caution.
"Why did you call for me, my queen?"
"I saw your look earlier at the meeting," she said instead. "You agree with me don't you? You understand the sheer folliness and madness of comforting the demoness of ruin head on."
How perceptive of her.
He was sure he had schooled his expression carefully, but it seems nothing escaped her watchful eyes. "What if I do?" he asked.
"Then we may assist one another," she said calmly. "You have always differed from your siblings. You lack the Luciferian pride that defines so many descendants of Beleth. You understand that compromise and temporary submission can serve as tools for long term preservation."
He studied her, uncertain of her intention. Her assessment was not entirely inaccurate. He did not share the instinctive defiance that characterized Meruem or Belathriel.
"It's perhaps the result of you having no extraordinary qualities like your siblings," she said calmly, studying him with a measured gaze. "Don't look at me like that, it's not a bad thing to be ordinary, especially in a house filled with extraordinary people. That ordinariness can be your strength if you let it be."
He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Is this about to be a lecture on how everyone is special in their own way? If so then save your breath, my queen. I have no need to delude myself into thinking that my lack of talents is in any way a virtue."
"Oh but it is!" the queen insisted, her composure sharpening rather than cracking. "Do you think Belathriel would be able to understand why, for instance, Lord Grach chose to betray your father even though his daughter was a queen?"
He considered her words for a moment, fingers tapping lightly against the ground as he replayed the question in his mind, yet he offered no answer and let her continue speaking.
"He would not," she said. "He would simply consider him a greedy oathbreaker with no ounce of loyalty in him and he wouldn't be necessarily wrong. However, that ignores so many nuances about Lord Grach's decisions. Tell me, why do you think he betrayed your father?"
"Insecurity," he answered after a brief pause.
"Just so," she said with a faint nod. "His daughter, Jahibath, was married to your father for over a century, I'm only her senior by a year, yet she did not manage to give him a single child even when your father was at his most fertile. A clever man might wonder why his daughter could not bear a child while her very other sister queens were with child."
"Surely he did not think that father would intentionally want to avoid having child Queen Jahibath?" Hermon said incredulously.
"And why not?" she replied evenly. "If you consider it from his perspective, the fact that his daughter alone is without a child is either a result of deliberation or his daughter is barren, either way not a good prospect. A queen who cannot give an heir would have almost no authority and is easily replaceable."
And that was the core of the issue, he had come to the same conclusion on his own, it all came down to feeling replaceable and having nothing to offer. That feeling made people act irrationally.
"When presented with an opportunity to secure his position," Morena continued, "he seized it."
The new chance was of course throwing his lot with a new claimant to the throne since the old regime no longer benefited him, yet it still puzzled Hermon why he would choose to support Dimora specifically. He struggled to see what she could offer Lord Grach that he could not have obtained by remaining loyal to House Beleth.
Lady Jahibath did not have a child, yet she was still queen, which was a position of the highest honour one could bestow upon a vassal family. He turned the matter over carefully in his mind, searching for the angle that made such a risk worthwhile, and gradually one conclusion formed with uncomfortable clarity.
"He wishes to marry Jahibath to Meruem," he concluded, lifting his eyes to meet the queen.
That was the only arrangement that aligned the incentives. Dimora was interested in taking Meruem alive and co-ruling with him, and that did not preclude Meruem from taking another wife, any such union would likely require Dimora's approval.
It was easy to imagine that she had promised Grach that his daughter would be married to Meruem in exchange for his support, restoring his family's influence and ensuring a direct tie to the future throne.
"Most likely," she agreed. "Or at the very least marry her to someone from the House of Bael. Since Meruem is young, he could be shaped and manipulated to serve as their puppet king and the various queens married to Meruem would be the real power behind the throne, or at least that is what they believe. They believe that they can easily control my son, believing him to be a boy with neither experience nor power to resist their machinations."
"But it wouldn't be them who would control the realm if they win, but rather House Bael," Hermon said thoughtfully, unable to imagine that House Bael would tolerate sharing dominance with lesser lords for long.
"This is the mind of lesser devils at work," she explained patiently. "They want someone weak that can be easily controlled, even if it is by a foreign pillar, and feel secure upon the throne rather than entrusting power to a man of strong will. All they want is security. You understand what I mean."
So this was what she meant when she claimed that only he could understand the motivations of the lesser devils in ways his brothers could not, because he recognized the quiet fear of being overlooked and the desperate need to anchor oneself to something stable before being cast aside.
"My Meruem, my shining star," she said fondly, her expression softening for the first time. "Is a prodigy, the word extraordinary does not even begin to describe him. And that is precisely why he cannot understand what drives the lords of hell. And how could he. It is akin to a lion trying to understand an ant. Belathriel is the same, though to a far lesser extent. They are both people meant for greatness and will do anything to pursue their dreams. To such people, it would be unthinkable that someone schemes not to overcome challenges but seek comfort."
Hermon understood what she was saying though not the reason. Most people are the same, whether among humans or devils or any other race that fancies itself unique. They are governed by the same quiet impulses. Security. Recognition. Belonging. The need to wake up each day without the weight of uncertainty pressing too heavily on their chest.
They build routines, repeat habits, accept limits and call it wisdom. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. It is simply how most minds protect themselves from fear
Comfort is a psychological refuge. The mind resists prolonged stress because stress demands change, and change threatens the fragile structure a person has constructed to feel safe. From childhood onward, individuals are conditioned to avoid what overwhelms them.
They are praised for fitting in, for following paths that have already been walked, for desiring what others desire. Over time, this becomes internalized. Their ambitions shrink to a size that does not disturb their equilibrium. They begin to measure success by the absence of discomfort rather than the presence of growth.
When someone seeks greatness, truly seeks it, their internal structure is different. They tolerate instability. They accept isolation. They endure misunderstanding without needing immediate reassurance. Their sense of self is not anchored in external validation to the same degree.
That is why they can pursue distant goals that offer no guaranteed reward. They are willing to invest effort without certainty because the pursuit itself defines them. This is something most people cannot relate to, and so they reinterpret it through their own lens.
They assume ambition must hide insecurity, that discipline must conceal fear, that drive must be compensation for some wound. They do this because it allows them to remain where they are without questioning their own choices
Those who chase greatness rarely understand that mindset. Belathriel could simply laze around and waste his days alongside other young nobles, indulging in the comforts that came with his birth, and no one would question him for it.
There is no real necessity forcing him to train as relentlessly as he does, no looming threat that demands he sharpen himself day after day, yet he chooses to push his limits regardless. Most devils cannot comprehend that kind of discipline.
They cannot grasp why someone born into a royal house would devote endless hours to honing his strength when time alone would grant him greater power and status without effort. To them, ambition is tied to need, and Belathriel has never lacked anything that would require such exertion.
Meruem is the same, though to an even greater extent. His power was evident from the time he was a child, and his unusual nature alone would have guaranteed that he would rise above his peers eventually, even had he chosen a life of leisure.
Yet from his earliest years he sought out challenges deliberately, placing himself in situations that tested his limits and forced growth rather than waiting for strength to come naturally with age.
That constant drive to surpass himself, to refuse complacency despite already standing above others, is what set him apart and cemented his place as the greatest devil of his generation.
Those who prioritize comfort struggle to comprehend ambition that does not directly serve survival or status within their immediate circle. To them, unnecessary struggle appears irrational. Voluntary hardship appears foolish. The willingness to risk failure for something abstract appears arrogant and mad.
They interpret through the only framework they possess, which is preservation of equilibrium. In doing so, they reduce extraordinary drive into something manageable, something flawed, something they can dismiss.
This is why Meruem cannot easily grasp the mindset of the lords of hell who scheme for security, for influence that stabilizes their position, for arrangements that minimize risk rather than maximize potential. His orientation is forward, expansive, and intolerant of stagnation.
He assumes others are motivated by ascent because ascent is natural to him. It does not occur to him that many would rather defend what they have than reach for what they do not. They are driven by the need to feel secure within themselves.
"I get the gist of what you're saying," Hermon said calmly. "Though not why you're telling me this."
"I'm telling you this because the same drive that has brought Meruem glory is precisely the drive that can undo him," Queen Morena said with a heavy sigh. "Meruem is young and more brave than wise. He sees only the glory of confronting an ultimate-class devil. He doesn't understand, nor does he care, that the chance of victory is essentially zero. The gap in power is insurmountable."
She was right. Hermon could not conceive of any scenario in which Dimora could ever be defeated by Meruem.
"What do you intend to do then?" he asked, cutting directly to the point. He knew she would not have summoned him without a plan to prevent disaster.
"Meruem must never face Dimora in combat," Morena said firmly. "I will not allow my son to be brutalized by that whore. Alas, my advice to surrender will be ignored, so the responsibility falls to me. Dimora must die. That is the only way for my son to survive and achieve victory."
Hermon was stunned. Slight disbelief made his voice falter. "No offense, my queen, but I don't see how you could ever land a hit on Dimora, let alone kill her."
Morena was powerful, high-class in power, yet she was nothing compared to an ultimate-class being.
"And you are correct," she admitted calmly. "But it doesn't have to be a direct confrontation. Do you understand the nature of House Balam's demonic trait?"
"Skinchanging," Hermon answered slowly as realization dawned.
House Balam, a pillar house with the rank of Duke, possessed the Conqueror trait, which allowed its members to project their consciousness into other beings and assume control over them. At the highest levels, multiple hosts could be simultaneously commanded, effectively rendering them puppets.
"Are you able to warg into an ultimate-class being?" Hermon asked skeptically, aware of the limitations imposed by differences in power.
"Under normal circumstances, I could not," she said calmly. "However, there exist forbidding techniques that make it theoretically possible. One is called Abyssal Overreach, which could allow me to possess someone far stronger than myself."
"There must be a significant risk in attempting that," Hermon said.
"Unfortunately," she admitted. "I may lose my body permanently in the process and become a wandering spirit, or even be enslaved if Dimora's will proves stronger than mine. That is why I called you. You are to serve as an anchor. Even if I fail in the battle of wills, you will stabilize me and pull me back into the physical world."
"Why not Meruem?"
"He would consider this method boring and refuse to participate," she said with a hint of sadness.
Hermon said nothing further. He knew his brother well enough to understand why. "What must I do?" he asked. If the opportunity to protect his family existed, he would not hesitate to risk himself.
Morena seemed pleased with his agreement and immediately began issuing instructions in a calm, methodical tone while moving about her chamber with practiced familiarity. She activated several wards as a precaution, her fingers tracing symbols along the walls and across the floor until faint lines of light shimmered briefly before settling into invisibility.
The air grew heavier as layers of protection folded over the room. She then arranged several herbs and potions upon a low table, crushing some into fine paste and pouring others into shallow bowls, applying them carefully upon the strange mark on her back in deliberate order, never hesitating as though she had rehearsed this ritual many times in her mind.
When the preparations were complete, she stepped into the center of a drawn circle and began to chant in a low, rhythmic voice while moving in slow, deliberate steps around its edge. The circle responded to her incantation, glowing an eerie red that pulsed in time with her voice.
Gradually, the sigil of House Balam emerged within it, a three headed entity with flaming eyes and a serpent's tail, one head that of an ox, the second that of a man, and the third that of a ram. The symbol burned bright against the floor, casting shifting shadows along the chamber walls.
The queen then lay on her back upon the veil she had prepared. Hermon swallowed and did as instructed, kneeling beside her and placing his hand upon her forehead before channeling his demonic energy into her body.
He had imagined the technique in various ways, expecting perhaps resistance or heat or some violent clash of forces, yet it felt nothing like he anticipated. Instead, there was a sudden and overwhelming pull, as though gravity itself had seized him and was dragging him downward through the floor.
He staggered, nearly losing his balance, and forced more of his demonic energy outward to anchor himself in the physical world as he felt his spirit straining against the boundaries of his body, threatening to slip free.
That was not good. His role was to remain firmly anchored so that the queen would not lose her body while projecting her will, yet maintaining that anchor proved far more difficult than he had assumed.
The pull intensified rapidly, as though gravity had multiplied a thousandfold in an instant, pressing down upon his mind and spirit until remaining conscious became a struggle. A heavy drowsiness crept over him, seductive and persistent, urging him to surrender and drift away.
He clenched his jaw and forced his energy outward again, fighting to stay awake as his thoughts grew sluggish.
Suddenly the queen let out a shriek, a scream so raw and filled with pain that it cut through his haze and jolted him back toward awareness. He did not understand what had triggered it, and before he could even form the question in his mind the world around him dissolved. He was pulled abruptly into an illusory realm.
There was no ground, no sky, no discernible shape to anything. The world consisted entirely of colors shifting and colliding in endless motion, lacking geometry or any recognizable law of physics. Though he possessed no physical form, no eyes or face, he perceived the scene clearly.
In the distance two colors clashed violently, a deep red and a vivid blue locked in struggle for dominance. The red surged forward relentlessly, consuming and tearing at the blue in jagged bursts.
Without knowing how, perhaps through instinct or through the sheer oppressive presence of the red, he understood immediately that the red was Dimora Bael and the blue was Morena, and that she was being ripped apart piece by piece.
She is losing, he realized, panic tightening around his thoughts. He attempted to move toward her, to intervene in any way possible, yet he could not move at all. It was as though he were fixed in place, unable to shift even the slightest fraction, forced to watch helplessly as the blue orb weakened under the assault.
He could not allow Morena to be destroyed. Regardless of the hardship she had caused his mother, she was still family, and he refused to let his brother become an orphan.
So he did the only thing available to him. He screamed. He screamed again and again into the formless expanse, hoping that somehow his physical body would respond, that someone in the real world would hear and intervene.
Nothing answered. No help came. The terrible realization settled over him that he had been just as reckless as his brothers. What had he been thinking when he agreed to this plan?
How could he, a mere middle class devil in strength, possibly anchor a high class devil in a clash of wills against an ultimate class devil. The arrogance of it struck him with brutal clarity. It was madness to believe he could stand as support in such a confrontation, and the weight of that foolishness pressed upon him as he understood they might very well die here because of that decision.
He remained powerless while the blue orb continued to be torn apart by the red.
"How quaint," a voice echoed through the shifting colors.
Hermon recognized it instantly as belonging to his brother Meruem. Confusion cut through his panic as he struggled to comprehend how Meruem's voice could exist in this place or whether it was some hallucination born from the strain. Before he could reach any conclusion, he felt a firm presence grasping him, steady and unyielding.
"Pull them out, Valerie," Meruem's voice commanded, reverberating throughout the color-filled void.
He saw the blue orb jerk sharply as though seized by an unseen force. The red surged forward in protest, and the final image burned into his awareness was the red presence forming something akin to an excited grin, watching them retreat with a haughty gaze.
Hermon's eyes snapped open and he coughed violently, air flooding his lungs as he lay sprawled upon the chamber floor. For several seconds he remained disoriented, his body sluggish and unfamiliar.
He turned his head and saw the queen nearby, equally dazed, lifting a trembling hand to massage her forehead.
"What were you thinking?" Meruem's voice cut through the room.
Hermon forced himself upright and met his brother's crimson gaze, which held no warmth. Beside Meruem stood a delicate girl with wheat blond hair and a gentle disposition, whom Hermon instinctively knew to be Valerie, the one who had pulled him from the illusion.
"M-Meruem," Morena stammered, shocked at her son's sudden presence.
"Who again argued that confronting an ultimate-class devil was folly?" Meruem said calmly.
"I did not expect her will to be so strong," Morena admitted, trembling, hugging herself as if a child discovering a monster beneath the bed.
"You did not think at all. Full stop," Meruem said, anger simmering beneath control. "Had I not arrived in time due to Hermon's scream, you would have been dead. How in the fuck did you think you could defeat Dimora in a battle of will with only a middle class devil to anchor you?"
Meruem's icy gaze swept over them, and Hermon shuddered despite not being its primary target. He lowered his eyes, unable to withstand that intensity, and glanced toward the queen instead. She trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, tears streaming freely, incapable of meeting Meruem's gaze.
Hermon felt an unexpected sadness at the sight. It was widely known that Morena loved her son above all else and sought his approval constantly, so to see her reduced to this state by his anger stirred something uncomfortable in him.
Disappointing Meruem to such a degree was clearly devastating to her, and the depth of that pain was laid bare in her trembling form.
"And you!" Meruem turned to Hermon. "How could you agree to this reckless plan? I thought you were the only one with an ounce of common sense in this family. Evidently, I was mistaken."
Hermon opened his mouth, intending to explain that he had only wanted to help, to protect his brother, to prove that he could contribute something meaningful to their survival, yet the words felt hollow even before they formed.
Admitting that they had condemned direct confrontation as foolish only to attempt it in secret would sound absurd even to his own ears.
"It's my fault," Morena interjected, surprising him. She had often treated him and his siblings with disdain, yet here she was attempting to take responsibility to shield him from her son's wrath.
The gesture gave Hermon a small measure of hope that reconciliation within the family remained possible.
He would have to survive Meruem's anger first.
To his surprise, Meruem did not lash out further. He merely sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly as though reining in his temper.
"Are they unharmed?" he asked Valerie.
"They will be okay," Valerie replied gently. "We should consider ourselves fortunate that Dimora is not particularly skilled with souls and that most of her attacks were brute force. I can heal the damage without difficulty. They should rest for a while, though."
Meruem nodded once. "You heard her. Go and rest. I will call for you in the evening."
Hermon bowed his head in silent compliance and left the chamber without protest, retreating to his own rooms where he intended to do exactly as commanded and recover what little strength he had left.
…
When he awoke he felt exhilaratingly refreshed, more so than he could ever remember feeling after sleep, his body light and his mind clear as though every trace of strain had been carefully removed.
He suspected it was Valerie's work, that mysterious girl must have tended to him with remarkable precision and care, restoring something deeper that had been shaken loose during that clash of wills.
He could not help but feel a flicker of envy at his brother's fortune in securing such talented individuals for his peerage, for Rossweisse was a valkyrie of exceptional magical knowledge and power, and this new piece appeared to possess the rare ability to directly influence souls themselves.
There was also a third member of his brother's peerage, Kuro of the Two Tails, though Hermon had never met her personally and she seemed to operate in the shadows much like Fathom.
Even so, he was aware of her existence and had no doubt she too was extraordinary in her own right, as his brother would never settle for mediocrity within his ranks.
Well, he could afford such selectiveness since he himself was exceptional, Hermon thought with a quiet sigh. It was a matter of skill attracting skill, those already gifted surrounding themselves with the best while others struggled to keep pace.
He dressed swiftly and made his way toward the meeting room, eager to present himself and prove that he remained useful despite the earlier debacle.
As he approached the chamber doors he heard raised voices within, arguments layered over one another, and he could clearly distinguish his sister Athaliah presenting her case with sharp insistence.
For a brief moment he wondered why the room had not been warded for privacy, but he quickly realized that it was indeed protected, and that only a member of House Beleth would be capable of overhearing what transpired within. The sophistication of the array impressed him and he found himself idly wondering who had constructed it.
He entered carefully and found his brother clad in armor, standing at the head of a large table upon which a detailed map had been spread. Around him gathered representatives of the noble houses aligned with their camp, each leaning forward to point at positions and routes as they debated strategy.
No one paused at his arrival. A few offered brief nods of acknowledgment before returning to the discussion without missing a beat.
Athaliah, however, turned and gave him a long, searching look. "I see that rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated," she said playfully, though her eyes lingered as if confirming he was truly intact.
"Hate to disappoint, sister, I like living," he replied with a faint grin.
"I trust you are healthy?" Meruem said calmly, his gaze flicking toward him for the briefest moment before returning to the map without waiting for a response. "You will take command of a small retinue and go out to deal with a few soldiers who have been harassing our scouts."
"With pleasure, brother," Hermon answered readily, grateful for the opportunity to make himself useful after the recklessness of earlier in the day.
He opened his mouth to ask how many soldiers could be spared for the task, yet the question never left his lips.
The door banged open once more and a messenger strode in hurriedly before dropping to one knee before Meruem. "Your Grace," he said, head bowed, "Lord Dagon bids me tell you that legions bearing the banners of House Acteus and Ormenus alongside many others are moving down the river."
Meruem's lips curved into a grin. "About damn time, they have been marching at the pace of a snail," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Perfect. Return to Lord Dagon and tell him to fall back. He is not to engage them until we arrive, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them closer to us."
"Your wish is my command." The messenger rose and took his leave without delay.
"Tell the heralds to call the assembly, and send word to Belathriel that I am marching against Dimora," Meruem instructed, turning briefly toward Athaliah.
"As you will," Athaliah replied, already moving to carry out the order.
…
Pale fog drifted low across the riverbanks, rolling in slow currents over the dark water before spilling onto the camp in thin, ghostlike strands. The predawn air was sharp and damp, clinging to armor and leather alike as devils and their mounts stirred to life.
Saddles were tightened with hurried hands, wagons creaked as they were loaded and secured, and the last of the watchfires were stamped out, sending up brief spirals of smoke that vanished into the mist.
Trumpets split the silence with urgent blasts that demanded haste. Soldiers vaulted onto snorting coursers while men at arms buckled sword belts and fastened breastplates as they moved.
Hermon stood apart from the bustle, clad in perfectly crafted armor of gold and silver that caught what little light the horizon offered. A red cape flowed from his shoulders, marked boldly with the seven pointed star of House Beleth.
From far across the field a warhorn answered, its note deep and resonant, carrying a cold weight that seemed to press against the chest. The soldiers assigned to Hermon were already formed when he reached them, their expressions set and weapons ready. He rode to the front, taking his place as their commander.
The sky remained dark, streaked faintly with purple as dawn threatened to rise. Hermon led his contingent forward at a measured pace, his soldiers falling into ordered ranks behind him, each company clustering beneath its respective captain.
Across the open ground Prince Meruem's army spread into disciplined formation, banners lifting as the wind strengthened, armor catching faint light as though the field itself had grown iron spines.
Above, Athaliah rose into the air, her dark wings unfurling wide as her heraldry flared to life. One by one her aerial soldiers followed, wings beating in unison until the sky itself seemed crowded with shadowed forms.
Archers took position in three long lines stretching east and west across the heavens, quivers resting at their hips as they calmly strung their bows. Between their lines, short range fighters carrying spears arranged themselves into tight aerial squares, while behind them ranks of soldiers bearing spear, sword, axe, and stranger weapons hovered in disciplined reserve.
On the right wing five thousand heavily armored cavalry assembled, their armor polished and their lances upright in rigid order. Lord Dagon commanded them from the front, his standard snapping above his head. Behind him clustered the heraldry of lesser noble houses sworn to House Beleth, their banners rising in layered colors that marked their allegiance.
Meruem positioned himself upon a low hill overlooking the field. Around him the rest of the host gathered into place, half filling the sky and half spread across the earth, seven thousand strong. Even at a distance he was impossible to ignore.
Beneath him loomed his mount, the source of both reassurance and dread among their ranks. The creature was a massive three headed shark, each jaw lined with teeth as tall as a grown man. Its hide glistened like wet steel, and its countless eyes blinked independently, scanning in all directions at once.
When it shifted its immense body, the air itself seemed to recoil, currents twisting violently around it as though storms were forming in miniature. Hermon knew the beast hailed from the Pit and possessed power at the high class level, yet its presence suggested something even more ancient.
He often wondered what it felt like to ride such a creature into war, suspended above the field upon a living engine of destruction.
Hermon guided his horse in a slow circle, surveying the terrain. The ground near the river was soft and uneven, patches of mud threatening to swallow careless steps. It was far from ideal ground for open combat, yet their positioning granted advantage against the approaching host.
He suspected, perhaps not by accident, that Meruem had placed him where he would be least exposed, with the brunt of enemy attention certain to fall upon Athaliah in the sky and upon Meruem himself astride his monstrous mount.
There was little time to dwell on it. The enemy drums grew louder until their rhythm vibrated through the marrow of his bones. Hermon drew his sword as the opposing army crested the hills, advancing in disciplined ranks behind a wall of shields and leveled spears.
Their formation was precise, captains mounted upon armored warhorses at the fore while standard bearers rode beside them, banners rippling high. He recognized the sunburst of Ormenus and the dominant colors of House Acteus among many lesser sigils.
Their own vassals marched against them. The sight hardened his resolve.
A warhorn sounded again, long and low. House Beleth's trumpets answered, bright and defiant. Unease tightened his chest. This was his first true battle, and none of his generation had known war before this day.
Before fear could settle fully, a sharp hiss cut through the air as the first volley of arrows rose from their side. Athaliah's archers loosed in disciplined waves, shafts streaking across the darkened sky in dense arcs.
The enemy broke into a run beneath the incoming storm, shouting war cries that quickly dissolved into cries of pain as arrows tore through shields and armor alike. Bodies fell and formations wavered as subsequent volleys descended without pause, forcing gaps and disorder through what had been a solid advance.
Hermon lifted his greatsword and roared a command. His soldiers answered as one and surged forward. Ahead, a crescent of enemy spearmen braced behind tall oaken shields marked with Ormenus' sunburst, planting their feet to receive the charge.
Hermon extended his hand and focused. Invisible force erupted outward in a crushing wave. The tightly packed formation buckled as shields splintered and bodies were hurled backward, the pressure breaking cohesion in an instant. Horses reared and crashed as the compressed ranks were flung apart, spears snapping under strain.
He drove the telekinetic force downward and outward, ripping open a path through what had been a disciplined wall moments earlier. His stallion lunged through the gap as men stumbled aside in terror of the unseen weight pressing upon them. Hermon rose in his saddle and cut left and right with his greatsword, each swing deliberate and heavy.
A flight of arrows descended toward him and he raised a finger with a sharp word. The incoming shafts shattered midair, splintering into fragments that scattered harmlessly.
The enemy line faltered, retreating under the sustained invisible assault. Three foes closed around him in desperation. He severed the head of the first spear that thrust toward him, then twisted in the saddle and raked his blade across the second man's face in a brutal backhand. The third fell as his telekinetic grip seized and hurled him aside.
To his left a fireball streaked toward Meruem in a blazing arc. Hermon reacted instinctively, snapping his focus toward it and crushing the spell before it could reach its target. He wheeled his horse and charged the caster.
The man raised his shield overhead in panic, yet Hermon circled him, driving crushing pressure down upon the metal until the devil's legs buckled and he slipped, collapsing onto his back. Hermon ended him swiftly and pressed onward, striking another opponent from behind with a sweeping cut that jarred his arm from the force of impact.
For a brief moment he pulled back, scanning the field. Above, hundreds of devils converged upon the three headed shark in a desperate swarm. The creature surged through them with terrifying momentum, its massive jaws snapping shut around armored bodies while currents of displaced air tore enemies from the sky. Upon its back Meruem lashed out with a blazing whip of fire that carved incandescent arcs through the air, each strike leaving trails of burning ruin.
His laughter carried across the battlefield as flames rained downward in sweeping torrents, reducing clustered foes to falling embers. Suspended above chaos, clad in gleaming armor and wreathed in fire, he appeared less a prince and more a god of war incarnate.
To the east Hermon glimpsed Athaliah cutting through aerial opponents with efficient precision, issuing commands mid-flight as her soldiers maintained formation around her. Confidence surged through him as he pressed the attack.
The enemy lines were buckling, much of their strength drawn toward Meruem and his mount, only to be consumed by relentless flame.
We are winning, he thought with astonishment. Yet one question persisted.
Where is Dimora Bael?
The answer came without warning.
A pressure descended upon the battlefield so suddenly and so completely that motion itself seemed to halt. The clash of steel ceased mid strike. Cries died in their throats. Devils on both sides stiffened or collapsed outright, some dropping to their knees as though crushed by unseen hands.
Hermon felt the weight slam into him and was driven down, one knee striking the earth as breath left his lungs.
He forced his head upward toward the sky. Meruem had halted as well, suspended above the field and staring ahead.
There she was. Dimora hovered with her wings unfurled, her expression serene as she surveyed the battlefield below. The pressure radiating from her was suffocating, an absolute dominance that silenced thousands without a word spoken.
This was the reality of an ultimate class devil. Entire armies reduced to stillness by mere presence. Hermon had understood her power in theory, had heard it spoken of in measured tones at court, yet experiencing it directly stripped away any illusion of parity.
The hope he had felt moments ago drained from him as he recognized that their earlier advantage had existed only because she had not intervened. They had been allowed to struggle and believe victory was possible. Against a being of this magnitude, their efforts seemed insignificant, and the knowledge hollowed his resolve.
"Were you waiting until the battle was dire enough so you could make a cool entrance?" Meruem's voice rang out across the stunned field, light with mockery.
Hermon stared at him in disbelief. Even under that crushing pressure his brother unfurled his wings and rose higher, flying to meet Dimora directly as though her aura were nothing more than a strong wind.
"A dramatic entrance is what separates a one note villain and a supervillain," Dimora replied with a smile. "And besides I wanted to make a good impression on my husband to be."
Meruem laughed openly. "Dance with me then, Dimora. Show me what you've got."
AN: This chapter is more character-focused than plot-heavy, but I hope you enjoy it. Also, how do you feel about the shifting POVs? I can tone that down in the future and mainly tell the story from Meruem's perspective if you prefer. Personally, I think multiple POVs offer unique perspectives on events and allow for deeper character exploration, but I'm open to feedback.
Advanced chapters are available on my Patreon, so if you want to read ahead or support me so I can focus more on writing, check out my Patreon: patreon.com/abeltargaryen?